Page 42 of The Side Road
She picked up her knitting and counted the stitches on her needle. This was her second attempt at making socks. She was using the pink wool that Mia had given Oliver. He could tell the stitches were tighter than a rusted bearing. Her tension was terrible. If this continued, the socks would be the size of a rabbit’s paw. With force and persistence, she knitted a few stitches. Then she nodded at the dusty wine bottles on the bench. ‘You going to drink all that wine?’
‘Eventually, yes.’
‘With the money you’ve saved on wine, we could get a rabbit.’
‘Your birthday is in November. If you do some extra chores, you could start saving.’
In seven months, she would be thirteen, a teenager. Where had the years gone? What delights were the next few years going to bring besides periods, boyfriends, bad fashion, mean friends, breasts, and pimples? Her hair was already problematic. She was also plump, a few kilos over a healthy weight for a girl her age. But she could drive a car and ride a bike. He felt relieved to have dealt with that so early. If only she could knit.
From across the table, she gave him a cross look. Chores were the blight of her life, and by default, they were also a misery for Oliver. He was adamant that she had to contribute. She hated housework and at times appeared to be simultaneously bored and lazy. This mystified him. He came from a family that had always worked hard.
On a cattle station, boredom was never a problem. Tash had the other kids to play with. She was sporty. She knew how to catch a football, wield a cricket bat, and shoot hoops. Exhausted, she would collapse into bed, sleep ten hours, and bounce back up in the morning.
Oliver knew how to take care of Tash when she was a toddler. Her whiny voice told him she was overtired and ready for bed. A sandwich would silence her hungry cry. A hug from him could fix a scraped knee. He could fix a glum mood with a ride on his shoulders. A tummy tickle stopped a tantrum, and a chocolate biscuit distracted her from just about any minor crisis. These days, he had no idea how to placate her sullen moods. The art of parenting his daughter was like a game of chess, one that he was losing. And he didn’t like to lose.
‘Is it okay if Mary comes over tomorrow?’ Tash asked. ‘She has to get out of the house. Her mother is not talking to her father because he’s threatened to take the family camping on the school holidays.’
‘Sure,’ Oliver said. ‘As long as you finish your chores.’
The following day,Oliver’s motorbikes and belongings arrived from the Kimberley. A removal company had carried the container to Perth, then on to Melbourne and via Sydney, it finally arrived in Eagle Nest. Travelling five thousand kilometres wasn’t the most direct route, but at short notice, it was the quickest.
Amongst his possessions were two toolboxes and three motorbikes. Oliver smiled. The bikes were like old friends. He owned a Triumph Tiger Cub. Not a fast bike, but a fun ride. It had a quiet, two-stroke, single-cylinder engine, and the frame was painted baby blue.
He still owned the old Postie bike, which he had ridden across the country in the ‘Postie Bike Challenge’ when he was sixteen. From Brisbane to Darwin, 4,000 kilometres on a tiny Honda CT110, dual-sport motorcycle. Mia was right. It was a big country. A charity ride, he had raised $20,000 for men’s mental health.
The last bike to come off the trailer was a Kawasaki H2 750 three-cylinder two-stroke from the 1970s. The original Widowmaker. In its day, it was the fastest thing on two wheels. Unnecessarily wild and hard to control, it was the bike Oliver learned to ride on. It was his dad’s bike.
A dozen helmets, leather jackets, and various pairs of riding boots had accompanied the bikes across the continent. He was happy with the familiar smells of oil, petrol, paint, and dust. The garage, waiting to be brought back to life.
Two days later, the new furniture he ordered arrived. A good night’s sleep followed.
13
AMELIA EARHART
Perchedon the top rung of a stepladder, Mia fixed balls of wool in a circle to the wall behind the shop counter. After checking her sphere was symmetrical, and the balls evenly spaced, she attached the hands of a clock in the centre.
After climbing down the ladder, she stepped back and examined the clock. Almost perfect. Ball number seven needed to be shifted a little to the left. Ball number three, a little to the right. However, she was happy with her decision to create a wall clock. The timepiece made the space feel more homely.
Once again Mia scaled the ladder. She adjusted the position of the wool and climbed back down again.
April joined her behind the counter. ‘The blue one’s not straight.’
April was right – number four was too far to the left. If she tried to fix it, the adjustments might never stop. It was easy to overcorrect: a little to the left, then a bit more to the right. Minor tweaks could go on forever. She would leave it for now.
Leaning against the Spectacle of Socks, Mia noticed Saige with a teenage boy. Sharing earbuds, they were listening to something – probably new music. She would give them a few minutes. It might be young love; she wasn’t going to stand in their way.
Eventually, Saige returned to work. The teenage boy continued to lean on the Spectacle of Socks’ display, where he scrolled through his phone. About seventeen, with messy brown hair that fell over his eyes, he wore loose jeans and a T-shirt printed with a vintage car design. A hoodie slipped off his shoulders.
‘Saige, who is that boy?’ Mia asked.
‘That’s Connor.’
‘Why is Connor here?’
‘He’s driving me home.’
Mia glanced at the wall clock. Saige’s shift finished at five. It was a two-hour wait.
