Black Painted Fingernails

  Praise for Steven Herrick

  By the River

  ‘Herrick captures the essence of his characters with deft strokes … concise, eloquent and moving.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘… highly emotional poetry that can induce tears of both laughter and sadness.’ The Age

  Lonesome Howl

  ‘The flawless rhythm of his writing and the bittersweet tales he tells make him a unique storyteller.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  Cold Skin

  ‘Gripping.’ Sunday Age

  ‘… delivers a powerful sense of authenticity and unforgettable lyricism.’ Sydney Morning Herald

  ‘As you listen to each character speak, you are drawn into their mind and feel part of their life.’ Good Reading

  First published in 2011

  Copyright © Steven Herrick, 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Fax: (61 2) 9906 2218

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  A Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74237 459 8

  Teacher’s notes available from www.allenandunwin.com

  Cover and text design by Lisa White

  Cover photo by Sally Mundy/Trevillion Images

  Typeset and eBook production by Midland Typesetters, Australia

  Printed in Australia by McPherson’s Printing Group

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To José and Maria, Daniela and Daniela, with thanks for being such wonderful hosts while I worked on this book at Casa Dos Esteios

  Steven Herrick was born in Brisbane, the youngest of seven children. At school his favourite subject was soccer, and he dreamed of football glory while he worked at various jobs, including fruit-picking. For the past twenty years, he’s been a full-time writer of books for children and teenagers, and each year he visits many schools in both Australia and overseas. His books have twice won the NSW Premier’s Literary Awards, and have been shortlisted for the CBCA Book of the Year Awards on six occasions.

  Steven lives in the Blue Mountains with his wife, Cathie, a belly-dancing teacher. They have two adult sons, Jack and Joe.

  Visit Steven’s website at www.stevenherrick.com.au.

  I’m stuck in cross-city traffic, smelling petrol fumes and watching the man in the car beside me sing along with his iPod. He closes his eyes opera-style and lets rip. His double chin wobbles as he strains for the high note.

  I press the button on my armrest and every window lowers, noiselessly. Is there a cyberspeed gadget somewhere among all these dials to transport me into the future, upstairs to the verandah room I’ve booked at the Shamrock Hotel, Hillston?

  ‘How long do you want to stay?’ the woman on the phone asked.

  ‘Six weeks, please.’

  ‘Weekends too?’

  ‘Yep. Forty-two days to be exact, arriving on Wednesday.’

  ‘No worries, mate.’

  ‘Do . . . do you want my name?’

  ‘There’ll be a room here, no matter who you are.’

  In three days’ time, I’ll be facing a class of twenty-six Year Five students. I can see it now: the red-haired boy beside the window deep in thought, picking his nose; the girl with pigtails in the front smiling because she hated the last teacher; the big-eared boy at the back scowling because he hates all teachers. And me? I’ll be the tall curly-haired bloke, knees knocking, hoping my voice doesn’t crack when I say hello.

  Earlier this morning, Mum bustled into my bedroom and opened the curtains.

  ‘Time to rise, James.’ She tickled my foot hanging over the bed. ‘You’ve got a long drive today.’

  I gave her the finger with my big toe.

  Silence.

  I kept my eyes closed, but I could feel her watching me. She sighed. ‘I wish you weren’t going. Who will I have to talk to?’

  ‘Dad, your friends at tennis, Mrs Reynolds, the book club . . .’

  ‘They’re not my own flesh and blood, they’re . . .’ She squeezed my foot, searching for the words. ‘. . . not my only son.’

  An hour later, Mum, Dad and I stood on the back verandah, my suitcase at our feet. Mum handed me the lunchbox I’ve had since Year Seven.

  ‘Wholemeal salad sandwiches, James. And a peach, for your long drive.’ She patted my hand. A magpie sat on the back fence, chortling.

  Dad slipped the keys to the gleaming red BMW M3, parked in our driveway, into my shirt pocket. He clasped both hands on my shoulders. ‘Drive carefully, Jim.’ We shook hands and his voice seemed to waver. ‘I’ll miss you, son.’

  I leant in close and hugged him. Underneath the expensive suit, he felt thin and frail. He touched my back gently and, as we pulled apart, I noticed the grey hair peppering his curls.

  ‘Thanks, Dad. For the car.’

  Mum wrapped her arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks.

  ‘I’m only going for six weeks, Mum.’

  ‘But it’s your first time away from home, James. Who’ll look after you?’

  ‘I’ll look after myself.’

  She pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘I could come with you, until you settle?’

  ‘Mum!’

  She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief, then reached for Dad’s hand.

  I flipped the suitcase into the boot of the BMW and opened the driver’s door, nervously adjusting the seat. Mum and Dad waved from the verandah as I reversed slowly out of the driveway. Mum blew me a kiss.

  I stop for petrol at the first service station in the Blue Mountains.

  Beside a sign advertising three Cornettos for six dollars, a small white cross faces the road. Inscribed on it is Matthew – 2001. Matthew’s cross has a single rose tied with blue ribbon at the base.

