Page 2 of Nothing Without You
The woman looked up and stared at Father, her face scrunched up in a nasty smirk as she twisted her mouth and nearly spat her words out. ‘Bloody wogs. Can’t even speak English. They’ll take over the country if we’re not careful.’
The man with the lady added more mean words, and the two of them muttered about ‘Ities’ and ‘filthy migrants’. Evie had heard the slang word ‘Ities’ before and she knew they were talking about her father. A nearby empty trolley was a valuable weapon for her vengeance, and she grabbed it without another thought, ramming it into the lady’s broad backside. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Evie apologised before pushing it harder, pretending she was trying to steer it in another direction.
The lady shrieked as she stumbled forward, a bottle of milk in her hand falling to the ground and shattering. The white liquid splashed back up over the lady's clothes and across the groceries in her trolley.
Without a backward glance, Evie continued down the aisle. She left the trolley near the front counter before skipping through the exit and quickly joining her father, who was waiting for her on the pavement outside.
‘Where were you? I only needed to get milk.’ He bent down and straightened her jumper. ‘Chewing gum? Was that what you were looking at? Maybe next time, my little bambino. Let’s go.’
Evie giggled, imagining the mess left behind and how annoyed the lady would be. It served her right, she thought. How dare they talk about her father in that way! Most people loved him and the way he spoke, especially the women who entered the vacuum cleaner shop where he worked. They hung off every word he said and fluttered their eyelids as he drew them into his sales pitch. They would then, without exception, purchase whatever vacuum cleaner he promoted that month.
It wasn’t just his smooth words or interesting accent that drew people in. Father looked different to a lot of the men who lived around them. He had a neatly trimmed moustache, the short, dark hairs tickling when she pressed her cheek to his lips. His black hair was slicked back, with never a strand out of place, and he wore collared shirts in various colours, thin dark ties, and black formal trousers that matched his shiny leather black or brown shoes. Even his socks were of the finest quality. The trips he made to Sydney were not only for selling vacuum cleaners and meeting up with other salesmen from around Australia, but he also spent time at the big department stores, seeking out the newest attire imported from Europe.
Even at five years old, she knew that her father loved her, more than he loved her mother. If she had something important to ask or a secret to tell, it was her father she turned to. He never told her he was too busy, or laughed at what she said. Instead, he asked for even more information, and made her feel like a grown-up with something important to say. Mother was always busy cleaning, cooking or dusting. Even if she was sitting down having a cup of tea or just staring out the window, she wasn’t really interested in what Evie had to say. ‘I just need some time to myself, Evie,’ she would say. ‘Go and talk to your father.’
Father said the reason her mother didn’t want to listen to her stories and needed to sometimes be alone, was that she had grown up in a household with a stern, strict, and argumentative father. Mother pulled a face when Evie asked her about her family. ‘Think yourself lucky that your father and I may not always agree, but we don’t fight or yell at each other. We always end up agreeing on what’s best for you.’
The only time Mother wasn’t serious or busy, was when Father gave her a second glass of wine with dinner. When the three of them sat around the yellow and white laminate table and ate their dinner together, her father would talk about his day at the shop. Mother would listen, usually not adding too much, but seeming to enjoy the conversation. What she did love was Father’s wine. After a couple of glasses, she would take her blonde hair out of the bun she usually wore. Shaking her head, she’d ruffle her hair with her hands and wiggle her shoulders, as if she had been set free. Set free from what, Evie wondered, but she had no idea.
Unlike any of her friends’ houses, there was a rack that held bottles of wine. Father had a drink of wine with Mother each night with dinner, and that was when everyone seemed to relax. It was as if her mother had become a different person. Mother said the kitchen made her happy. The bright yellow cupboards and drawers that lined one wall made her feel like she was sitting in the sun. Father had built wide shelves and brightly coloured canisters sat on them. They had yellow lids and flower patterns on the front and had been a present he brought back from one of his Sydney trips.
After the first glass, Father would start telling jokes, or he and Mother would talk about places they had lived before. Mother would laugh, her shoulders bouncing up and down, sometimes even happy tears running down her cheeks. A little more wine would be poured into her glass, and sometimes Father poured a small amount for Evie to try. Some nights Father showed Evie how to wind the spaghetti around her fork and suck it into her mouth. Once, her mother joined in the sucking contest, and the three of them competed for who could suck the longest piece of spaghetti the quickest. Her mother’s eyes had sparkled that night, and Evie noticed the looks exchanged between her parents. They were a family, just the three of them. Mother was beautiful, and in love with Father.
