Nine Days before the Fire
Gramps was grumpy when Fran got home and no longer wanted to go to mass. ‘I’ve decided to take up Satanism,’ he said. ‘“Do what thou wilt”.’
Fran and Nurse Jen agreed he would probably change his mind. He’d never missed mass. Even when he was in hospital he had Father Frank do home deliveries. Nurse Jen agreed to stay on till 8.30, and Fran ended up in the second back row of St Michael’s with Gramps on a Stick beside her in the aisle. He hadn’t turned his iPad on yet. He would.
Fran always went to mass when she visited her dad, and always hated it. Nothing had changed in thirty years. If she could, she went to the Saturday 7.30 pm mass, because it was the fun one, in relative terms. Sunday 8.30 had its good side – it was fast, forty minutes at most – but this was outweighed by the ungodly hour and The Mons’s grim reaper sermon, which always led to seven days of depression. Rumour had it The Mons had been sent to the parish in the eighties to ‘keep an eye’, but the official story was that he had family in the area. Sunday 10.30 mass was the big show, run by Father Alfonzo in Fran’s childhood and adolescence, and by Father Frank after Father Alfonzo was arrested. You had to wear something decent to the 10.30. It was always either boiling or freezing and always went on for at least ninety minutes.
As ever, it was standing room only at the Saturday 7.30. 55The seats were mostly taken by farmers and their young ones, many of whom would be dipping sheep in the morning. Teenagers whispered and giggled at the back, some of the girls wearing a conspicuous disposable layer, no doubt on top of their ta-da outfits. They’d have somewhere to go afterwards, like the Blue Light Disco, and according to Verity O’Leary there was a pancake night on at the church hall to raise money for the proposed new statue. ‘Many of us feel,’ Verity said as she took a pew, ‘that Bert should be replaced by something – and someone – sturdier.’
Halfway through a letter from St Paul to the Corinthians, Gramps’ voice bellowed from his screen: ‘Did you bring ten dollars for the collection?’
Sister Mary Margaret, five rows down, gave Fran a dirty look.
Pervy old witch.
‘Yep,’ Fran said, turning down the monitor’s volume and joining a synchronised sitting-down. It was time to watch people line up to eat the actual no-kidding flesh of the saviour.
‘Body of Christ,’ said Tricia Gallagher’s twenty-six-year-old daughter, whose skirt had been tucked into the bottom of her undies all the way from the tenth row up to Father Frank. Someone should have told her. Maybe Fran should have told her. Ash Mountain wasn’t a kind place.
‘Body of Christ,’ said Mrs Ercolini, hands cupped to receive her Jesus-meat.
Oh dear – Sister Mary Margaret had taken to the stage and was conducting a choir of very poor singers. In the past, this was the only part Fran enjoyed, but they were singing a modern, happy-clappy number and it was impossible to join in. 56
It was only 8.05. If her dad switched his monitor off again, she’d sneak out. If he didn’t, perhaps she could manufacture a malfunction and sneak out anyway.
And stand. And Our Father who aren’t in heaven, Holy Spirit, Amen, Sit, Stand, Sermon.
Father Frank always enjoyed his moment on stage, and so did all the footy fans in the congregation, which was almost everyone. Every week he relayed a special moment from The Bombers’ latest game, as if it was going to be a metaphor for something, but it never was. Father Frank just liked talking about the footy.
The end was in sight: it was time for the ‘peace be with you’. Fran turned to shake the hand of the person she’d been sitting next to, realising it was The Captain’s thirteen-year-old daughter. What was her name again?
‘Peace be with you, Mrs Collins,’ she said.
‘Please call me Fran – I’ve forgotten your name!’
‘It’s Cathy.’
‘Peace be with you, Cathy. Where’s your dad?’
‘He’s not into God.’
She liked that The Captain wasn’t into God. ‘You need a lift home?’
‘Mrs O’Leary’s taking me after pancakes, but thanks.’
The collection plate had arrived. Fran didn’t have the ten dollars her dad insisted on donating each time; she had two. She put one in and passed the plate to the woman sitting behind her, careful not to make eye contact in case she knew her too.
Mass had made her nauseous – Father Frank and Sister Mary 57Margaret always turned her stomach. Back at the house, she saw Nurse Jen off, surprised at how quickly she’d changed her opinion of the woman; an officious old bag was exactly what she needed right now.
Fran found herself kissing her sleeping dad’s forehead the way she did with Vonny and Dante. He was her baby now, too. She walked back along the thin hallway, one end of which was lined with bookcases, and wriggled her fingers at the Biscotti tin on the middle shelf. After her mum died, and if no-one was within earshot, she always said ‘Hey Mum, love you’, when she walked past the ashes, which were to remain on the middle shelf until her dad was also in the tin. Eventually, the ritual softened to a finger wave, the mantra said inside her head.