  I fill the tank and look across at the houses opposite. A timber cottage is overgrown with roses and lavender, bottlebrush and a single bloodwood tree. A man sits on the verandah watching the traffic thumping past.

  ‘Are you heading west, mister?’

  She’s wearing a flowing black dress and her tangled hair tumbles across her eyes. She brushes it back and smiles at me: lip gloss but no make-up.

  No need for make-up.

  ‘S-sorry?’ I stammer, big feet shuffling, eyes downcast.

  She repeats it, slowly. ‘Are you heading west?’

  If I say yes, how do I then say no to offering her a lift? If my mate Pete were here, he’d cheekily cock his head and ask her name, grin and say, ‘Sure, I’m going wherever you are.’

  I don’t want company. In movies, hitchhikers talk because they think it’s payment for the ride. Witty conversation about places they’ve be
en to, jobs they’ve had, friends they’ve lost.

  I wish I could speak another language, suddenly switch to Spanish and reel off sentence after sentence to show I don’t understand, that ‘sorry’ is my only English word.

  She leans casually against my car, her bag slung across one shoulder. One bare shoulder. I look across the highway at the man on the verandah, as if he can get me out of this.

  ‘How about we toss a coin for your answer? Heads, it’s west and a lift.’

  Look at her, you idiot!

  ‘Tails, it’s still west, but no lift.’

  My tank is full. I hold the nozzle like it’s a karaoke microphone and I’ve forgotten the lyrics. She called me mister, but she’s older than me.

  ‘Okay . . . you toss,’ I say, putting the cap on the tank.

  My hand is shaking.

  She plonks the oversized vinyl handbag on my car and rummages inside for her money.

  I fumble a dollar coin from my pocket. It bounces on the duco and rolls under the rear wheel. I quickly kneel down to retrieve it.

  Petrol fumes, cast-off chewing gum stuck to the bitumen, an oil stain, and she’s wearing big boots, lace-ups . . . bare legs.

  Stop gawking at her legs. Stand up!

  She takes the coin from my hand and tosses it high. We both track its spin, then she catches it, flips it on her wrist and calls, ‘Heads.’

  I lean forward. Tails. Tails. Please.

  She smiles faintly, holds her wrist towards me, the coin balancing. Before I have a chance to check, she tilts her arm and catches the coin as it drops.

  ‘Heads it is!’

  She opens the passenger door, but waits until I nod agreement. What can I do?

  She keeps the coin.

  She’s tall, willowy, and those big army boots unnerve me. She hitches her dress loose around her legs and settles into the seat.

  ‘Can we have some air?’

  I point to the button. ‘Elec . . . elet . . . power.’

  Under the stare of someone so beautiful, I struggle to get the words out.

  The wind blows the damp smell of mountain pines through the car. I slowly pull out of the service station driveway, my eyes scanning the traffic and Matthew’s memorial. The ice-cream sign spins in the breeze. The man on the verandah stands and walks into his garden. How many times a week does he cross the road to add a rose?

  All that fresh air and the faint smell of her perfume makes me cough. I dare not ask too many questions or she’ll think I’m trying to chat her up; too few and the space between us will expand and crush my wavering confidence. When I reach into the glovebox, my hand brushes her knee, but she doesn’t move. Where are my sunglasses?

  I flick open the centre console. Did I leave them at home?

  She points to the dash.

  Sunglasses.

  ‘Thanks. How did you know?’

  She smiles but doesn’t answer.

  ‘Where are . . . how far are you going?’ I ask. Please let it be the next town, twenty minutes away.

  Her voice is assured. ‘The further, the better.’

  What is she escaping from? A jealous boyfriend? A job she hated? Anxious parents? No, that would be me.

  ‘I’m not running away from anything,’ she says.

  James Spalding: a geeky open book.

  She smoothes the folds of her dress. ‘I’m going home. It’s . . . a long way.’

  She doesn’t look like a country girl, not with her dangling ruby earrings and black painted fingernails. They’ll go down well on the back of a horse, cracking a whip.

  ‘I haven’t been home in years,’ she says quietly.

  I surrender. This girl is a few steps ahead of Mr Obvious.

  ‘I can tell what job you do,’ she says playfully.

  ‘G-go on then.’

  She clicks her fingers. ‘You’re a teacher.’

  ‘How the hell . . .’

  She points to the union sticker on my lunchbox in the back seat and says, ‘You barely look old enough, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  And you don’t look like a cowgirl.

  As I’m glancing at her, a car skids in front of us, screeching tyres and smoking rubber. I swerve into the parking lane, my brakes sharp, whining. She jolts forward in her seat.

  We look at each other without saying a word.

  A dog wanders slowly past my grille, tail waving, like a smile.

  Sophie has forgotten her key, again. She stands on the footpath, cursing the broken buzzer, looking up to the third-floor window. Should she shout and risk waking the neighbours? All night she’s been working at the bar, knowing her door keys lie beside his on the nightstand in the flat.