On nights like that, Evie’s world was complete. It was as though she had the most perfect family in the world. The trouble was, those nights didn’t happen that often.
Evie thought back to the night of the spaghetti sucking competition, and how beautiful her mother had looked. Now though, on Evie’s first day of school, Mother seemed as nervous as Evie felt. Her face wore its typically serious expression, and Evie pulled her hand away from her tight grip. She wiped it on her school uniform; her palm was sweaty and red from being held so tight. The girl next to her smiled and copied Evie, also prising her hand free.
The two mothers began talking. They seemed to know each other and before she knew it, the girl came up beside Evie. ‘My name is Layla.’
‘My name is Evie,’ she answered back, admiring Layla’s long blonde hair, which was tied up in two bouncy ponytails. Layla held out her hand, and she put hers into it. Both hands felt warm, but they weren’t sweaty, and neither squeezed hard.
Evie’s mother bent down and spoke to Layla. ’You two can be friends. Sit together and look after each other.’ It was a surprise to hear how kind her mother could sound. Usually, her directions were short and swift. The kind words and soft cuddles were what her father was for.
Evie had thought it would have been better if Father had come with her on the first day of school. But he was away on business. ‘Sydney. He’s gone to Sydney for a week,’ her mother replied when Evie asked where he was. Her mother frowned, like she often did when she asked more questions. ‘You don’t need to know everything, Evie. He’s in Sydney. Selling vacuum cleaners. That’s all. Now remember, keep your words and questions to yourself. Children are meant to be seen, not heard.’
Chapter Two
Layla and Evie became best friends on that first day at school. Luckily, they lived not too far away, which meant that Layla and her older sisters, Patrina and Emily, could wait for Evie on the corner of her street every morning to ride their bikes to school together. Layla’s mother’s name was Yvette, and she knew Mother through the tennis club. The arrangements made between the two mothers on that first morning of school stayed in place for the next seven years. Come rain, hail or shine, Evie and Layla rode together.
After Layla’s sisters left and started at the high school that was further away, requiring a bus trip, the two girls continued to meet every morning and make their way to school together. Some days they were early, so there was time to dawdle and stop at the horse paddock. An old piebald mare that loved the tuna sandwich Layla’s mother made for her lunch, waited each morning at the fence. The girls giggled as the mare stretched her neck over the barbed wire and nuzzled their school bags, until they gave her what she was looking for.
At first, Mother was surprised Evie needed two sandwiches each day, and queried that she wanted to have the same jam on both. After a while though, she stopped questioning. She was just glad that Evie appeared to have settled into school, made some friends and expected less and less of her precious time. Layla became used to the shared sandwiches and felt lucky to be rid of the tuna, instead enjoying the sticky sweet jam that covered thick butter on crusty brown bread.
During lunch break, Evie and Layla always sat in the same spot. A gentle sloping area under the shade of tall pine trees was a perfect place to observe others, share the jam sandwiches and tell their secrets.
It was where they were sitting on the last day of grade five when Evie had her first conversation with Chris McIntosh. There were always groups of boys playing football down on the flat grassed area in front of them, and a couple of times Evie had noticed the boy who had poked his tongue out at her on her first day of school. He was older than she was, so she had not had anything to do with him over the previous years, only noticing when he got an award or won a ribbon on sports day. Today, he jogged towards them. His football had landed nearby, and Layla snatched it up as it bounced close to her, hiding it under her jumper.
‘Give us the ball, please,’ he said, holding out his hand.
Layla giggled. ‘What ball?’
‘I’m not stupid. It’s under your jumper.’
Evie was impressed with Layla’s certainty around older kids. Her self-confidence and larger, stronger build were good reasons, along with her fun personality, to have her as a friend. There was a feeling of safety in her presence. Today, however, perhaps she was pushing her luck. Layla wrapped her hands around her stomach. ‘You need to pay to get it back.’
‘It’s my ball. Give it back.’
‘Nope.’