TWELVE
Don’t Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One Before
Outside the pub, I wait with Dad while Mum reinvests her six-dollar winnings (plus a top-up) into another twenty rounds of Keno and Jeff goes to get the car to save them the twelve-metre walk.
‘Have you heard from Al lately?’ Dad asks. Al is Dad’s closest nephew. I more or less grew up with Al – he’s more our elder brother than cousin.
‘Yeah, I got a text a few weeks ago,’ I say.
‘I haven’t,’ Dad says.
‘Well, why don’t you call him?’ I prompt ever so casually.
‘I called him last time!’
‘When was that?’
‘Last year,’ he says indignantly.
‘Well, maybe you should call him again?’
‘No, come to think of it, it was February. I called him for his birthday.’
‘Dad, that’s over ten months ago! Give him a call, I’m sure he’d love to hear from you.’
‘But what if my phone’s not working again? What if that airplane thing turns itself on again?’
‘Dad, how do you manage —’
‘Skeet don’t start. I’m not good with them things, you know that.’
I show him again how to turn airplane mode off in preparation for its inevitable yet mysterious return. While I’m there I look at Dad’s unread messages.
‘Dad, Al has texted you twice. Look . . .’
I read the messages aloud because showing Dad how to click two buttons is a skill beyond his capabilities – and my patience – in this particular moment.
‘Why would he write to me instead of calling me?’ Dad asks, completely oblivious to modern communications. ‘Maybe you need to give me a lesson on sending a fax?’
Dad might as well have requested I submit to bamboo beneath the fingernails. But nevertheless, being the dutiful and flawless son I am, I agree.
‘They’re called messages, or texts, Dad.’
‘Okay, Skeet,’ he says. ‘Good.’
Just then Mum joins us.
‘What are you having for dinner tonight, Jude?’ Dad asks.
‘I told you, darl, I’m having leftover calamaris.’
‘Yeah, come on, Dad,’ I joke. ‘Mum only told you that ten minutes ago.’
‘Sometimes you must think I have “ol-timers”,’ Dad says.
Jeff pulls the car up at the front of the pub and I could run back to their house faster than the time it takes Mum and Dad to sit in their seats and buckle up.
‘Thank you both for lunch,’ Dad says breathlessly. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a few bob?’
‘You can’t take it with you,’ I say.
‘No,’ Mum says, ‘but you can take it down to the club.’
Typical Jude.
Bellies full and fears of long-distance moves now allayed, we are silent on the few minutes’ drive back to their house. After Jeff pulls into the driveway we wait patiently for my parents to wrangle themselves out of their car seats and hear Mum’s feet land heavily on the concrete because she’s forgotten how high the car is. Again.
Inside the house, Mum and I pour ourselves a glass of wine and make our way to the back porch where Grant’s hook-and-eye latches continue doing a splendid job of keeping the screens closed. Jeff emerges from the kitchen with a cup of tea. As an Englishman, tea is as essential to his survival as oxygen. Dad is at the dining table, fiddling with bingo tickets.
‘Jiffy,’ Mum says with a hearty chuckle out of nowhere. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time Glen and Toddy took me to the All Blurries hotel after our annual Melbourne Cup dinner?’
‘Yeah, you did, Jude.’
‘Oh, I was treated like royalty,’ she continues excitedly. ‘All those poor gay and lesbian kids whose own parents had rejected them. They saw me in there and flocked to me and told me how great I was for being there with my two gay sons. This one drag queen, she said to me —’
‘“What the F are you doing in a place like this?”’ Jeff continues for her, but alas.
