Soft serve, p.6
Soft Serve, page 6
This is an emergency warning from the Rural Fire Service for the township of Yinabil. Winds have changed direction and northerly winds are forecast to become stronger. Fire is now impacting properties in the area between Yinabil High School and Albert Street. Fire and Rescue and the RFS are currently trying to contain a blaze at Yinabil High School. If you are within this area, it is now too late to leave. Seek shelter immediately. Repeat, it is now too late to leave.
Fire
On the edge of town, Lotte and her crew carry the petrol station’s gas cylinders from their cage near the front door to the trailer parked close by.
The trailer is attached to Franco’s beat-up Commodore. Franco runs the place and called them earlier this afternoon, sheepish and softly spoken, saying he thought the cylinders might pose a threat today. He knew he was supposed to have taken care of it – in fact, the RFS had explicitly asked him to do so four days ago – but his arthritis (hands and hips) caused him to put it off.
He stands there, quiet and stiff, in his dirty white singlet. Lotte’s crew ask him to move to one side so they can work faster. He wipes his hands – always afire with pain, Lotte suspects – using an old rag, as though he’s attempting to give any passers-by the impression that he’s contributing.
The crew works fast. They know the ‘too late to leave’ call has just been made for the other side of town, so the plan is to move the cylinders to another servo a few towns over. They’ll be out of any conceivable path the fire might take, and they can be dealt with in a few days’ time.
The concrete beneath them throws up heat as the sun tries to beat a path down through the smoke. Lotte’s phone rings in her pocket. She places a gas cylinder into the trailer, pulls out her phone and sees the face of her mother, Ru. Lotte answers it, puffed, and with an edge.
Hi.
Just double-checking something.
Yep?
Sorry, I know you’re busy.
What is it, Mum?
I just read on Facebook that the evacuation point is the courthouse in town.
That’s not right, Mum. You know it’s the Everton Scout Hall.
Yes. I thought so. Just checking.
Okay. Remember all the information is right there on the fridge, yeah?
Yes, yes, I know. Just checking, her mum says again.
Okay. Bye. Love.
Lotte hangs up and stands for a moment with her phone in her hand, contemplating the underside of the conversation. She knows her mother was lying about reading something on Facebook. Instead, her mum couldn’t remember where the evacuation point was, or even that it was written in big letters on the fridge along with the rest of their evacuation plan, and this was her way of finding out without having to admit to the memory lapse.
It had begun small – repeated stories, disinterest in her favourite television shows, wearing her coat indoors – but lately had grown to include the misplacement of objects, ideas and words. Her mother would always tell her about having their language beaten out of her at school until eventually the words just fell out of her mind. Now, her second language is being beaten out by some unseeable force, with her mind in the process of displacing itself. Her mum has taken to writing everything (appointments, the grandchildren’s birthdays) in a diary, something she had never done in her life. When Lotte quizzed her about it, her mum simply said that she liked the palm-tree design on the cover.
Last night, they practised their evacuation plan as a family. Bags were packed and left by the front door of their house on Robinson Close. Should they need to leave quickly, they would perform their given roles, down to who would sit where in the car. Lotte relaxes into the idea of her teenage children, Tana and Tia-Rose, distracting themselves with the PlayStation and then, if need be, executing the plan calmly, guiding their grandmother and themselves to one of their two cars. Lotte had constructed the plan around her mother, assigning her jobs to make her feel useful, but entrusting anything of consequence to the kids. Tia-Rose is on her Ls, so all Ru needs to do is sit in the front seat as the full licence holder.
The clank of the last cylinder being placed in the trailer rings out. Fourteen sleek compact bombs nestled neatly in the tray. Lotte has organised for a separate crew to meet Franco at the other service station, and she instructs him to drop off the cylinders and head straight to the scout hall. He’s not to stop anywhere else. He nods tightly, a wiry old soldier ready to follow his orders, eager to make up for his mistake. He offers them soft drinks from the fridge (as many as you can carry) and then folds himself into his car. Lotte can see him trying his best not to wince at the pain in his hips.
Lotte and her crew pile back into their truck. They roll their cans of Solo and Coke and Red Bull over their foreheads and necks before thundering back onto the road.
Party
Where are Jacob and Ethan? Taz asked.
Working the bar. Where we’re supposed to be? Fern replied. But instead, I’m forced to run an extra-curricular dance rehearsal with you.
Taz let her move his arm into the correct position for the start of the chorus. Even though she was looking at his arm, Taz focused his eyes on hers. On her lips? He sensed Fern pretending not to notice as something quickened between them.
You’re a really good teacher, he said.
Fern laughed. Obviously not. We wouldn’t be here if I was. Delinquent.
This was the basis of his communication with Fern. Since they couldn’t say outright that they liked each other, they fell back on playful teasing. A subliminal hint that they felt something, without having to name what it was.
Are you nervous about your speech?
Taz thought for a moment. Not really. Kinda excited, actually. I want Mum to know how thankful I am before I leave.
He saw Fern deflate as she sat down on the step and readjusted her puka shell necklace. It had left a faint red mark around her throat. Taz stayed standing, fidgeting with the pink cocktail umbrella in his drink.
