Keep Her Sweet, page 2
Thankfully, the girls were so angry at each other that they didn’t mention the garage incident, nor the time Penny smacked Camille for stealing her sister’s favourite waistcoat then staining it with raspberry sauce then using green fairy liquid to completely destroy it almost as if on purpose. Penny wasn’t in trouble in family therapy at all, particularly after Camille said the F-word. Mrs Salisbury recoiled and coughed, and paused for an uncomfortable amount of time. She was very old fashioned – Mrs Salisbury. She then went on about the importance of siblings, that they are your only shared historians, the longest relationships you will ever have and should therefore be nurtured forever like her relationship with her beloved little sister, Rosie, even though she’s so far away…
Penny zoned out. She needed to call her big brother, James, it had been way too long. She imagined him and little Frankie wrestling on the gold lounge carpet in Coburg, everyone laughing and taking bets, but never on Frankie. Frankie was the youngest of the three boys (Penny’s mum stopped when she finally had a girl), and he always needled and whined and picked fights – just like Camille – even though he knew he would end up pinned down. It was like he always wanted to play the victim. Penny smiled as she recalled the rules of engagement for wrestling and other games in her childhood home. James wrote them on the wall of the treehouse one summer. She was so excited finally to be included in their big-boy adventures. The rules were thus:
No weapons.
No groins.
No nipples. (Penny’s idea.)
No heads.
Not on your birthday. (Frankie’s idea.)
It was Frankie’s twelfth birthday that day.
And James agreed … that this would be the rule ‘from tomorrow onwards’. Poor Frankie.
It made her smile, which was inappropriate, she realised, as the table came into focus once more. The therapist was talking about support and action and negative words. She finally ended by giving everyone tasks to complete before the next session, some the same, some tailored. Great, exactly what Penny needed. Homework. Most of which stomped on her needs, like giving up her studio/office so the girls could have some space. This house had seemed perfect for the two of them, a groovy creative oasis with a workspace for each of them off the oversized and underused hall. It simply did not work for four people. Fine. She’d get her homework done quick smart, she decided, because it would be a good idea to give the girls some space. She and Andeep could visit poor Frankie in Laverton, or even James in Balwyn. No, a mini-break would be better, for everyone. When Mrs Salisbury finally left the building, Penny raced up to the mezzanine and eyed a five-star cottage overlooking marsupials and a creek in Hall’s Gap. The girls would have the house to themselves for a couple of nights. To contribute – this was not an allocated task, by the way, the girls were not required by Mrs Salisbury to help in any way – to contribute, the girls could prepare the hall for the open house on Saturday and help with cocktails and receipts on the day. Such a good plan. Even if Penny only managed to sell the retro side-table, she would have covered the costs of this much-needed break. She had rescued the mid-century piece from a car-boot sale in Buninyong and was almost finished painting it gold. In fact $2,000 was stupid, she should be asking at least three. They could go after lunch. Before then she’d whip up a sexy black dress on the Singer. Hall’s Gap, yay. You never know, Andeep might find some new material.
CHAPTER THREE
The Second-Born
I’m sposed to write down why it happened, the netball injury, and I’m having difficulty finding the beginning. It’s just for me, so I know I can write anything, but it’s a hard question, why. Even harder is when. Not last week when we did chest passes in the courtyard. Way before then. For inspiration I’m scrolling through our family group chat. It’s illuminating; it’s like a complete history of the Moloney-Singhs. Mum set it up six years ago when Asha left for uni in Sydney. For a few years it was lovely. We were all doing fun things and posting positive messages and funny gifs. I was missing Asha like mad but was also loving being alone with Mum and Dad. She got her time with them when she was little. It was my turn, and I milked it. We started going out for brunch on Sundays. Mum and I got into upcycling furniture. Dad took me to The Comedy Lounge once a month, and we watched movies every night on Netflix. And Asha was enjoying Sydney. She had a nice boyfriend for a while. Maybe she would have passed her final year if he hadn’t ended it with her. That’s when Asha became a stranger, when she returned from Sydney feeling like a total failure. She was not used to being a failure. If only she hadn’t met that guy, if only she hadn’t moved to that house of weirdos in Sunshine, if only that crazy church hadn’t got hold of her. So many If Onlys. I am starting to think about Asha the way Mum talks about her little brother, Poor Frankie. Poor Asha.
