Fiction — Commended, Ann Penhallurick
Way back, I was the first in my family to finish school, go on to uni. Since then, I’ve gathered
a truck load of degrees, professions, jobs, voluntary roles. But my family were (almost) all
storytellers and the threads that bring together and bind all that I do are love of people,
place, language and how these can come together - and can spin out into the universe - in
the tales we tell. So now, I am a writer of stories.
a truck load of degrees, professions, jobs, voluntary roles. But my family were (almost) all
storytellers and the threads that bring together and bind all that I do are love of people,
place, language and how these can come together - and can spin out into the universe - in
the tales we tell. So now, I am a writer of stories.
Will She Come Home?
Everyone in town knows my mum’s history. Or thinks they do. I understood that even when I was really young. Some ladies’d curve their trolleys away from us in the shop that passes as a supermarket. Some kids weren’t allowed to play with me. And some blokes, well, they behaved in ways confusing for a kid. Mum was cool, though. “Smile,” she’d instruct me when we met one of the disapproving ones. “Run” she’d hiss when it was one of those who, for their own purposes, wanted to be extra-nice. Sometimes a smile and run were required almost simultaneously. Taught me to be adept at quick and complex responses.
So, when she disappeared on Wednesday afternoon it was pretty hard to get anyone interested. Gran’s dementia had set in or she’d have come in to bat for me. Aunty Susan and her smug husband – his family owns the big service station and a share in three of the four pubs in town – said I should stay the night. “Your mum’s always going off on a bender,” Aunty Susan said, “she’ll be back.” As if the past seventeen years hadn’t happened. “Aunty Susan was never young,” Mum would’ve said. If she’d been there.
Our house is on the edge of town, too close to the river. Although with global warming we haven’t had a flood in my lifetime, so apart from the mozzies and the stench of cow shit, the position’s been fine - until this night. I needed to stay in case Mum came back but it was like being alone in a horror movie; the kitchen was an echo-chamber, an abandoned mug of half-drunk tea crashing against the motherless walls, Mum’s bedroom screaming its emptiness. The mug was too strange - lipstick on the rim. Mum never wears lipstick, not anymore. A stranger’s then? But the handle was angled for a leftie pick-up. Around 10 percent of the population are left-handed; Mum says that makes her special.
Lying in bed, I was suddenly aware I’d never asked Mum how come the town was so against her. Reminded myself all kids forget their parents have past, and current, lives, don’t think to ask them anything much - until it’s too late.
Deep breaths. Useless.
“Calm yourself,” the police officer had said, “she’ll be back.” Just like Aunty Susan. Stupid thing to tell a 16 year-old whose mother’s disappeared from the face of the earth.
Two days later, I’m alone in the interview room. Again.
Police insist Mum’s on a bender. Still.
I fiddle with a notepad. No writing on it. As if all I’ve said is cannot be heard, is invisible. Pick up a pen, write:
An officer comes in. She’s new – probably on a six-month compulsory rotation out west - and her uniform’s too big. It’s also scratchy – she’s doing a mini-twist, trying to get the material off her back. I know that feeling, like ants are dropping onto your spine, walking a way, falling off so the next lot can have a go at spooking the life out of you: maybe they’ll bite this time. You always think that.
“Hi Kelly, my name’s Denise.” Notices the list, looks at me, then back at it, and reads. “Good points.”
I gulp. This is the most decent thing I’ve heard in 74 hours. Except it’s not. Scratch my hands down my neck (the ants getting me too). If my mum didn’t go off of her own free will, then - . Then it means someone made her disappear. I’m not dumb, that’s what I’m trying to tell them. But now someone’s actually listening the reality of it hits me like a dump from a crop duster: suffocating, potentially murderous.
“Hey,” she says, “I’m not s’posed to tell you yet but there’s some good news. They’ve agreed to list her, get onto her phone records.”
“What’ve they found?”
“Takes time, paperwork.”
Fuck. Don’t say it aloud. I’m 16, got to keep them on side. “Great, thanks.”
Fucking phone. Its absence reinforces the impression she’s gone voluntarily AWOL, they don’t need to look for her, nothing’s really wrong. Other than she’s deserted me, everything, everyone she cares for.