Taz had been hesitant to talk about leaving. He knew that doing so made it real for everyone else, somehow scarier for them than for him. He had always felt deep down that he was the glue. He lay awake some nights worrying about what would happen to the group when he was gone. He didn’t want them to drift tectonically away from one another.
So you’re really gonna do it, hey? Fern asked.
Yep.
Aren’t you scared?
Of what?
I dunno. Everything? How big it seems? How you’ll make money?
I either make money here or I make money there, what’s the difference? He opened the cocktail umbrella, held it over his head and glanced at the sky. Can’t always be saving for a rainy day, Fern, or you’ll never enjoy the sun.
Fern laughed. How can you be so wise and good at rugby, she said.
So why not make money there? he continued. I won’t be paying rent. I’ll work in a bar until I finish my hang-gliding training.
You’re really gonna do that?
Fuck yeah. And do you have any idea how many bars there are in Sydney?
No.
Well, me neither. But there are heaps more than here. There’s heaps more of everything.
Well, you haven’t exactly proven yourself a committed barman tonight, have you? Fern pointed through the house to the bar in the backyard. I wouldn’t hire you.
What are you gonna do? Taz asked.
You know I’m gonna work in the salon.
Yeah. And then? Taz felt this escape his mouth more harshly than he meant it.
Well, I reckon I want to own a salon one day. I wanna own something that’s mine.
That’s awesome. You know … There was a flicker, a pause. Someone in the backyard let out a shriek of laughter. There are heaps of beauty salons in Sydney.
Fern shifted her weight. Leant in. What do you mean?
And my aunt’s granny flat has a double bed.
The space between them became syrupy. They heard the chatter of the people at the party, but it all felt miles away. He inched his face closer to Fern’s, until he could smell the punch on her breath. And then, a moment later, he could taste it. Her lips warm like rum, her tongue sweet and cool as pineapple.
A gentle kiss earned through years of yearning for it. He felt Fern’s hand on the back of his head, strong, keeping him there, as though if the kiss were to dissipate, then so would everything else. Taz had opened a door and asked her in. An invitation to begin, gingerly, to intertwine their futures.
Part Three: Evening Shift
The radio in Pat’s hands burbles on, but she is no longer listening to the information that it broadcasts. Her sweaty uniform sticks to her skin, and the sensation drifts her back to her bed that morning, when it felt like the rain had pushed through from her dream and into her sheets. Her dream was a mere fragment. She was somewhere she didn’t know – how strange to dream of a country she’s never visited. It felt like Asia, or some imagined Asia. A helicopter rumbled across the sky. Rain was falling heavy into the sea, a never-ending curtain of water churning up the entire ocean. An unfamiliar tune was playing from the depths – a call to prayer, perhaps? She couldn’t say. Pat was in a tiny boat and saw, off in the distance, a man with golden skin, wearing bright orange boardshorts and paddling past on a mahogany raft. The grey water and the grey sky merged into one to show him flying on a horizonless expanse. And then a whale, supersized, bigger than a whale could ever be, a mythical thing with its mouth gaped as wide as a canyon, pushed up into the air and devoured the man in a second before splashing back down into the water. The breach was so enormous that it sent water surging into her dwarfed and unsteady boat. She used her hands to scoop out the water, frantically, to stop her boat from sinking. But it didn’t work. The boat kept sinking as she uselessly tossed water into the ocean until at last she woke up, exhausted.
Pat comes back into the moment and sees three sets of eyes on her, their faces all of a sudden like those of ten-year-olds. Nobody is speaking, so she says the only thing that makes sense to her right now.
Who’s hungry?
Of course no-one is, but they all nod and follow Pat to the counter, birds in a nest at the edge of a cliff, waiting to be fed. Pat shuffles around, preparing to make four cheeseburgers. Every crew member rostered on to work today has not turned up. Perhaps there are messages waiting in the ether, variations of can’t come in to be read another time. The conditions outside seem to be flinging around an unpredictable cloak of darkness – reception and wi-fi are appearing and disappearing at random.
Pat builds the levels of the burgers, using the rhythm to build her strength for what’s to come. Bun, sauce, onion, pickles, cheese, beef, bun. Repeat. Bun, sauce, onion, pickles, cheese, beef, bun. Repeat. She doesn’t wrap them (what’s the point?) and hands them straight to the others. The four of them are dotted around the counter as they eat their burgers.
Pat observes her unlikely companions, all chewing and downcast. Fern, slightly off to the side, taking out her pickle. Ethan, pickling in his shame and not even eating at all, and Jacob, half his burger already gone, eyeing off Ethan’s and Fern’s in case they don’t finish them. Pat’s protective instincts, which for the last two years have been solely trained on herself, begin to murmur and cautiously turn their focus outwards, understanding deep down that they are being called upon to do something but not yet knowing exactly what.
She tries to set a plan in motion. Right, Pat says. I want you to try and call your parents and tell them where you are and that you’re safe.
But we’re not, says Jacob.