Our group chat is called Nucular Family, which was kind of funny at the time but not now we’re cooped up in this bunker. I’m shocked, reading over it. There has been a huge change in all of us, mostly in the last two weeks, but I can tell it started deteriorating three years ago when I left Preston to live the student life. Mum and Dad were on their own for the first time in twenty-three years. For a while Mum posted family photos every day, at least two a day, and we all felt and said the right things like ‘aww’ and ‘ahh’ and ‘how cute are we’, but after a while Dad stopped responding and Mum stopped posting. There was a lull till lockdown happened, then we all chatted heaps. I was living in North Carlton, Asha was in Sunshine, Mum and Dad in Preston. We sent recipes and TV suggestions and jokes and photos and links to TikToks and pictures of food and of things we were growing in our gardens. That tailed off after six months or so. Chat was now for important information only, like birthday dinner ideas and information about Mum’s plan to semi-retire. She sent us links to crazy houses that they could buy outright: a houseboat on Lake Eildon, a converted tram plonked in a field near Seymour, a treehouse in Daylesford. (Guess it’s lucky we’re in this place and not on a houseboat – one or more of us would defo have drowned by now). Mum had itchy feet and was so excited. Dad didn’t respond to the new-house ideas much. In fact, I’m just realising that he stopped posting altogether a year ago. He didn’t even respond to our messages – not even a like or a love heart. Shit, he didn’t even read them. His wee photo doesn’t pop up at all. Not one time in twelve months. Can’t believe I never noticed that. He just skedaddled, unofficially. I guess if he left the group officially we’d all see it in writing and it’d look way bad: ‘Dad has left the Nucular Family.’
After Dad stopped reading, Mum stopped posting, except to put a love heart on every comment that Asha and I made. Just a heart, that was all. Looking at it now, it’s obvious that Dad and Mum had both left the group. I miss Mum. She used to make beautiful roast dinners on Sunday. She used to take me to get my nails done. She used to find things funny. Now she watches true crime all day and drinks too much wine and looks like she just wants us all to go away.
I don’t blame Mum and Dad for abandoning the family group chat, actually. Since Sunshine and lockdown, Asha had been sending prayers and hymns and links to church zooms. She was anti-vaccine too, till her boss gave her an ultimatum. She started spouting stuff about freedom that made the three of us very uncomfortable. Then there was the time I sent a message to Nucular Family that was intended for Mum only – something like: ‘Are you going to let Asha go on like that? Bonkers. You need to step up and tell her off.’ This sparked a separate thread between me and Asha that was not pretty and ended with us vowing never to discuss politics or religion again.
At that time, I set up a chat with Mum and Dad only, which I did not name and which we rarely used, not till I left uni and had to follow them here.
I wonder if other splinter groups formed at this time: did Asha set one up with Mum and Dad? Did Dad send messages just to Mum? Did Mum message Asha but not me?
No-one uses the family chat anymore. I messaged everyone to remind them about family therapy, but no-one messaged back. I think they’ve all muted it.
My stomach is sore. I wish I could put something on it, like Savlon or a bandage. Just gonna pop on a looser T-shirt, see if it works – hang on.
Sorry bout that.
So, when did it all start to go so wrong that I wound up with a broken nose? Last week? Three years ago? Or even earlier, like my eighth birthday? That’s what comes to mind as the beginning. Maybe just because of what’s going on with my stomach area. The loose top is not working. Gonna try a tight singlet then put a pillow on it.
That’s a bit better I think.