I go home. Supposed to be staying at Aunty Susan’s but my cousins piss me off at the best of times. Almost as bad as the kids at school: your mother’s a this, your mother’s a that, nah, nah, nah-nah.
On our door-step, two pots. Both casseroles. Only eat chicken and pork – Mum reads New Scientist in the library and it says pork can save the world – pigs eat all your garbage, produce fantastic fertiliser, take up little land, and, humanely killed, are the best source of protein and various other things ever. Won’t eat the casseroles but appreciate the gesture. It’s why Mum stayed, I reckon: even the grimacing ladies’ll look after you when you need it.
Casseroles in the fridge, I stare at that cup of tea. Like the rest of the world, I’ve seen a million crime shows. The tea’s splashed like it was banged down hard on the table. Haven’t cleaned it away. Could have DNA, could point to the events that occurred in the crime scene. Evidence.
Of what?
Go into Mum’s bedroom. Possible stuff’s missing I have no idea of. We’re fricking poor but we have space, keep stuff. I dig into the cupboards. Smell of antechinus’ – bush rat – piss. Not too bad. Pull out disintegrating boxes, a haphazard array of plastic bags. Practically a museum of advertising-on-plastic actually.
Drag skimpy dresses, single shoes, a full pair of red stilettos, crumbling A4 sheets with attempts at poetry scrawled over them, makeup bags with leaking lipstick, coagulated mascara, textbooks – science was her thing - cassettes (ABBA, believe it or not). Doesn’t look like she’s touched any of this detritus in years. Including the lipstick.
Back in the kitchen, I check her (abandoned) bag. A new tube of lippy in a zipped off area. Conclusion: Mum was planning - what? A visitor – we never get visitors – she’d put lipstick on for.
Back to the bedroom. Rifle through drawers, the rack of hung clothing. What was she wearing? Not her favourite jeans, or shirt. That dress? The one she bought for the job interview fifty minutes down the highway. Neat, pretty. A frock – that’s the word – a nice young housewife might wear to a parent-teacher interview. An interesting image for my mother.
Storm the barricades! My dad, only briefly in my life when he was out of gaol for a while, used to yell that. He was great at kid’s games, rubbish at adult life. Had a gig nicking smart cars, the sort nobody else could nick, reckoned he had no other skills, too much asthma for the mines and a gammy eye so couldn’t be a truckie. Drove the stolen cars though. Fast. In the end, that was the end of him too, so we heard.
I storm the police station. Too many officers for a town our size. Ice does that – gives police employment. They say, “she’ll be back when she runs outta money.” They are dicks. Even the sheilas. Denise – the new connie - isn’t in. Yell at them I need to talk to her. Yell so loud they call her in. And she comes. Miracles are great, aren’t they?
Tell her about the lipstick and the dress. She gets it. Or she gets I’m serious and not stupid. Hope she stays in town.
“Any old mates back around, passing through?” she asks when we enter our kitchen. “A person she might like, dress up for,” she adds.
“She would’ve said so.” I assert, although I could be living in la-la land.
Denise has brought the police camera: takes pics, then empties the tea – it’s milky, gone seriously smelly – and bags the mug. “Nothing’ll happen with it right now, cause we haven’t got a crime, but we’ll keep it. Did you check for tyre prints?”
For a moment, I admit, I feel excited by being a detective. “Yes,” I say. Bit breathless. “Come and look.”
The stranger had parked behind the house. More pics. Good.
“Musta come along the back road,” Denise says, arcing an arm through the bright air. Looks at me: “We aren’t going chasing along it. I know it goes to the old abattoir. I also know you’re a kid and I’m a junior police officer.”
Me and Mum don’t have computers – no money. Library does. I’m fairly certain I can guess Mum’s gmail password. Library’s part of the tourism centre, so open. Yay, I get into gmail. That makes me feel bad. Very. But I’m thinking Denise could be right about the visitor from the past. The planning, the lipstick, the dress indicate she wanted to impress, meeting at home indicates it’s someone she knows, maybe trusts? Had to be communication for the set-up. Her phone often lacks credit.
I get a lot of advertising and other rubbish. I get her arranging where to meet with Uncle Jack. Only unusual thing is emails with her mate Sally in Melbourne; they generally phone-gab. Odd emails: short, business-like. Find I’ve got some coins; print out the emails.
