Snake by Kate Jennings

put the necklace in a paper bag and on the next trip to town gave it to Girlie, saying, ‘Take this to Nick. Tell him I can’t keep it.’
    Girlie walked along the main street of Progress in her box-pleated serge uniform, heavy school shoes, past the post office, the library, the bank. She stopped at the jeweler’s window to examine its array of fountain pens, lockets, identity bracelets, and friendship rings, covetousness rising in her. Catching sight of her reflection in the plate glass – forehead, nose, chin – she straightened her tie, pulled at her beret.
    At Fosseys, she eyed a display of mohair wool, flannel nightdresses, and girdles. Seeing the girdles prompted her to say the word ‘lingerie’ under her breath, practicing its pronunciation. For good measure, she followed it with ‘peignoir,’ ‘boutique,’ and ‘patio.’ Heaven forbid she mispronounce these words in her mother’s presence.
    As she walked, she thought about Irene and Nick, the gift and why it was being returned. She was confused, lost in the woods, the birds eating up the trail of crumbs she was dropping behind her. In the end, she came to only one conclusion: her father was diminished by the transaction.
    Nick was at the front desk.
    â€˜Here’s this. Mum says she can’t keep it.’ She handed him the paper bag, scrunched where she had been holding it.
    Nick opened the bag, grunted. Then he went back to ticking off a list of names. Girlie took her cue and left without saying another word.
    Once, while waiting for her mother and tiring of examining the photographs that lined the studio walls – it was said that if a girl were pregnant when she married, she was obligated to wear a pink underskirt – Girlie had gone exploring and come across the narrow room where Nick slept.
    He had furnished it simply: a single bed, a bureau, and a chair. And he had hung on the wall a reproduction of Vincent van Gogh’s painting of his bedroom at Arles, similarly monastic; Nick was a self-conscious man. It was this room of which Girlie thought as she walked back down the main street of Progress to the car where her mother was waiting.

53
    Is My Poem a Lion?
    â€˜J UST THE PERSON I want to see,’ said Nick, who was on a ladder fixing a light. Irene and Girlie had just come through the black curtains that separated the studio from the lobby. Girlie assumed that he meant Irene, but it became apparent it was herself when Nick scooted down the ladder and picked up a school magazine lying on a chair. He received a complimentary copy because he took the school photos once a year, lining the students up, class by class, team by team, and saying ‘cheese’ until his jaw ached. Heck of a way to earn a living, as he summed it up.
    Nick had marked a page in the school magazine. On the page was a poem by Girlie. It was titled ‘Grief.’
    â€˜Good grief, Girlie,’ he said, wagging the magazine in her face, laughing. When he calmed down, he said, ‘What do you know about grief? You’re only fifteen, for heaven’s sakes. Write about what you know!’
    This was good advice, but Girlie, afire with shame, couldn’t hear him. Nick proceeded to read the poem aloud, with great theatrical flourishes.
    Girlie darted at him, grabbed at the magazine.
    He held it above her reach and continued to read.
    â€˜Stop, Nick,’ said Irene. ‘Enough.’

54
    My Mother Has Grown to an
Enormous Height
    G IRLIE WAS WRITING an essay on the New Deal when Irene asked her if she wanted to go on an outing to the lake on the other side of Progress. It was Sunday, and Irene was at a loose end. The next day was a big one for her; she had been invited to a garden party at Government House in Canberra to meet the Queen. Freddie had arranged it.
    Irene and Girlie set off. Conversation was fitful. Irene remarked on how bad the caterpillars were that year: sacks of them hung