Snake by Kate Jennings Page B

budge. In her panic, she tugged at the necklace, pulling, twisting. At that moment, blood bubbled from her mother’s mouth, purple, not red, or so it seemed in the inky light.
    An idea detonated in Girlie’s mind: she had killed her mother, choked her. Girlie’s hands fell to her sides.

55
    Dawn Comes Slowly and
Changes Nothing
    I RENE WAS IN the hospital for three months. Whenever Girlie visited, her mother found fault, saying, ‘Get your hair out of your eyes,’ or ‘Straighten your shoulders.’ Girlie said nothing. Instead, she fingered the edge of the coverlet on the bed and took deep breaths of air cut with disinfectant.
    Rex didn’t fare any better. He would bring her whatever she had requested – books, magazines, chocolate biscuits, flowers from the garden – and then drift off to other patients to talk crops and the weather.
    Boy stayed away from the hospital. He was preoccupied. He had a steady girlfriend, and they were ‘doing it’ at every opportunity.

56
    Commonsense Cookery
    I RENE CAME HOME on crutches. Rex had prepared a nourishing soup for her in a large iron pot.
    â€˜Delicious,’ she said.
    The second time he served it, she asked what it was.
    â€˜Sheep’s head soup,’ he told her. His mother had made it in the Depression years. The recipe was simple: a sheep’s head, carrots and onions or whatever was at hand, seasoning, simmer for several days. The head had to be cleaned thoroughly, of course.
    Irene fumbled for her crutches, jerked across the kitchen to the stove, where she jabbed at the contents of the pot with a fork. The head hadn’t yet boiled to a skull; it had ears, skin, tufts of wool.
    Irene’s eyes swiveled, mad and enflamed.

57
    My Secret Love
    I KENE HAD INHERITED at least one of her father’s prejudices. She was always sounding off about the Catholic church, its large families, scheming clergy. Whenever they saw a church on a hill, Irene predicted it would be Catholic. She and the children then looked for the telltale signs of Catholicism – heavy wrought-iron door hinges, bricks the color of liver, an institutional air – and invariably found them. Just as invariably, Irene would remark, ‘Trust the Micks to grab the highest spot.’
    With this kind of practice, Girlie knew right away when Graham Trethewey joined her class that he was Catholic. Graham was a fleshy, downy, handsome boy, seventeen years old, ripe as a peach. He had been expelled from Riverview College in Sydney for taking a skiff and stealing provisions – booze, mainly – from pleasure boats. His parents had sent him to Girlie’s school to sit for the Leaving Certificate.
    Graham – Catholic, bad – exerted the same pull on Girlie as her mother’s books. And Graham quite liked Girlie. Actually, he didn’t differentiate among females: he was magnanimous in that respect. Plain or beautiful, smart or dumb, they were all potential conquests to him. If they didn’t oblige, he moved on, no hurt feelings.
    Graham discovered Girlie had access to her mother’s car, and they started going to movies together. Driving home, Graham would turn up the radio, take Girlie’s hand, place it on his crotch. Kathy Kirby was filling the airwaves that year, shouting about love and daffodils. Girlie didn’t want to displease him, so she sat there, sweaty, rigid, her arm and eardrums aching, enjoying none of it.
    One weekend they went to the river. Graham led Girlie along the bank, solicitously holding back branches to ease her passage. When they had gone a distance, Graham took a towel from the canvas satchel he was carrying and laid it on the ground, then gave Girlie a long, imploring look. Take pity on me! he signaled. His eyes traveled to the towel, in case she hadn’t caught his meaning. Girlie turned on her heel, backtracking through the scrub to the car, not waiting for Graham to catch up. She thought