Page 28 of Summer, in Between
‘What about you, Paul?’Mum tops up her glass of red wine.‘Did you always want to be a builder?’
‘Not especially.Believe it or not, I was looking at architecture too, right up until, well, I ended up getting pretty average marks.’He shrugs, looking down at his plate.He takes a sip of water.‘A friend of the old man’s offered me a carpentry apprenticeship and that was that.I didn’t have a lot of other options really.But it’s been all right, overall.Not at all like I expected, and I got to stay here and not have to move to the city.But as you know, Mrs Kelty.’Mum frowns.‘Sorry, I mean Angela!But yeah, a lot of the stuff down this way is still pretty stock standard.Not too many people are willing to take a shot at making their house anything other than a three-bedroom, two-bathroom box.Which is why I’m so happy to be working on this place.’
‘This is a family home in every sense of the word.’Mum beams with pride.‘We designed it and built it.We dreamed about it all the years we spent staring at skyscrapers.We wanted to see either the ocean or the country from every window.We found this block and here we are.’
‘This house, it’s good now, but it was trouble,’ Nonna says.‘The neighbours complained.’
‘Complained?About what?’Paul says.‘You haven’t blocked anyone’s view?’
‘“Out of character” believe it or not.’Dad shifts in his seat.‘Funny, given it was the people with the asbestos hot boxes who don’t even live here.Arseholes.’
‘That’s a bit shit.This house is the bomb!I just love the way it flows across so many levels.’From his position at the dining table, he has a view of the whole house.‘But it’s still a home, it’s not just a fluid expression of space.’
I crack up laughing.‘A fluid expression of what?’
‘Ignore her.’Mum puts her hand on his shoulder as he blushes.‘You know your architecture.’
‘Not really.’Paul grins, and for some unknown reason, Mum, Nonna and I all simultaneously reach for a glass of water.‘I read up when I found out what job Mick needed me for.I found an article profiling this house.Just like I memorised some Italian,signora, but I hope I did a better job on the architecture words.’
The afternoon drifts on.No one is in a hurry to leave the table, and even Nonna seems to have forgotten her usual afternoon routine of panicking that she won’t be home before dark.Dad is as relaxed as I’ve seen him for weeks.
‘I reckon it’s knock off time.’He pours himself a drink.‘Thanks to Paul, I think we might even be able to finish this summer.’
‘We’ll smash it,’ says Paul.
‘Come have a look, Mum.’Dad leaves the table and helps Nonna from her chair.She reaches for her plate, but before she can collect it, Paul has it stacked on his and clears Mum’s plate too.He walks around the table collecting the remainder of the dishes.Nonna’s eyebrows practically lift back to meet the soft dowager’s hump she’s cultivated at the top of her spine.
‘It’s okay, the kids have got it.’Mum tries to shoo him away.
‘By “kids” she means Matty and Tommy.’I hand Matty the pile of dishes.
‘Not fair!’He shoves it towards me.
‘Matty...’says Mum.
He balances the cutlery haphazardly and carries it across to the kitchen bench where he dumps it with a clatter that makes my teeth clench.He jumps the stairs to the living room and fires up his new game.
‘Does that look like the dishwasher, dipshit?’I say to his retreating back.
‘Cat!’Mum calls my name like I’m the one abandoning the unclean dishes.‘Just leave it; I’ll take care of it.I can’t listen to you two squabbling for another second.Tommy, go play with your brother.’
‘It’s all good; finish your wine.’Paul turns to me, the plates still stacked in his arms.‘Lead the way,principessa.’
‘You want me to stab you in the eye with a fork?’I brandish one of the two Tommy didn’t throw in the sink.He follows me around the bench into the kitchen.Mum’s at the dining table, cradling her glass in her hand, staring out the window, a half-smile.
‘Your family is awesome,’ he says.‘Your mum is so easy to talk to, she’s a TV mum.’
‘Well, with a bottle down she’s certainly something.’
We stand side by side at the sink, scraping plates and stacking them in the dishwasher.I rescue salad scraps from the bin, and he gives me a confused look.
‘I know it’s disgusting, but Nonna keeps them for her chickens.’
‘No worries,’ he says.
The bench is clear, the dishwasher stacked.
‘That’s it?’
