The Good Daughter Page 5

  ‘Really?’ Kathleen said, that one word imbued with suspicion as we faced off.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let her get to me.’

  ‘It’s Shelley you need to apologise to,’ Kathleen said, as she marched past the staring waiters. I was nodding and looking at the ground as I trailed behind her.

  We found Shelley in the toilets dabbing her face with a wet paper towel. ‘Are you okay?’ Kathleen asked, putting her arm around her.

  ‘I’m fine,’ Shelley gasped. ‘Things at home are getting to me.’ She jammed her asthma puffer into her open mouth.

  I restrained myself from dry retching. Kathleen hugged her. I wanted to scream in frustration. She always bought Shelley’s stories hook, line and sinker. I mean, grow up. Shit happens. Deal with it and shut up.

  ‘Listen Shelley—’ I had to swallow as the apology choked in my throat. ‘I’m sorry about before,’ I finally managed.

  ‘Thanks.’ Shelley turned back to Kathleen. ‘It’s getting worse at home.’

  I wanted to strangle the cow. I apologised and all she had to say was thanks. What about her freaking apology to me? She was mean to me first. Kathleen glanced at me. I arranged my face to show appropriate concern.

  ‘What’s going on at home?’ I asked. Now Kathleen couldn’t say I wasn’t being friendly to the skank.

  ‘Dad says he wants me to go and live with my Mum,’ Shelley said.

  ‘Let’s talk about it.’ Kathleen ushered Shelley to the door. I needed to go to the toilet but if I didn’t go with them Kathleen would have another reason to be pissed off. ‘Are you sure he really means that?’ Kathleen asked when we were back at the table.

  Shelley wiped her face. ‘Since Alana’s been there, he’s been saying it more and more.’

  Her father’s girlfriend had moved in a few months before and things had been bumpy ever since. Shelley’s dad was spending a lot of time with his girlfriend’s daughter and Shelley felt left out.

  ‘Maybe he’s under stress from the changes,’ Kathleen said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Shelley said. ‘But I can’t go back to Mum’s.’

  Every second weekend Shelley and her sister stayed over at one of their parents together. ‘Why not?’ I asked.

  ‘When I stayed at Mum’s last weekend, her boyfriend walked in on me having a shower and tried to touch my boobs,’ Shelley said.

  ‘Tell your dad,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t.’ Shelley twisted a tissue between her hands. ‘Then he wouldn’t let me visit Mum again.’

  ‘Everything will be okay.’ Kathleen hugged Shelley as she sobbed. ‘You have to tell your dad about what happened.’ Shelley shook her head. ‘What about your sister?’ Kathleen asked. ‘He could try it on her too.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Shelley insisted. ‘She’s only ten.’

  ‘She’ll be a teenager soon and then what will happen?’ Kathleen said.

  Shelley’s mouth fell open like she was catching flies. ‘I know, I know. You’re right,’ she said. ‘I have to talk to Dad. I’ll do it tonight.’

  ‘Good.’ Kathleen hugged her again.

  ‘Thanks Kathleen,’ Shelley said. ‘You’re my best friend.’

  There it was again. She was having a dig at me. I glanced at Kathleen, but as usual she was oblivious. Why did she always notice when I had a go at Shelley, but never when it was the other way around?

  ‘Anyway, I’d better get going.’ Shelley stood. ‘I only dropped by to say hello to Sammie.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I felt off-centre. If I’d known she was only staying for coffee I wouldn’t have let her get to me.

  ‘I’m glad to hear things are going well at your new school,’ Shelley said.

  Kathleen looked at Shelley all dewy-eyed. I couldn’t believe she was buying into this. Shelley hated me as much as I hated her.

  ‘I hope things get better at home,’ I finally got out, almost choking on my own hypocrisy.

  ‘Thanks,’ Shelley said. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

  After Shelley left, Kathleen lifted her cup and sipped, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  Kathleen shrugged.

  ‘Did you get my SMS last Saturday?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘My brother tossed my phone into the toilet.’ Kathleen’s younger brother and sister were always destroying her stuff. I should have known there was a reason like that for her not to reply.

