home.
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SKIN COLOUR CANNOT BE ignored.
As soon as Freya allows herself to realise this, she wants to deny it. Because it makes her sound like someone sheâs not. But itâs there, with all its history, part of the barrier between them. She knows sheâs been careful and polite the couple of times theyâve talked (but isnât she often this way with people she doesnât know?), and then he calls her the missus, and this is not who she is, although it seems to be how she behaves.
I am Freya, she wants to tell him, loud and clear. I am not the missus. I am just me.
He arrives to pick up the kids and he is pissed. She opens the door to him, tall, dishevelled, smelling of cigarettes and beer, his shirt open to reveal a barrel chest. Archie and Darlene come running up the hall. Archie leaps and Shane catches him, wheezing with the effort.
And then he turns serious. âHope you havenât been too much trouble.â He runs his hand through Darleneâs hair, and she giggles as she shakes her head. âGet your shoes and say thank you.â
Archie wants to go home barefoot. He sits on thefloor, arms folded, bottom lip sticking out in a parody of a pout as Shane tells him to get his shoes now, or heâll get a walloping.
Freya picks up his runners and hands them to Shane.
âDo you want to come in for a drink?â she offers, hoping heâll say no. Itâs late and she just wants to get Ella to bed. âMattâs not back yet,â she adds, knowing this will act as a disincentive to him staying.
âNah, thanks. Better get these two home and off to sleep.â
She feels like heâs saying this to pander to her white middle-class sensibilities, and she hates this: class and colour embedded in even the most mundane conversations.
As he turns to walk down the stairs, he stumbles slightly and she realises how pissed he is. They only live around the corner, but he shouldnât be driving. She says nothing.
She had walked the kids up there earlier, Darlene taking her hand and chatting the whole way.
âThatâs my favourite house,â she told Freya, pointing to the largest of the three new brick mansions on the rise of the hill. Four storeys high, the building took up most of the block of land. At the front was a small paved courtyard with a fountain in the centre. A white Pekingese yapped viciously from behind the fence.
Freya looked at Darlene and grinned. She remembered liking similar houses when she was a child, much to her motherâs horror. The house in which Freya had grown up had been modest. A brick and timber building, with large windows, it had been modern for its time, built to nestle into the bush that surrounded them. Insideit was open plan (a concept that was very new), with one large living, kitchen and eating area on the northern side, bordered by a corridor with their three bedrooms and a bathroom on the other side. She remembered her friends asking why they didnât have carpet (no one had bare boards and rugs then) and she hadnât known how to answer.
Her father had designed the house in consultation with an architect friend. A history professor, he had been to a conference in Denmark and had stayed with a colleague who lived in a place that was similar to the one he wanted built for his family. Heâd brought home photos, showing them the house, describing it as a work of art, a new way of living. As he flipped through the pile, Freya caught a glimpse of one that he tried to hide; a beautiful long-legged woman lying on cowhide, legs kicked up behind her as she gazed into the camera and ate a strawberry.
It wasnât really the house that Freyaâs father had fallen in love with, it was the woman who owned it. Maybe he knew that all along, maybe he didnât. In any event, it became very clear to him and to his family some months after they moved into their newly completed home. There were letters discovered,
Â
SKIN COLOUR CANNOT BE ignored.
As soon as Freya allows herself to realise this, she wants to deny it. Because it makes her sound like someone sheâs not. But itâs there, with all its history, part of the barrier between them. She knows sheâs been careful and polite the couple of times theyâve talked (but isnât she often this way with people she doesnât know?), and then he calls her the missus, and this is not who she is, although it seems to be how she behaves.
I am Freya, she wants to tell him, loud and clear. I am not the missus. I am just me.
He arrives to pick up the kids and he is pissed. She opens the door to him, tall, dishevelled, smelling of cigarettes and beer, his shirt open to reveal a barrel chest. Archie and Darlene come running up the hall. Archie leaps and Shane catches him, wheezing with the effort.
And then he turns serious. âHope you havenât been too much trouble.â He runs his hand through Darleneâs hair, and she giggles as she shakes her head. âGet your shoes and say thank you.â
Archie wants to go home barefoot. He sits on thefloor, arms folded, bottom lip sticking out in a parody of a pout as Shane tells him to get his shoes now, or heâll get a walloping.
Freya picks up his runners and hands them to Shane.
âDo you want to come in for a drink?â she offers, hoping heâll say no. Itâs late and she just wants to get Ella to bed. âMattâs not back yet,â she adds, knowing this will act as a disincentive to him staying.
âNah, thanks. Better get these two home and off to sleep.â
She feels like heâs saying this to pander to her white middle-class sensibilities, and she hates this: class and colour embedded in even the most mundane conversations.
As he turns to walk down the stairs, he stumbles slightly and she realises how pissed he is. They only live around the corner, but he shouldnât be driving. She says nothing.
She had walked the kids up there earlier, Darlene taking her hand and chatting the whole way.
âThatâs my favourite house,â she told Freya, pointing to the largest of the three new brick mansions on the rise of the hill. Four storeys high, the building took up most of the block of land. At the front was a small paved courtyard with a fountain in the centre. A white Pekingese yapped viciously from behind the fence.
Freya looked at Darlene and grinned. She remembered liking similar houses when she was a child, much to her motherâs horror. The house in which Freya had grown up had been modest. A brick and timber building, with large windows, it had been modern for its time, built to nestle into the bush that surrounded them. Insideit was open plan (a concept that was very new), with one large living, kitchen and eating area on the northern side, bordered by a corridor with their three bedrooms and a bathroom on the other side. She remembered her friends asking why they didnât have carpet (no one had bare boards and rugs then) and she hadnât known how to answer.
Her father had designed the house in consultation with an architect friend. A history professor, he had been to a conference in Denmark and had stayed with a colleague who lived in a place that was similar to the one he wanted built for his family. Heâd brought home photos, showing them the house, describing it as a work of art, a new way of living. As he flipped through the pile, Freya caught a glimpse of one that he tried to hide; a beautiful long-legged woman lying on cowhide, legs kicked up behind her as she gazed into the camera and ate a strawberry.
It wasnât really the house that Freyaâs father had fallen in love with, it was the woman who owned it. Maybe he knew that all along, maybe he didnât. In any event, it became very clear to him and to his family some months after they moved into their newly completed home. There were letters discovered,
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