Page 2 of Summer, in Between
‘You can go to Sadie’s, or you can help Dad gut fish.You choose,’ says Mum, as if that’s even an answer.
‘Fine,’ I say, ‘but just so you’re aware, I’m not happy.’
‘Noted,’ says Mum.
2
LITTLE kids crouchby the roadside using sticks to prod the tar, soft and pliable from the heat.The sun has started its slow submerge into the ocean, but the air’s still, as if the sun’s heat is trapped within the atmosphere.The day’s sluggishness refuses to give way to twilight cool.I cut through a vacant block; its boundary defiantly marked by the sweet citrus smell from the gums standing guard by each corner.I close my eyes and inhale the eucalyptus scent, so fresh, so clean, like the land’s counterpart to the ocean.
Batter’s Cove is full of empty blocks, most of which are unkempt, overgrown illegal rubbish dumps and fire hazards, the perfect hangout for tiger snakes.Nonna forbids us to go near any of them in bare feet or bare legs, which we ignore as soon as the temperature rises, and the lure of a shortcut is stronger than the fear of venom-induced paralysis and possible death.
Poor Nonna.She’s convinced that Mum and Dad moving us out here was equivalent to their signing our death warrants.If we don’t lose extremities from snakes, sharks will tear off our limbs and we’ll drown in a sea of our own blood.Her words, not mine.She has conniptions if we walk on the rocks because of blue ring octopuses, not that I’ve ever seen one.She’s no fan of spiders, either.
I don’t think Nonna is much of a friend to any creature.Even her chickens, which she frets over and refuses to leave the house for more than a night because of their regimented feeding schedule, but the minute they stop laying, she goes all Mary Queen of Scots on them.
Only a month ago, I was in her living room, staring at whatever crap Matty had on the TV, trying to muster up the motivation to read my exam notes for the gazillionth time when Nonna appeared in the doorway holding a limp chicken by the claws.A long strip of something gross petered out from where its head should have been.
I screamed.
Nonna laughed and shook it, then took it outside.Two minutes later, we heard her singing.I looked out the window and there’s Nonna, sitting on a deck chair under her fig tree, yanking out feathers with her bare hands.Beside her, amid scattered white and brown feathers, was the tree stump used for the dual purposes of chopping wood and beheading chickens.Leaning against it was the axe, blade shiny in the late afternoon sun, as polished as a samurai sword.Tommy was poking the chicken’s head with a stick.Its head lolled, horrible beady eyes staring into nothingness.
On Batter’s Cove Road, the citrus of the lemon-scented gums is replaced by the smoky, palpable smell of hot barbecues blasting the cells of helpless sausages and steaks, turning fragile meat into carcinogenic charcoal.Music blares from balconies and I walk close to the shoulder of the road as cars drive past flicking melted tar.
Sadie’s,our local and only general store slash fish and chips shop slash hang out place, is the final of a strip of three shops.I catch my reflection in the shop window.My face is a glorious shade of scarlet and I can feel a moustache of sweat on my upper lip.Sexy, and perfectly timed.The Neanderthals are sprawled across the picnic tables out the front, some bikini-clad girls in their midst.The remnants of what was a parcel of hot chips rests in the middle of the table, the corners of the wrapping held down by drink bottles.A Neanderthal balances a skateboard on two wheels, flicking it up into the air and catching it.Ugh.Awesome.
I don’t know these guys very well and they don’t know me.I mean they’d have a vague idea of who I am – you can’t live in a small town and not know people, especially when your dad’s a tradie and the likely career path for these guys is some kind of trade.And while I’ve never spoken to any of them, I’ve been observing them like an assignment for years.They’re quite the sociological phenomena, this subset of the human male species.They travel in a pack, and if you do see one alone in the wild, they must let out a dog whistle, because within minutes, there will be the rest of them, draped en masse on the bonnet of a car, or perched at a lookout assessing the waves, or like now, taking over all available surface area outside Sadie’s.
When I was younger, I thought those guys were like gods, King Neptune’s offspring come to life.Even the ugly ones have a certain something.In basic terms, they’re a group of good-looking guys, perennially salt-encrusted with abs that come from hours of paddling a surfboard which you could...well, there’s a few things you could do.Picture tanned faces, white teeth, some in a better state than others, salt-dotted eyelashes which probably make them look longer than is fair and hair bleached by sea and sunshine.
Bottom line: they look like they’ve just walked straight out of a cheesy music video.I’ll never forget Sal’s reaction the first time she saw them.She’d come to stay for the weekend so we could work on our biology assessment task.They were in the beach car park, gathered around the older guys’ cars, music blaring.They’d just finished surfing, and the king of the Neanderthals, the hottest of the hot of them, stood under the beach shower peeling off his wetsuit.
‘Oh my freakin’ God,’ said Sal.‘He looks like Adonis come to life.Is he even real?’
‘Are you okay?’I mimicked wiping my mouth.‘You’re not going to drown in all that drool?’
‘Who in the name of all that is holy is he?’