  ‘I’m sorry I told Shelley,’ I said. ‘But she started it.’

  ‘You promised,’ Kathleen said flatly.

  I bit my lip. She was really pissed off. When Kathleen was hysterical and loud, she blew off steam and was over it. It was when she was calm and cold that you had to worry. This was her grudge-keeping mode.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kathleen,’ I said. Sucking up might soothe her.

  ‘You’re always sorry, Sammie.’

  ‘Shelley didn’t apologise to me,’ I said.

  ‘What for? You were the bitch.’

  ‘So was she. While you were away wiping your skirt she put me down big time.’

  Kathleen shook her head. I could tell she didn’t believe me. As usual she cast Shelley in the role of the victim and I was the villain.

  ‘Anyway, it’s better that she knows sooner rather than later. Aren’t you getting her hopes up?’

  Kathleen gazed at me questioningly.

  ‘Love forever, your best friend Shelley,’ I read out from her birthday card. ‘Kathleen, you’re my best friend, not hers.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  My eyes smarted. It was true. Kathleen wanted to dump me.

  wog makeover

  ‘I mean I’m not just your best friend,’ Kathleen jumped in when she saw my face. ‘I’m Shelley’s best friend, too.’

  ‘But you can’t be,’ I blurted.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You can only have one best friend. That’s why they’re the best.’

  ‘Grow up, Sammie,’ Kathleen said.

  ‘But we promised each other.’

  We made the vow at the end of Year 6. Kathleen was supposed to go to a private Catholic school, while I was enrolled in a public school. We feared we would be split up forever and promised each other we’d be best friends for life, no matter what. Then her dad’s concreting business ran into trouble and her parents couldn’t afford the private school fees, so we ended up at the same high school.

  ‘We’re not in primary school any more. We can have more than one friend,’ Kathleen said.

  ‘So you can break promises, but I can’t.’

  Kathleen sighed. I tried making conversation but she kept replying in monosyllables.

  ‘Do you want to go to an op-shop?’ I asked finally.

  ‘I better go check how Shelley’s doing.’ Kathleen stood.

  ‘But we were supposed to spend the day together.’ I winced at how whiny my voice sounded.

  ‘I’m not in the mood today.’ Kathleen packed her things into her handbag. ‘We’ll get together another time.’

  ‘I probably won’t have the chance again. Mum expects me to go to Bosnian school on Saturdays.’ I wanted her to stay with me. I desperately needed to talk to her about the changes in my life.

  ‘Since when has your mum made you do anything?’ Kathleen asked.

  I knew she didn’t believe me. She only knew Mum as the cool Mum who let me do whatever I wanted. She didn’t know the Born-Again-Muslim Mum.

  ‘See you later.’ Kathleen gave me a brisk hug and kiss, the kind you give to an acquaintance you feel obliged to touch.

  ‘See ya,’ I said, my voice husky. A tear crept down my cheek, but Kathleen didn’t look at me when she said goodbye. As she walked off I wanted to shout for her to stop, to talk to me, to be my best friend again, but I wasn’t sure she’d listen. I’d pushed her too far and I didn’t know if she’d ever come back to me.

  Instead of going home, I went window-shopping by myself. I dawdled at th
e usual shops Kathleen and I liked, but it wasn’t the same. Usually Kathleen and I critiqued each other’s fashion choices and tried on awful outfits to get a rise out of each other. The day would fly by so fast I wouldn’t notice the time.

  A woman walked past, her bright-red hair glinting in the sun. It was Frankie, Mum’s best friend. I ran after her. As she glanced at a shop window, however, I saw from her profile that it wasn’t Frankie. But it gave me the idea to go and see her. I always liked talking to Frankie. I could get to her in house in ten minutes by tram. She lived two streets from us when Mum and I lived in Thornbury with Dave. I rang her on my mobile, but her phone was busy.

  Frankie also lived around the corner from Kathleen. I hesitated as the tram pulled up. If Kathleen saw me, she’d think I was stalking her. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to visit Frankie? But I really needed to talk to someone. Stuff it. I got on the tram.