My eighth, so she was eleven. Dad had been away in Glasgow for months. Mum had been spending a lot of time in bed or in the garage. Asha was taking me to school and back, stuff like that. She used to pack me lovely lunches, surprises wrapped in cling wrap, like roast-beef sandwiches and slices of apple. And she organised and presided over my party, which was wonderful right to the end. I invited my five best friends, played innocent girl games like pass the parcel and remember the things on the tray. We danced and ate fairy bread and no-one cried, not even Sarah who was the most sensitive of my friends. I remember Asha propped Mum up on the sofa, and she acted all parental when the adults dropped off and collected their daughters.
Maybe Asha was really tired after the party. So much work. She’d even made me a chocolate cake, which was gorgeous even if it didn’t rise as much as she hoped it would. She got Mum to bed, and when she came back to the lounge she was different.
‘Truth or dare,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to play any more games,’ I said. I was tired too. And I was watching something I liked on the telly.
‘Oh go on, you start.’
‘Truth or dare,’ I said, still watching the telly.
She chose truth.
‘Have you got a boyfriend?’ I asked.
‘Not yet,’ she said, ‘but there’s a boy. Wes. I think about him all the time. He’s good at footy, I’ve watched but I don’t think he knows I have. Nice hair if he used wax or maybe gel on it. Quite tall already, he’ll go to six foot I reckon, his dad’s tall. I know he likes me because he told his mate Georgie, who told Beth from netball. Now your turn, truth or dare?’
I also chose truth.
‘Why do you hate your…’
(I can’t even write it down)
‘…belly button?’
The question made me sick. I didn’t know she knew it was a big deal, for a start. But mostly I didn’t want to talk about you know what. I didn’t answer her, and before I knew it she was sitting on me and pinning my arms down and lifting my party dress and squeezing toothpaste into my you know what.
I screamed. I couldn’t breathe.
When she finished she got off and headed to her room. ‘You need to grow up, Camille. It’s ridiculous, you’re eight now.’
I remember looking at my stomach area – there was toothpaste all the way in it, it was filled. The jaggy edge of the tube had scratched the inside of it and everywhere around.
I pulled my dress back down and put a pillow on top of my tummy and cried. I tried not to think about it – and after a few days, I almost managed.
Do you know what? I bet there’s still some toothpaste down there, but I will never check.
There’s a word for this kind of phobia, but I can’t remember what it is. If I Google it, pictures come up and scare me away. I don’t need to know the word for it anyway.
That’s incident no.1, I’d say, which led to incident no.2:
It was my twenty-first. One month ago. Asha was living in Sunshine and seemingly on top of the world – a city girl, with a job, flatmates she adored and vice versa – even some new guy she was crazy about. To celebrate, she organised an action-packed girl’s day out. She met me at Southern Cross Station and we hugged and giggled, so happy to see each other. We had brunch at Southbank, manicures in Collins Street and did some fabulous shopping in the Burke Street Mall (I got a white fluffy jumper, which I love). By late afternoon we were drinking cocktails on a roof in Lonsdale Street. And then tequila shots at a pub somewhere dodgy, can’t remember where. We were heavily pissed by the time she took me to a secret location for my actual present, which she was so excited about. We had to walk arm in arm to stay upright, and we were singing. She stopped in a side street filled with independent shops and handed me a small gift. I hugged her. She had already given me so much. When I opened it I was so drunkenly in love with her sisterly generosity. It was a jewellery box. How sweet.
I opened the box and pondered. One large, gold, hoop earring. Just one. I was about to remind her I don’t have my ears done when she looked at my tummy and then at the shop we were standing in front of. Piercings.
Inebriation and fear came over me. She saw it, held my hands: ‘You can do this, Cammy, you can do this. No more fear. I’ll sit with you.’ She took her flask out of her bag and said I should take a swig for courage, which I did. Which I fucking did, because I am an idiot and a fool.
Fifteen minutes later I exited that little shop with a piercing in my … Oh god, it is so hard writing this down. I don’t want to. It’s stupid writing things down. And this tight singlet is making it itch, I mustn’t touch, scratch, oh god oh god.
I’ve had it for a month – four weeks! I don’t know if it’s infected or what, because I don’t look at it. When I shower I only look up. I got used to doing this from the age of eight. Just let the water flow over it, and hope the toothpaste goes away.