Denise meets me at the only instant-free café in town. No disturbance at the abattoir, she reports. She lied, she checked it out. Turns out she’s born and raised local. Grew up other side of town (bit more upmarket), between me and Mum, time-wise. Has come back to stay. That makes me smile.
“What’ve you got?”
“They’re sort of like talking in code. There’s dates. All old.”
“Gotta talk to Sally,” Denise says. “Got her number?”
“On Mum’s phone.”
“Contacts should be synched.”
“No computer.”
“Gmail contacts?”
I look blank.
“Hidden in plain sight.” She stops, considers: “Let’s go back to the library. Steve’s an old classmate.”
Contacts, connections: Steve, the librarian-cum-tourism centre manager (of no staff) gives us a private room, fast computer. We find Sally.
“You should make the call,” Denise advises.
More deep breaths. More not crying. Sally doesn’t answer. Fuck. Say it aloud this time.
“Doesn’t recognise my number. Text,” Denise instructs. “Tell her what’s up.”
Sally gets back straight away. “Shit, Kel, what the fuck?” And then: “It’s all my fault. God, I thought the meeting was today, not Wednesday.” Another pause. “He won’t kill her. I’m sure he won’t.”
People are often sure of the most unlikely things.
“Where?”
Denise and I stare at googlemaps.
“Phone track,” she says. “The station.”
Forceful woman, Denise. Gets the Sergeant’s ear, he gets the Inspector’s ear. She soaks up more info from Sally, matches it with local intel. The paperwork flies faster than an Airforce Hornet.
Narrow the targets down to three. The prime suspect’s wife is helpful – her husband is an arsehole and yes, that’s his number, he has a wild temper, and he’s recently absconded. He’s all vicious front, though, a total whimp when it comes to action. Some consolation.
I’m barred from going with them. At least they agree I don’t need Aunty Susan as a support person while I wait, ripping the corners off my nails, shoving pens through wads of paper.
Denise goes in one of the cars: “Can’t call you, Kel. Worth my job.” I figure she’s lying again – expecting there’ll be things she doesn’t want to immediately report.
Three agonising hours later, she texts anyway. “Got her. Alive and safe. Going to hozzie. Call soon.”
The hospital’s fifty minutes distant. Sneak out of the station, race over to Aunty Susan’s. Tell her she’s got to drive me whether she likes it or not. “I’m – “ she starts to say. Looks at me properly. “Sure thing Kel, let’s go.”
Mum’s under police guard but Aunty Susan is tough. What we see is pretty awful. I try not to blub. Aunty Susan does blub. Mum’s so bruised she can’t cry. Or hug me. But the doctor assures me she’ll be back with me real soon.
The back-story to all those pointed avoidances finally gets told. Back in the day, Sally and my mum were offered work. At a time when the best available opportunity was to fall pregnant to farmer rich enough to marry you. The well-paid work started off ok – taking corporate cityfolk (all men) on tours of regional wineries and other tourist attractions. Soon further services were required. Refusals were difficult – they were alone in the car with a man. But they both objected, complained to the boss. He sent them back - with empty promises. They decided they had few other options (collecting glasses in the pubs, check-out chick): they’d save, reach for their dreams (Mum to be a geologist, Sal a dress designer). Their boss was smart; their free drinks were spiked, they got more pay for having a snort (cocaine was drug of choice at the time), therefore being super-laid back; he got them addicted.
“We realised we were heading up shit-creek,” Mum says. “Decided to dob him in.” He being their boss. And the local mayor.
When it got out, town didn’t – wouldn’t - believe them. “Good man,” they all parroted. “Look at all he’s done.”
Well, he got done. For the prostitution racket, and for a hit and run that got traced back to him during the investigation. And for embezzling government funds. Nice bloke, hey.
He died in the nick, but recently Sally discovered the escort agency had been run under the umbrella of a still-active family company. Got legal advice on suing the company for the damages to her and Mum. The company quickly agreed to talk. Mum was due to meet their lawyer.
The lawyer brought the meeting forward, casually – it seemed – suggesting our place. Turned out he was the mayor’s now middle-aged son, and an old client. Bastard panicked when Mum recognised him. Decided to scare her into keeping his name out of it.
“I should’ve been more suspicious,” Sally – who’s visiting, naturally – says.