  ‘Carlos!’ Her voice is too loud for the early morning.

  Mrs Daintree pokes her head out of the window, round glasses slipping from her nose into the window-box that sprouts petunias. A dog barks from inside her flat. Brutus is a Pekingese with two front legs and a three-thousand-dollar wheel contraption in place of his back legs. Cancer. A dog saved, instead of being left to die or put down by a kindly vet in a long white coat.

  When Sophie’s grandma was in hospital, no one removed bits of her body to save her. There was no bionic solution, just lots of drugs to keep her in a morphine haze.

  ‘Hello, love. Forgot your key?’ Mrs Daintree brushes dirt from her glasses.

  As if on cue, Carlos’s shaggy head appears from the window one floor above Mrs Daintree’s.

  ‘Hi, Sophie. Mrs Daintree.’

  ‘Hello, Carlos, what’s that music you’ve been playing?’ says Mrs Daintree.

  ‘Bob Marley.’

  ‘Ooh, I can hear it through the pipes. It makes me want to dance.’

  Brutus barks again. Mrs Daintree glances quickly back into her flat, then smiles down at Sophie.

  Sophie stares at both of them, wondering how long she’ll have to wait. A man on a bicycle veers down the lane and she steps towards the gutter. ‘Is someone going to let me in?’

  ‘No.’ Carlos isn’t smiling.

  Mrs Daintree looks up at Carlos, then down at Sophie. A lovers’ tiff? She doesn’t retreat into her cocoon of morning television and crossword puzzles. Her head pokes out a little further.

  ‘Come on, Carlos,’ Sophie says.

  ‘No. Not until you promise.’

  Sophie stares at the wooden double entrance doors, wishing them open.

  ‘I’d promise, love. He looks serious,’ Mrs Daintree says.

  ‘Has Brutus been fed yet, Mrs Daintree?’

  ‘Oh yes, no need to worry about him.’ The old woman looks up at Carlos.

  Carlos clears his throat. ‘I asked her to marry me, Mrs Daintree.’

  ‘Ooh, lovely!’

  ‘She hasn’t agreed . . . yet,’ Carlos adds.

  ‘Say yes, Sophie. He’s a good catch.’

  ‘Carlos, let me in and we’ll talk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You want to marry me, but only from three flights up?’

  ‘I want your word first.’

  ‘What if I lie?’

  Inside Carlos’s flat, Sophie’s backpack is stored in the wardrobe next to a few skirts, some sleeveless tops, a nice woollen jacket for winter. In the bathroom is the expensive moisturiser he bought as a gift. On the dressing table are a few DVDs and not much else.

  Not enough to get married for.

  Not to Carlos with his hairy legs that tickle in bed, his brown-rice dinners, his collection of bright green boxer shorts, his late-night pot sessions with smoke filling the space between them.

  Should she turn and walk away?

  Brutus barks again.

  ‘Brutus wants you to say yes!’

 
Mrs Daintree has been watching too many romantic movies where the hero always gets his wish. The morning turns sour, the wind picking up from the ocean a few blocks away and bringing the smell of seaweed and salt.

  A removal truck stops near Sophie, looking for a parking space, but she doesn’t move. The driver steers around her and continues slowly down the alley. Sophie wonders who requires a truck that size to leave. All you need is two legs and a bus pass. She clutches her handbag close.

  She remembers her father, vacant-eyed and glum for months after her mother left. He’d sit on the couch, staring at his big hands, Sophie beside him, the wedding photos thrown into the bottom drawer of the sideboard.

  ‘I’ll give you one more minute, how’s that?’

  Carlos is not usually one for ultimatums.

  ‘I’ve had a long night, Carlos.’

  She thinks of the tip jar near the register at O’Driscoll’s Bar, slowly filling with cash as she talked to the drunks, with their slow eyes, calloused hands, crooked lips. Tell us ya name, love? Sophie and Rebekah counted the notes at the end of the shift, pressing them flat on the bar. Rebekah took the American twenty-dollar bill, mumbling about changing it at the bank on Monday, a smile on her full lips.

  Sophie has two hundred and forty-eight dollars in her handbag and a fat leering boss named Nigel who owes her another hundred and fifty.

  ‘You should tell her you love her, Carlos. That’s what she’s waiting on.’

  Mrs Daintree fancies herself as Dear Erica.

  ‘I love—’

  ‘No, you don’t!’

  ‘Yes, I do!’

  The removal truck reverses towards Sophie, the driver carefully checking each mirror. He’s an Islander with tattoos stretching across his bicep and down his arm. He stops a few metres from her. Sophie steps onto the footpath, but the truck doesn’t continue. The driver looks up at the people peering down from the windows. He switches off the engine and waits. Has he seen the same movies as Mrs Daintree?

  ‘Can I come up and get my stuff?’ Sophie asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you just throw it down, then?’

  Surely that’ll move Mrs Daintree inside.