Every time I think about taking it out I can’t breathe so I don’t think about that anymore. I just wear the right clothes and cover my tummy with a pillow or something if I can.
I’m going to change this top. It’s tight, it’s rubbing.
Yeah, I’d say that’s the crux of it. Why netball happened.
*
I’d been home several months when Asha gave me ‘the present’. It had been quiet and nice. Mum and Dad were cool to be around; they were wanting to be happy. Then a couple of weeks after my birthday Asha turned up with a tag on her ankle, and everything changed. We all tried to be positive to begin with, signing her ankle tag and drawing wee pictures on it. We all felt so sorry for Poor Asha, for whom everything appeared to have gone wrong. But pity and positivity were overshadowed by Asha’s anger and drinking, and by Mum’s depression and drinking, and by Dad’s constant absence even when he was present. If my thing is infected I reckon it happened the minute Asha walked in the door with that ankle tag on.
Camille Camille Camille Camille.
Sorry about that. Asha asked what I was writing that was making my face so slappable, so I upped the speed and intensity – I can write my name really fast, it’s the thing I’ve written the most I spose.
The therapist said this would help but it’s not. She’s like the Queen of England: bright red lipstick, pointless and nearly dead. She didn’t say what it might help with, and that’s because I don’t think The Queen knows anything.
You, Dear Diary, have been on my dresser since I was thirteen, stupid floral thing that you are. Asha pretended the tiny key must have gone missing when she was wrapping you – she went all manic making out like she was so upset; screaming that it must have got mixed up with the expensive dotty paper she bought at Northland and which I shouldn’t have torn because she was wanting to use it again for Anj McLean’s sixteenth birthday party. I knew then she stole the key. I didn’t try to find it, but I did keep you visible and accessible at all times and – as predicted – she has snooped regularly since. I know this because your first page is dog-eared and I haven’t opened you for eight years.
Mum eventually agreed that family therapy was a good idea after the netball injury. She’s always delegated to the professionals, and they have always backed her up, and that is exactly what happened. It took such courage to say what I said, finally out loud and in front of a non-Moloney-Singh, but no-one said a thing, not a thing. I rarely fight back with Asha and that’s why: because I never win. ‘I think we’re here because she broke my fucking nose,’ I said, and ‘fucking’ was all anyone heard even though swearing has always been an okay thing to do in this house. Not when The Queen of England is present, obvs, when she is present we have to pretend we all play polo.
I had to stop myself from bawling. I had to sit there and hold my shaking knees in place while The Queen set tasks that would help everyone but me, everyone but the girl with the broken nose.
Task no.1: move rooms, give ‘Poor Asha’ some space.
Task no.2: choose three family photos that depict happy times and bring them to next week’s session. (I am putting this off. I know it is going to get ugly. How, you wonder? Just you wait.)
Task no.3: is all about examining the ‘netball injury’ to ensure it does not happen again and I reckon I’ve nailed it – it all started when I was eight.
*
It is true that we were doing passes in the courtyard and that this was consensual, even though I have no interest in improving my passes. I gave up netball when I was twelve, having given it a year. Mum and Dad were ecstatic dancing at Hanging Rock so it was up to me to look after Asha. I decided to exercise her like the rabid dog she is. An alcoholic one too – in the two weeks since she was forced by the court to live here I have bought her seven goon sacks of dry red. She was running out, and I didn’t want to get her another one when she asked. She was already pretty drunk. She’d been messaging friends of Richard and had even made a fake Facebook profile, but she wasn’t getting anywhere – everyone she knew and cared about was avoiding her. Even the house-mates she apparently adored so much, and vice versa, had refused to have her on the tag at their address – none of them were replying to her messages. Some mates. All this made her drink directly from the goon sack and beg me to buy more and pray loudly for hours, and I was going crazy. I know I know – why didn’t I leave? Because she needed me. Because Mum and Dad asked me to look out for her. Also, why the fuck should I?