She poured herself a sherry and sat at the kitchen bench. In three decades, the house had changed about as much as mass. The same books were on the same shelves, including classics like War and Peace and Pride and Prejudice, and one entire bookcase was dedicated to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, which her dad still preferred over Google. For as long as Fran could remember, every question she asked her dad ended with the same response. For example, age eleven: ‘What does ‘rags’ mean? Tricia said Melissa smells cos she got her rags.’
‘Get me M, Franny,’ he’d said, taking up position at the end of the dining table as she reached for the gigantic, burgundy-leather, gold-embossed volume. He searched for the correct page while she made him a fresh cup of tea, excited to discover the meaning of rags, which had something to do with the letter M.
The tea had to be just right: ‘Heat the pot, the steel one next to the toaster, not the ceramic one on the shelf, which 58pours poorly and should be taken to the Op Shop or thrown out. Heat the cup, cup not mug, put half an inch of cold milk in the cup – full cream, not half, not skim; cold, not hot, not warm – and half fill the pot – half – with freshly boiled water. Two bags of Tetley’s best in for two minutes, Franny, one hundred and twenty seconds before the slow pour. Do not meddle, do not rush – perhaps use a timer – do not wriggle, and for God’s sake do not squeeze.’
Apparently, her mum was crap at tea, didn’t take it seriously at all. Coffee, well that was another matter. Fran was torn. She’d probably choose tea anytime after lunch, or if she needed to diffuse an awkward moment – like if someone had just died. However, first thing every morning she needed coffee the way her mum did, downing it warm and in one like the drug that it is.
Fran worked best with clear directions, and her dad was always appreciative. She had made the perfect brew while he prepared to read all about menstruation, glasses hanging off the end of his patrician nose. He turned to the correct page with freshly scrubbed fingers that lapped the thin paper, air wafting towards his thin nostrils. The Encyclopaedia Britannica smelt glorious, even when it was about to inform you all about fanny blood. Information was a luxury back then. Probably why Fran never had much.
Now, sitting with her sherry, she stared at Gramps’ favourite mismatched set of crockery, which was on the dining table, ready for the strict three-course breakfast he was hoping to make himself six months ago and would never get to make again. The house smelt of toast crumbs. Even if she cleaned the toaster, tray included, and the rest of the kitchen, it still smelt of toast crumbs. Once fresh and pleasant things, they were very disagreeable when stale and stuck inside a low-ceilinged 59 seventies box, its windows suffocated by dense fly-wire screens. You could either have air, or no flies, and Gramps had chosen the latter.
There was another smell too, perhaps the small compost bin by the sink that no-one had fed to the garden since the stroke. Or the dirty water in the bucket under the shower, with indescribable floaties on top. Fran got up and emptied both onto the shrubs in the thin strip of back garden, most of which had already failed to survive the summer.
The house was dirty. Maybe it always had been. Back at the kitchen bench, Fran wrote on the back of an unopened Simply Energy bill: DEEP CLEAN HOUSE, adding a moment later, PAY ELECTRICITY BILL. She closed her eyes and took a moment to be mindful. It was so quiet. She was so alone.
She was failing to be mindful, her lip was trembling.
Boom!
The noise couldn’t have been the ostriches – their low-pitched mating boom was only heard by special people, the way mosquitos are only heard by young people, and thankfully Fran was neither.
Another boom, and she realised it was the fly screen on the front door. She snapped it locked and shut the main door behind it. It hadn’t cooled much since dusk, so she switched on the fan in the living room and returned to the kitchen bench to cry – no, she didn’t need to cry, she needed to ring Vincent, who would always be here for her.
She met Vincent at the insurance company when he invited her to his farewell party. Over the years, she’d moved around 60departments, eventually settling as a clerk in investments, the coolest division in the building, where suits played with money and had long, drunken lunches and sometimes got arrested for insider trading. The coffee was good and so was the staff room. There were doughnuts at 11.00 and drinks in South Melbourne at 6.00. The social club organised skiing trips and wine tours that were apparently a lot of fun. Fran liked the vibe of investments. It was interesting and happy, but not so much that work would ever bleed into her weekends ‘with the boys’ back home.
Then along came Vincent from sales. He’d only just joined the company, and was already leaving to study housing policy. The audacity of the guy. She was jealous.
Despite the brevity of his employment, everyone loved Vincent, and an elaborate and expensive farewell party was thrown by the social club. Fran and Vincent danced so hard they were dripping in sweat, and one or both of them thought it a good idea to go outside to cool down. Sometime after that they made the mistake of having sex – several times. Immediately realising they were not meant for each other in that way, they became best friends for nine months before becoming parents for the rest of their lives. They had lived and coparented together until twelve months ago, when their daughter scolded them for staying in all weekend, yet again:
‘You’re holding each other back,’ Vonny said. ‘You should both at least try and find your soul mate. What about passion, what about passion?!’ Vonny was into true love. Her favourite movie was The Princess Bride.