Well, right now we are, mate. So that’s what you’re gonna tell ’em.
Ethan chimes in. But my parents are on the other side of the school. Does that mean we can’t get to each other?
Not sure, darl. Right now nobody can get anywhere, it looks like. Let’s just call them and find out any info, hey? The more we know the better.
They fan out. Ethan takes one booth; Fern and Jacob take another. They fish out their phones. Pat goes to her handbag and rifles through it to find hers. She flips open its cover. There is just enough reception for a few messages to appear from employees, as she’d suspected. It’s only once she has read them that she realises she doesn’t have anyone to call. So she calls Lotte. No answer. Of course there isn’t, she thinks. Lotte’s busy out there.
* * *
Ethan pulls out his phone. One bar. There is the missed call from earlier, and a new voicemail that came through two minutes ago. His mum’s voice cuts in and out, forcing its way through the bad connection. She sounds half like she’s reading out the steps in a recipe and half in prayer:
Darling. It’s Mum. Where are you? … Have you heard the order? It’s shelter in place. So that’s … and so should you, okay? Find somewhere safe and we’ll … when all of this has blown over. We’ll be fine.
There’s a long pause, during which he waits for an I love you that doesn’t come. Maybe he couldn’t hear it through the dodgy reception. He tries to call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail.
* * *
Over in the other booth, the unspoken agreement is that Fern should be the one to call. She clacks her fingers on the screen, each clack making her feel even more stupid that she had Nikki from work do her nails specially for last night. Jacob’s knee bounces next to hers, and she’s surprised how hard her brother is willing the call to go through.
Voicemail. Angie’s fluttery voice sounds almost deranged in the seriousness of the situation. Classic Angie: tipsy on their birthdays, sleeping until noon on Christmas morning, flirting with their school principal, never matching herself to a moment.
Angie here. Sorry I’ve missed you. Leave a message and I’ll call you back. Much love. Have a beautiful day!
Fern leaves a breathless voicemail, a floating message in a bottle. Who knows when or where it will be received. A voice from the present, instantly recorded and turned into a voice from the past, to be heard sometime in the future perhaps.
Mum. Hi. Um … we’re in – me and Jacob – we’re in Maccas. Pat is here. But they’re saying we can’t leave? What does that mean? She almost waits a beat for a response. I hope you’re okay.
* * *
Jacob has the impulse to take the phone and say something to his mother for the first time in a year, but he’s too late. Fern has ended the call.
His sister reaches over to rest her hand on his. Jacob allows it to happen, but only briefly. He slowly pulls his hand out from under hers and fishes out his vape, his grown-up chemical pacifier. He recalls what Fern said about him: is it true that his life is utterly devoid of commitment? He takes a long hit. The smoke makes Fern cough.
The two of them sit in their booth: Fern, searching for a back to be carried upon; Jacob, the unlicked cub. One leaning towards connection like it’s a fire giving warmth; the other running madly away in fear.
* * *
Righto, says Pat, her voice shaky yet loud. Let’s work. Fern, honey, you’re with me in here. Boys, I need you to go outside. There’s a hose round the back and a tap in the carpark. Attach it up and spray water onto the roof, the windows, anywhere you can reach. Got it?
Everyone nods fearfully. Pat throws two tea towels to Ethan and Jacob.
For masks, if you need them. Promise you’ll come back in at the first sight of any trouble, you hear? Use that RFS training, mate.
She sees Jacob’s confusion – he must be wondering how she knows about the training – as he walks out with Ethan, two young men conscripted and unprepared.
As Fern awaits instruction, Pat looks into her eyes and sees that they’re full. Two brown dams about to break under a blue eyeshadow sky. She reaches out and pulls Fern’s body into a hug, trying to squeeze a little bit of might into her. Poor Fern, she thinks. Planted in the wrong garden, like a gerbera ill-equipped against the wind – a life grown sideways as she seeks out the warmth of the sun.
Fern, honey. I need you to be tough now, alright?
Fern’s mouth is still squished against Pat’s uniform as she replies, Okay. I can do that.
Pat can tell she’s play-acting, but it’s enough for now. She releases Fern, and they both foolishly clap their hands together. A moment of punctuation as if to say: And now, action.
We need to grab any towels we can find, Pat says. Tea towels, aprons, that kind of thing, okay?
What for?
We’re gonna run them under the tap and pop them in any gaps, the side door, the drive-thru window, front doors, hang them up against some of the windows.
Okay.
Off they go on a strange impromptu quest, hunting for scraps of material. Fern collects towels, and Pat searches the storage cage and takes some of the spare uniforms. The radio chatters away, as though commentating on their action. People marooned in their homes are calling up and broadcasting their fear.
Pat and Fern meet at the sink, and they soak everything they’ve found in the cool water from the tap. Pat has taken the paper towels from the toilets to bolster their supply, and they place wet handfuls of the paper onto aprons, shirts, tea towels. They roll the fabric around the wet paper to form makeshift door snakes.
Fern walks over to the radio and turns it off.
We’ll need that on, I think, says Pat.
I just can’t. It’s too triggering.