  Walking up Clarendon Street I was struck again by the differences between Thornbury and St Albans. In Thornbury the houses were narrow and jammed next to each other, the majority semi-detached. There were hardly any front or back yards. A lot of houses had chairs on the front porch where people sat and chatted to passers-by. The streets were narrow and full of cars because there wasn’t any off-street parking.

  In St Albans the houses were on huge blocks. There was distance between neighbours. The streets were bare, the cars parked in driveways and garages. You only saw your neighbours if they walked past your house or worked in their front yard. All the social activities took place in the backyard, away from next-door eyes.

  I was nervous as I knocked on the door. I hadn’t seen Frankie since we moved. She and Mum saw each other at least once a week and talked on the phone often, but I didn’t know when Mum had last spoken to her.

  ‘There you are—’ Frankie opened the door with a smile. Seeing me on her doorstop she stopped mid-sentence and her face creased in consternation. I was clearly not who she was expecting. ‘Is your mum with you?’ She scanned the street.

  ‘No, it’s just me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Frankie held the door.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I was an idiot. ‘I should have called first, but I was in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ She reached for me. ‘You’re always welcome, Sammie.’ She gave me a big hug. ‘Sit down. I have to make a phone call.’

  I walked to the living room at the back of the house. Frankie was a perpetual student who worked part-time at a pub. She’d been renting this house for five years and all the furniture was second-hand.

  Frankie and Mum had met in a doctor’s surgery when I was little, and their friendship had grown over the years. She’d been like an aunt to me and, before Mum met Dave, I used to stay with Frankie when Mum was in hospital. Even though my real aunt, Zehra, offered to take me in, I preferred Frankie’s because it meant I stayed at the same school. Plus she was cool to live with.

  She went to the bedroom with the phone and closed the door, but the windows to the living room and bedroom were open and I heard her. ‘You’ll have to come by later. Sammie is here…I don’t know, I’ll call you when she’s gone.’

  I shifted on the sofa. I’d stuffed up her plans. ‘I can’t stay long,’ I said, when she emerged from the bedroom.

  ‘Stay as long as you like,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ve got nothing on.’ Frankie went to the kitchen and made us coffee. She passed me a cup before sitting on the sofa opposite. ‘What’s new?’

  I told her about the past few months. As I talked, my limbs loosened. I hadn’t realised how stressed I was.

  ‘Of course it’s difficult getting along with your grandfather,’ Frankie said, after I complained about Dido. ‘Just because you share the same DNA doesn’t mean you will instantly like each other. You have to develop a relationship.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell Mum,’ I said. ‘She expects me to be the perfect grand-daughter and accept everything about him, when he wants to change everything about me.’

  ‘She has a lot of guilt about not being there for him over the years,’ Frankie said. ‘She’s over-compensating. Give her time and she’ll calm down.’

  When Frankie glanced at the clock I saw I’d been gas-bagging for over an hour. ‘I better get going.’ As she led me down the hall, I knew I’d overstayed my welcome. ‘I’ll tell Mum to give you a call,’ I said.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Frankie said. ‘I know she’s busy.’ She kissed me on the cheek. ‘See you soon, Sammie.’ She closed the flyscreen behind me. Before I reached the footpath I heard her on the phone.

  Despite her being distracted, it was still a relief to have talked to Frankie. She had made me realise that I shouldn’t feel guilty about not liking my grandfather. We were strangers and suddenly we were living under the same roof and were supposed to act like best mates.

  I caught the tram from Thornbury to Flinders Street Station and then a St Albans train. Once we’d left the inner city at Footscray station, the view out the train window got bleaker. Grey industrial buildings rose across the landscape, signposts of the future in factories that awaited the youth of the western suburbs.

  Last week, I read an article in the local paper, the St Albans News, about how fewer than half of high school graduates would go on to tertiary education, and most of those were vocational apprenticeships and training courses. The majority would get a trade or go on unemployment benefits. It was different from my old school where most students didn’t contemplate anything other than studying at university.

  The woman sitting opposite me thought I was looking at her. ‘Going home from work, dearie?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I met up with a friend.’

