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Waving goodbye to my friends at the school gates, I followed Mum down the sidewalk along Kissing Point road to where she had parked the car. The jingle-jangle of her heavy set of keys was loud and rhythmic as she walked. I thought to myself that if she ever went missing we’d have no trouble tracking her down. I started to tread as lightly as possible, closed my eyes and tried following her by sound alone. Listening out for her bell as if she were a lost kitten
After about five seconds I opened my eyes to find myself a half step away from a local dog’s moment of glory, and after recoiling in horror I jumped over the awful mess and ran to catch up with Mum. She was already getting into the car, a silvery-grey Honda Civic dating back to the Stone Age, when optional extras apparently were not an option.
As I opened the passenger side door, she slid the seat forward so that I could get into the back. At age 7, I knew I had little to no bargaining power when it came to that front passenger seat. It was reserved exclusively for schoolbags, groceries, textbooks, and other more easily disposed of individuals. I stretched out on the back seat, enjoying the slight searing sensation as my thighs connected with the vinyl upholstery. When it became too much I rearranged myself, licking my palms and rubbing the saliva on my thighs to cool the burn.
We drove up the road, passing the school gates once more. I listened out in case anyone called my name, ready to wave and screech and giggle if they did. I heard nothing, but saw Jennifer and Kristen chasing each other while their mothers talked about whatever you talk about when you’re a lower middle class suburban housewife. Cooking? Cleaning? Jesus? Swingers parties? What was a swingers party anyway?
“Louise, what’s a swingers party?”
The question seemed innocent enough to me. I felt I had a right to know what things meant, and if I couldn’t learn it at school then it was up to Mum to tell me. She paused a lot and fumbled with her words as she explained, “It’s when a group of adults get together and have fun.” That sounded deadly boring, given what I knew about the ideas of fun in the adult world. Poetry meetings, book launches, documentaries and ABC news all seemed pretty dull compared with mutant turtles trained in the art of the ninja by a giant rat.
We stopped outside the shops just up the street from our house.
“I’ve got to get some milk.”
I got out of the car, hoping there might be some edible compensation for the extra stop on the way home on this sweltering hot day.
The Chinese Restaurant had put up a sign in the front window, proudly informing customers they were now MSG free. We walked briskly past the video store, a no-go zone after the owner invited Louise to see the ‘special’ section out back. I stuck my head inside the milk bar as we passed, and the slack jawed cook pretended to busy himself by moving an empty basket from one deep fryer to the other. After saying a quick hello to our hairdresser we entered Jim’s Mixed Business.
This was no simple convenience store; this was a true corner shop, the kind of which has all but vanished as this city has grown up and out. They stocked a bit of everything, to save locals the extra drive to the other side of town, and to be sure they never missed a chance to make a buck. It was like a really whittled down, independently owned version of a Woolworths, with about an eight of the floor space and only one register. At that register stood the shop’s main attendant and owner, Jim. He bid us hello as we walked in, and I followed Mum past a long row of shelves featuring various colorful bottles, to the back where the fridge was.
As she pondered over expiry dates, I pressed my cheek up against the glass, giving a little shiver and listening intently to the various whirs and shudders that came from the big glass cabinet. I imagined Jim closing up shop in the middle of summer, stripping down to his undies and cooling off between the dairy and soft drinks. Once mum was satisfied with her selection, we headed back up the aisle to the register.
Louise and Jim started talking, and I recognised it instantly as adult talk that would go on for at least five minutes. After several attempts to intercept by drawing attention to myself and how cute I was, I gave up and wandered off towards the ice cream freezer. I cast my eyes over the vast selection, being careful not to miss an option as I considered which one might best satisfy. Every kind and combination of fruit, chocolate, and cream was presented for my consideration, and I knew my skill in selecting the perfect iced treat was of the utmost importance.
“Mum, can I have an ice block?”
“No, we’ve got some at home, you can have one then.”
Traitor! Bitch! I was gutted. I didn’t let it show though. I hadn’t quite outgrown tantrums, and I possibly never will, but I knew that day that she was too engrossed in conversation to pay any attention to a sooky face or a whiney ‘pleeeaasseee mummy’. I turned away from the freezer, and then I saw it.
Hundreds of varieties of sugar wrapped in plastic. All the colours of the rainbow and a few the rainbows hadn’t thought of yet. The lolly section was a giant wall of contraband. Ice creams were one thing, but Mum refused to buy me candies that she believed would rot my teeth and make me hyperactive. There were a few bland exceptions, mostly lollies that she liked herself, but by now I was in no mood to compromise.
I studied each packet carefully, and as I did their colours and words spoke to me in such magical ways that I could virtually taste each individual flavour. My mouth watered and my taste buds reacted as though I was eating them all, one at a time. But the virtual taste test was no longer enough.
There was no chance of her buying me what I wanted, and no chance of me leaving without it. I knew I wasn’t supposed to take things without paying, but I figured if I got away with it there was no harm done. Jim could afford to lose one little lolly, and I was such a darling kid, surely if I was caught it would be easy enough to forgive and forget.
I considered my options, taking into account size, shape, and of course, flavour. I steered clear of boxes that would rattle, and loose wrappers that might make crumpling noises as I pocketed them. Anything over a dollar in value was out of the question, because surely that would be unforgivable. I took a quick sideways glance, and saw that Jim and my mother were still talking as the milk carton sat sweating on the counter. I reached forward and grabbed a thin little orange chew with a paper wrapping, closed my fist around it, and buried that fist as deep into my pocket as my school shorts would allow.
Adult talk finished and I waved goodbye to Jim, careful to use my non-thieving hand as we made our way back to the car. Mum let me in first and I got into the back once more, feeling a bit awkward sitting down with my hand still burrowed into my pocket. I must have looked it too, because as she closed the door, Mum paused, and looked at me through the window. I smiled back, all teeth and rosy cheeks. My dimple, revered by Grandmas all over the world, dared her to challenge my integrity. Despite my inquisitive nature, it had never occurred to me to ask her what ‘poker face’ meant.
“What’s in your hand?”
I presented the innocent hand for inspection, and gave her my cutest, “Nothing Mummy.”
“The other one, in your pocket.”
And that was it. I could’ve prolonged the investigation by leaving the candy in my pocket and showing her another empty hand, but we both knew what the next question would be. Looking away from her, I held out the stolen property. She didn’t say much, just opened the door, took the lolly and walked back into Jim’s. That crappy Honda Civic became my paddy wagon, as I waited for the arresting officer to haul my arse down to the cells.
The lecture came once she got back in the car and drove us home. I’m sure I was listening but can’t remember a word of what she said. I was ashamed, but more than that, I was angry at myself. Not only had I been caught, I had confessed, and done a terrible job of hiding the evidence.