“It’s all coming out in the wash,” Mum replies, big grin on her face.
What she means is the compo’s coming through. Lots - given Mum nearly died this time round. The plan is that eventually me and Mum’ll go off to uni together. We’re also buying the old dump we live in. Needs work, but when it comes down to it, we love our home, the town, the (grumpy) people, the river, the star-lit night skies.
So, when she disappeared on Wednesday afternoon it was pretty hard to get anyone interested. Gran’s dementia had set in or she’d have come in to bat for me. Aunty Susan and her smug husband – his family owns the big service station and a share in three of the four pubs in town – said I should stay the night. “Your mum’s always going off on a bender,” Aunty Susan said, “she’ll be back.” As if the past seventeen years hadn’t happened. “Aunty Susan was never young,” Mum would’ve said. If she’d been there.
Our house is on the edge of town, too close to the river. Although with global warming we haven’t had a flood in my lifetime, so apart from the mozzies and the stench of cow shit, the position’s been fine - until this night. I needed to stay in case Mum came back but it was like being alone in a horror movie; the kitchen was an echo-chamber, an abandoned mug of half-drunk tea crashing against the motherless walls, Mum’s bedroom screaming its emptiness. The mug was too strange - lipstick on the rim. Mum never wears lipstick, not anymore. A stranger’s then? But the handle was angled for a leftie pick-up. Around 10 percent of the population are left-handed; Mum says that makes her special.
Lying in bed, I was suddenly aware I’d never asked Mum how come the town was so against her. Reminded myself all kids forget their parents have past, and current, lives, don’t think to ask them anything much - until it’s too late.
Deep breaths. Useless.
“Calm yourself,” the police officer had said, “she’ll be back.” Just like Aunty Susan. Stupid thing to tell a 16 year-old whose mother’s disappeared from the face of the earth.
Two days later, I’m alone in the interview room. Again.
Police insist Mum’s on a bender. Still.
I fiddle with a notepad. No writing on it. As if all I’ve said is cannot be heard, is invisible. Pick up a pen, write:
- My mum’s been straight for years.
- My mum loves me and promises never to leave me.
- Her promises are always trustable. (Mostly.)
- She didn’t take any clothes.
- She didn’t feed Jackie, our dog.
- She didn’t wash my choir clothes. She was supposed to drive me to the Eisteddfod today.
- We were meeting Uncle Jack at the Eisteddfod. She loves Uncle Jack and we only get to see him once a year.
- Her phone is missing. It’s not answering.
An officer comes in. She’s new – probably on a six-month compulsory rotation out west - and her uniform’s too big. It’s also scratchy – she’s doing a mini-twist, trying to get the material off her back. I know that feeling, like ants are dropping onto your spine, walking a way, falling off so the next lot can have a go at spooking the life out of you: maybe they’ll bite this time. You always think that.
“Hi Kelly, my name’s Denise.” Notices the list, looks at me, then back at it, and reads. “Good points.”
I gulp. This is the most decent thing I’ve heard in 74 hours. Except it’s not. Scratch my hands down my neck (the ants getting me too). If my mum didn’t go off of her own free will, then - . Then it means someone made her disappear. I’m not dumb, that’s what I’m trying to tell them. But now someone’s actually listening the reality of it hits me like a dump from a crop duster: suffocating, potentially murderous.
“Hey,” she says, “I’m not s’posed to tell you yet but there’s some good news. They’ve agreed to list her, get onto her phone records.”
“What’ve they found?”
“Takes time, paperwork.”
Fuck. Don’t say it aloud. I’m 16, got to keep them on side. “Great, thanks.”
Fucking phone. Its absence reinforces the impression she’s gone voluntarily AWOL, they don’t need to look for her, nothing’s really wrong. Other than she’s deserted me, everything, everyone she cares for.
I go home. Supposed to be staying at Aunty Susan’s but my cousins piss me off at the best of times. Almost as bad as the kids at school: your mother’s a this, your mother’s a that, nah, nah, nah-nah.
On our door-step, two pots. Both casseroles. Only eat chicken and pork – Mum reads New Scientist in the library and it says pork can save the world – pigs eat all your garbage, produce fantastic fertiliser, take up little land, and, humanely killed, are the best source of protein and various other things ever. Won’t eat the casseroles but appreciate the gesture. It’s why Mum stayed, I reckon: even the grimacing ladies’ll look after you when you need it.