Vincent moved to a terrace around the corner the following month. They’d since agreed to take turns to walk his dog, but often ended up doing it together. They shared disastrous dating stories (Vincent had been on three dates, 61all of them bad, while she’d been on seven, three of them good but only for a few hours). They texted and messaged each other all the time. They visited each other a little too much. It was all very grown up. It was easy to be grown up about falling out of love if you never fell in it.
Fran lifted the handset of the ancient mustard phone and pressed three buttons before realising she’d forgotten the rest of Vincent’s mobile number. She hung up and thought hard for a moment before dialling again.
She was about to give up when a woman answered. ‘Hello?’
‘Oh hi, sorry. Is this 0491 570159?’
‘Yeah, hi. Is that Fran? It’s Constance here. Vinnie’s told me so much about you.’
Vinnie? He hated being called Vinnie. As did Vonny, who vetoed it. ‘There will be no rhymes in this family,’ she had said.
Fran had heard nothing about Constance – stupid name. ‘Is Vincent there?’
‘He is. He’s in the shower.’
Fran looked at the clock – 9.55 pm. Vincent never showered at this time. ‘No, no, it’s fine, just tell him I rang to say thanks for yesterday.’ She hung up before Constance had finished her sentence and almost leaned into the desire to howl, stopping herself and heading to the desk, where she read over the day’s log book and added various items to her various lists of things to do.
Gramps was making noises. She grabbed the log book, retrieved a bottle of pills from the chest in the cupboard, and headed to his bedroom.
‘I don’t like this, Franny,’ he said, swallowing the pill she’d given him. 62
‘It’s sucky, isn’t it?’ Without thinking, she took her mother’s rosary beads, which were hanging on the headboard, and held them in her father’s hand. Her dad loved the rosary, but Fran hated it. Till tonight. It was soothing, chanty, and she was in a better mood by the time her dad fell asleep, which was during the second decade of the sorrowful mysteries – honestly, what a load of tosh.
She went to her old bedroom to get the bed ready for Vonny (who was the messiest person in the universe). The wall was still covered in posters of Kate Bush and The Proclaimers. Fran had been nuts about the Scottish duo at fifteen. It was liberating to realise there were other people out there with funny accents. Plus, The Proclaimers wore glasses and were twins, and twins were sexy, specially in glasses.
There was a huge space in the middle of the wall where her favourite Proclaimers and Kate Bush posters had once been, the only remnants being sticky-tape marks. The room needed a paint. The whole house needed a paint, she thought, as she walked back down the hall, adding it to her ‘Household Maintenance’ list of things to do.
Lights, gravel, The Captain was approaching. Fran checked herself in the bathroom mirror and opened the door.
‘She’s tipsy I’m afraid,’ said The Captain, who was holding Vonny upright with his arm, his daughter Rosie just keeping it together behind them.
One day in this town and Vonny was pissed. Fran had never seen her in this state before.
‘Mum! We found a room. I’m so sorry, my poor mum.’ Vonny was talking gibberish – she’d found a room or a box or something.
‘Shh, now,’ Rosie said to her new friend, ‘let’s not talk about it till tomorrow, yeah, you and me? I’ll come over first 63thing. I’m sorry Mrs Collins, we had some wine. It was all my idea. Is that all right, if I come over in the morning?’
‘Sure.’ This time, she did not insist on being called Fran.
‘Maybe I could bring some tortilla,’ said The Captain.
Rosie obviously didn’t want it to be a family affair, and huffed back out to the car.
‘Sorry about my daughter,’ said The Captain.
Vonny, sprawled on the sofa, dry-retched loudly, and Fran thought it best to see her guests off. When she came back inside, Vonny had reached the spin and vomit stage. Hair-holding was required for a good hour.
‘Never again,’ said Vonny.
‘But it’s so fun for both of us,’ said Fran, as her daughter heaved into the gross toilet bowl. She wouldn’t even bother cleaning it. She’d buy and install a new one tomorrow. Remember to put it on the list, she said to herself, still holding her daughter’s matted hair. Buy new loo.
Vonny wouldn’t let her take her shoes or jeans off. She was stubborn, even when paralytic, a word Fran shouldn’t use now there was an actual paralytic person in the house.
She put a large bottle of water on the bedside table, a bucket beside the pillow, and began reading The Faraway Tree to her baby girl. The children had arrived in the Land of Topsy Turvy.
‘I want to go to the Land of Do What You Want,’ said Vonny, words fading.
‘Isn’t that the land you’re already in?’
But Vonny had fallen asleep.
Fran unlaced her daughter’s boots and put them on the window ledge. She hadn’t seen these ones before; she must have borrowed them from Rosie. They were cute, cherry red Doctor Martens.