  ‘I’m going home after a day out away from the neighbours,’ she said.

  I nodded. I hated it when strangers talked to me on public transport. Usually I’d be reading or listening to my iShuffle, but today I didn’t feel like reading and I’d left my music at home.

  ‘Bloody Greeks are chasing me out of my house so they can move in more of their family.’

  I eyed the train door, wondering if I had the guts to make a run for the next carriage.

  ‘They’re cursing me.’ She looked around to see if anyone was watching us. ‘They put an evil white feather on my front lawn. Bloody wogs,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘This is my stop.’ I bolted for the door. We’d pulled into Sunshine station, three stops before mine, so I ran two train carriages down and re-entered the train.

  As I found a seat, I couldn’t get the conversation out of my head. That woman would never have confided in Kathleen. Kathleen’s dusky skin and dark eyes and hair from her Italian heritage marked her as non-Anglo. With my blonde hair and green eyes, people thought I was Anglo. I called myself Sammie and never thought about my parents being Bosnian, but now it was different. I was out of a club I thought I was a shoo-in for.

  When I got home there were boxes strewn across the living room floor. Mum was amongst the packaging. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  Mum slashed open another box. ‘I went shopping.’ She pulled out a gold-coloured metal telephone stand with glass shelves. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Nice.’ I squinted as the light bounced off the gold.

  ‘I got a matching coffee table and lamp tables.’ Mum arranged the telephone table.

  She moved our old coffee table halfway into the kitchen. We only bought it a few months ago when we moved out of Dave’s house.

  ‘What’s wrong with our old furniture?’ She was usually such a tight-arse and only bought me clothes once a year. I got two pairs of shoes: one for summer, one for winter.

  ‘Nothing.’ Mum wiped her forehead. ‘I thought it was time for a change.’

  ‘Where’s our TV cabinet?’ It had been replaced with a monstrosity that took up the whole wall.

  ‘Dido thought it was tatty so we put it on the lawn and someone took it away.’

  I wanted to swear. I loved that TV cupboard. I was the one who found it a
t a garage sale. It was made of dark wood and was ready for the tip. But Dave sanded it back and repaired the shelves and Mum and I painted it. It was our creation and one of my great memories of our past life.

  Mum was changing the house to look more like other Bosnian homes. All Bosnians had the same decor: the L-shaped sofa, the glass-covered coffee table with the knitted tablecloth underneath, a wall unit for the TV, and a matching shelving unit that had glass doors, where you kept drinking glasses and fildjani, the Bosnian version of special china you rarely use.

  When we lived with Dave we collected all our furniture from op-shops and garage sales. It was funky and grungy. Now there were knitted doilies on every surface and Mum had already filled the big new TV cabinet with glasses and knickknacks.

  ‘I’ll be giving those bits and pieces to Safet.’ Mum pointed to the old coffee table and lamp table.

  I should have known her sudden loosening of the purse strings had something to do with Safet. She didn’t fart these days without his permission.

  ‘There’s something for you in the kitchen,’ Mum said.

  ‘You bought me a TV!’ I shouted when I saw it on the kitchen counter.

  ‘Technically it’s for Dido.’ Mum stood behind me. ‘He and Edin can play chess and watch TV here, and leave the living room for you.’

  ‘Why can’t I have my own TV?’ I asked.

  ‘Because I can’t afford a television in each room. If you don’t want it, I can return it,’ Mum said.

  ‘No, no,’ I said hurriedly. ‘It’s great.’

  Dido came in and his face darkened when he saw the new furniture and TV. ‘Where did you get the money from, Bahra?’

  ‘Credit card.’ Mum squeezed the box she was holding.

  ‘You can’t afford a credit card!’ Dido shouted. ‘Give it to me.’ He held out his hand.

  Mum snapped open her purse and handed him the card.

  He rushed to the kitchen and banged drawers until he found the scissors. ‘I paid off the mortgage by selling my house in Bosnia and now you want to make us homeless!’ He cut the credit card and threw it in the bin. ‘No more spending,’ he growled.