Casseroles in the fridge, I stare at that cup of tea. Like the rest of the world, I’ve seen a million crime shows. The tea’s splashed like it was banged down hard on the table. Haven’t cleaned it away. Could have DNA, could point to the events that occurred in the crime scene. Evidence.
Of what?
Go into Mum’s bedroom. Possible stuff’s missing I have no idea of. We’re fricking poor but we have space, keep stuff. I dig into the cupboards. Smell of antechinus’ – bush rat – piss. Not too bad. Pull out disintegrating boxes, a haphazard array of plastic bags. Practically a museum of advertising-on-plastic actually.
Drag skimpy dresses, single shoes, a full pair of red stilettos, crumbling A4 sheets with attempts at poetry scrawled over them, makeup bags with leaking lipstick, coagulated mascara, textbooks – science was her thing - cassettes (ABBA, believe it or not). Doesn’t look like she’s touched any of this detritus in years. Including the lipstick.
Back in the kitchen, I check her (abandoned) bag. A new tube of lippy in a zipped off area. Conclusion: Mum was planning - what? A visitor – we never get visitors – she’d put lipstick on for.
Back to the bedroom. Rifle through drawers, the rack of hung clothing. What was she wearing? Not her favourite jeans, or shirt. That dress? The one she bought for the job interview fifty minutes down the highway. Neat, pretty. A frock – that’s the word – a nice young housewife might wear to a parent-teacher interview. An interesting image for my mother.
Storm the barricades! My dad, only briefly in my life when he was out of gaol for a while, used to yell that. He was great at kid’s games, rubbish at adult life. Had a gig nicking smart cars, the sort nobody else could nick, reckoned he had no other skills, too much asthma for the mines and a gammy eye so couldn’t be a truckie. Drove the stolen cars though. Fast. In the end, that was the end of him too, so we heard.
I storm the police station. Too many officers for a town our size. Ice does that – gives police employment. They say, “she’ll be back when she runs outta money.” They are dicks. Even the sheilas. Denise – the new connie - isn’t in. Yell at them I need to talk to her. Yell so loud they call her in. And she comes. Miracles are great, aren’t they?
Tell her about the lipstick and the dress. She gets it. Or she gets I’m serious and not stupid. Hope she stays in town.
“Any old mates back around, passing through?” she asks when we enter our kitchen. “A person she might like, dress up for,” she adds.
“She would’ve said so.” I assert, although I could be living in la-la land.
Denise has brought the police camera: takes pics, then empties the tea – it’s milky, gone seriously smelly – and bags the mug. “Nothing’ll happen with it right now, cause we haven’t got a crime, but we’ll keep it. Did you check for tyre prints?”
For a moment, I admit, I feel excited by being a detective. “Yes,” I say. Bit breathless. “Come and look.”
The stranger had parked behind the house. More pics. Good.
“Musta come along the back road,” Denise says, arcing an arm through the bright air. Looks at me: “We aren’t going chasing along it. I know it goes to the old abattoir. I also know you’re a kid and I’m a junior police officer.”
Me and Mum don’t have computers – no money. Library does. I’m fairly certain I can guess Mum’s gmail password. Library’s part of the tourism centre, so open. Yay, I get into gmail. That makes me feel bad. Very. But I’m thinking Denise could be right about the visitor from the past. The planning, the lipstick, the dress indicate she wanted to impress, meeting at home indicates it’s someone she knows, maybe trusts? Had to be communication for the set-up. Her phone often lacks credit.
I get a lot of advertising and other rubbish. I get her arranging where to meet with Uncle Jack. Only unusual thing is emails with her mate Sally in Melbourne; they generally phone-gab. Odd emails: short, business-like. Find I’ve got some coins; print out the emails.
Denise meets me at the only instant-free café in town. No disturbance at the abattoir, she reports. She lied, she checked it out. Turns out she’s born and raised local. Grew up other side of town (bit more upmarket), between me and Mum, time-wise. Has come back to stay. That makes me smile.
“What’ve you got?”
“They’re sort of like talking in code. There’s dates. All old.”
“Gotta talk to Sally,” Denise says. “Got her number?”
