Too Close to Home

Too Close to Home by Georgia Blain Page B

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Authors: Georgia Blain
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arguments at night, silent meals, and then he was gone.
    â€˜I don’t want to talk about it,’ Freya’s mother had said, and she hadn’t. Ever.
    â€˜Do you miss your home?’ Freya had asked Darlene as they rounded the corner into Shane’s street.
    â€˜Kind of,’ she said. ‘I miss our animals.’
    She told Freya about the horses and the dogs, and her favourite, a pony called Minty, while Archie and Ellaran ahead, both of them climbing over the low cement wall that bordered the house.
    No one was home.
    â€˜Do you know where your dad went?’ Freya asked the kids as they stood in the overgrown front yard. She’d knocked on the security screen and called out, her voice echoing in the emptiness of the hall.
    Archie shrugged and picked up his bike from where it was lying in a clump of weeds. He took it out to the pavement and rode it down to the corner, only stopping when Freya yelled out at him not to go any further.
    â€˜I can get in,’ Darlene told her. ‘I know where there’s a window open.’
    Dropping his bike with a clatter at the front gate, Archie said that he wanted to climb in. He shimmied up the wall before Freya could stop him and moments later he was inside, there on the other side of the screen.
    â€˜Can’t open it,’ he grinned, rattling the door with one hand and wiping the snot from his nose with the other.
    â€˜I’ll leave your dad a note,’ Freya said, ‘and you’d better come back to my house.’
    Ella was thrilled. ‘They can stay and have dinner?’
    They could.
    She made them all spaghetti while they lay on the couch and watched TV.
    When they’d finished, Shane turned up. Apologetic, he explained that he’d just been having a beer next door.
    â€˜They’re bloody rascals. I told ’em not to go anywheres.’
    It had been no trouble, Freya reassured him, silent about the fact she’d been vaguely worried about where he was and when he’d come back.
    Later, as she sits in the kitchen with Matt, she tries to explain.
    â€˜We’re uncomfortable with each other,’ she begins cautiously.
    â€˜You don’t know each other.’
    She looks across at him. ‘He drinks a lot.’ She holds her hands up. ‘I know I’m being judgemental.’
    â€˜You’ve only seen him twice.’
    She is aware of that. ‘It’s complex. I’m judgemental when anyone drinks too much, I suppose. But with him it’s loaded. If he wasn’t black and went next door and got pissed and left his kids on their own, what would I think?’ She shrugs her shoulders. ‘I’d probably still be judgemental.’ She glances up at the ceiling and then affirms her statement. ‘I would be.’
    â€˜Maybe if he were affluent white middle class, and was drinking expensive wine, you wouldn’t.’
    â€˜I don’t know. But the point is, I am judgemental and then because of who he is, I try not to be because I don’t want to bring all those white middle-class judgements to the way I think of him.’
    Matt just looks at her.
    She smiles. ‘And then it’s made worse by the fact that he calls me the missus.’
    Matt clears his plate and puts it in the dishwasher.
    â€˜Did he always drink that much?’ she asks.
    â€˜When I knew him he did, but then we all did.’ He sits back down again. ‘I know he stops at times. He used to be an athlete.’
    She remembers his barrel chest. ‘I’m just trying to understand why we are the way we are with each other.’ She furrows her brow.
    It’s easy to espouse all the right principles, to talk about racism when she reads particular books to Ella, to rail against a political climate that uses immigrants as a political wedge, but to truly analyse her own heart in the face of reality is hard.
    â€˜If I can’t speak honestly to you, who can I talk to?’ She

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