Ripples on a Pond by Joy Dettman Page B

certificate, disbelieving that a girl of seventeen could have had three kids. Georgie’s birthday in March, Margot’s soon after, then he’d had to wait forever for his cake with coloured icing and candles.
    His sisters.
    He remembered Ray; not the man, but the giant who had ridden a motorbike, had worn a giant leather jacket. He remembered a red racing trike, remembered riding it up and down a veranda – at Ray’s house. Remembered its wheel spinning in circles on the back of a dray the day they’d left that house to go home to Granny – who’d had lots of eggs and milk.
    That’s when his world had changed. No more sisters and Jenny; only Aunty Maggie and Grandpa and scary Aunty Lorna who had liked tripe and onions.
    â€˜Awful,’ he mouthed, then corrected: ‘Offal.’
    Margaret had cooked tripe and onions at Balwyn and he’d run outside and vomited in the garden. And tonight he knew why! Remembered the stink of it, the stink of milk burning, and Jenny scraping awful from her saucepan into a hole in her garden . . .
    Memories spilling, one on top of the other.
    â€˜Ashes to ashes,’ he whispered. ‘Dust to dust. If . . . if he buys . . . if he buys another liver, I think I’ll bust. We like macaroni and a rhubarb pie . . . so I’m sorry, Mrs Cow’s Liver, if we don’t cry,’ he recited louder, faster, as the words rushed back.
    How had he remembered that? He hadn’t known he’d remembered it. What else might come if he allowed it to come?
    Had spent too much time denying little Jimmy. He’d known Cara’s school and denied knowing it. Not tonight. He remembered Billy . . . Billy someone. He’d sat next to Billy at Armadale Primary when he’d been Jimmy King. He’d sat next to Michael in Balwyn when he’d been James Hooper. He’d liked Michael – because he’d had the same coloured hair as Georgie.
    â€˜Graham,’ he whispered. ‘Kevin, Alan.’
    Names, names, names. Left them all behind. Left them in Armadale, Balwyn, Cheltenham, Bendigo.
    Always moving. That’s what he remembered, always packing up to go, as Margaret and Bernard had attempted to escape Lorna. Moving from one school to the next, new names to learn, new faces, new teachers. After a time, they’d blended into the great blur of his life.
    Fingers pressed to closed and aching eyes, he attempted to see their faces. Nothing there, nothing clear, just shapes – like the photograph of his daddy with the big teeth, the tickle of Jenny’s hair when she’d kissed him goodnight.
    Was it her hair that had drawn him to Cara the night they’d danced in Ballarat, the night she’d fallen against him in the garden? Had he smelt the scent of an older love in her hair? He had loved Jenny once. He knew that. And she’d sold him like so much livestock.
    She hadn’t liked his grandfather. Didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. He’d liked his grandpa. Could still see him clearly, sitting in the sun on the Balwyn porch, looking out over the garden. Just another snapshot in the misty album of his early life.
    At sixteen, he would have gone back to Woody Creek had he known they were alive. Lorna had been living with them at Bendigo when he turned sixteen, and Margaret had given him a classy new racing bike for his birthday, a red bike of many gears. He’d ridden it far to escape Lorna. Could have ridden it to Woody Creek. Would have, had he known they were alive.
    â€˜Why did you lie to me, Mum?’ he asked his hand luggage.
    Margaret’s ashes offered no reply.
    Tired, wound up, too wound up to sleep. Should have gone for a walk. Should have shaken some of the tension from his bones once he’d got Bernard settled.
    He’d walked miles at Jenny’s side. Remembered walking with her one day when there were no trams, remembered riding on the back of a