“On Mum’s phone.”
“Contacts should be synched.”
“No computer.”
“Gmail contacts?”
I look blank.
“Hidden in plain sight.” She stops, considers: “Let’s go back to the library. Steve’s an old classmate.”
Contacts, connections: Steve, the librarian-cum-tourism centre manager (of no staff) gives us a private room, fast computer. We find Sally.
“You should make the call,” Denise advises.
More deep breaths. More not crying. Sally doesn’t answer. Fuck. Say it aloud this time.
“Doesn’t recognise my number. Text,” Denise instructs. “Tell her what’s up.”
Sally gets back straight away. “Shit, Kel, what the fuck?” And then: “It’s all my fault. God, I thought the meeting was today, not Wednesday.” Another pause. “He won’t kill her. I’m sure he won’t.”
People are often sure of the most unlikely things.
“Where?”
Denise and I stare at googlemaps.
“Phone track,” she says. “The station.”
Forceful woman, Denise. Gets the Sergeant’s ear, he gets the Inspector’s ear. She soaks up more info from Sally, matches it with local intel. The paperwork flies faster than an Airforce Hornet.
Narrow the targets down to three. The prime suspect’s wife is helpful – her husband is an arsehole and yes, that’s his number, he has a wild temper, and he’s recently absconded. He’s all vicious front, though, a total whimp when it comes to action. Some consolation.
I’m barred from going with them. At least they agree I don’t need Aunty Susan as a support person while I wait, ripping the corners off my nails, shoving pens through wads of paper.
Denise goes in one of the cars: “Can’t call you, Kel. Worth my job.” I figure she’s lying again – expecting there’ll be things she doesn’t want to immediately report.
Three agonising hours later, she texts anyway. “Got her. Alive and safe. Going to hozzie. Call soon.”
The hospital’s fifty minutes distant. Sneak out of the station, race over to Aunty Susan’s. Tell her she’s got to drive me whether she likes it or not. “I’m – “ she starts to say. Looks at me properly. “Sure thing Kel, let’s go.”
Mum’s under police guard but Aunty Susan is tough. What we see is pretty awful. I try not to blub. Aunty Susan does blub. Mum’s so bruised she can’t cry. Or hug me. But the doctor assures me she’ll be back with me real soon.
The back-story to all those pointed avoidances finally gets told. Back in the day, Sally and my mum were offered work. At a time when the best available opportunity was to fall pregnant to farmer rich enough to marry you. The well-paid work started off ok – taking corporate cityfolk (all men) on tours of regional wineries and other tourist attractions. Soon further services were required. Refusals were difficult – they were alone in the car with a man. But they both objected, complained to the boss. He sent them back - with empty promises. They decided they had few other options (collecting glasses in the pubs, check-out chick): they’d save, reach for their dreams (Mum to be a geologist, Sal a dress designer). Their boss was smart; their free drinks were spiked, they got more pay for having a snort (cocaine was drug of choice at the time), therefore being super-laid back; he got them addicted.
“We realised we were heading up shit-creek,” Mum says. “Decided to dob him in.” He being their boss. And the local mayor.
When it got out, town didn’t – wouldn’t - believe them. “Good man,” they all parroted. “Look at all he’s done.”
Well, he got done. For the prostitution racket, and for a hit and run that got traced back to him during the investigation. And for embezzling government funds. Nice bloke, hey.
He died in the nick, but recently Sally discovered the escort agency had been run under the umbrella of a still-active family company. Got legal advice on suing the company for the damages to her and Mum. The company quickly agreed to talk. Mum was due to meet their lawyer.
The lawyer brought the meeting forward, casually – it seemed – suggesting our place. Turned out he was the mayor’s now middle-aged son, and an old client. Bastard panicked when Mum recognised him. Decided to scare her into keeping his name out of it.
“I should’ve been more suspicious,” Sally – who’s visiting, naturally – says.
“It’s all coming out in the wash,” Mum replies, big grin on her face.
What she means is the compo’s coming through. Lots - given Mum nearly died this time round. The plan is that eventually me and Mum’ll go off to uni together. We’re also buying the old dump we live in. Needs work, but when it comes down to it, we love our home, the town, the (grumpy) people, the river, the star-lit night skies.
