Barry opened his eyes wide at her. ‘Hmm, let me see.’
Rosie wriggled with delight.
‘I know,’ he said slowly, deeply. ‘It has to be big so all the spiders can sleep there!’
‘You being silly, Gampa. There’s no spiders.’
‘Oh yes, there are.’ And in an even slower and lowered whisper, ‘They are big ones too. You can see their legs sticking out.’ He wiggled his nose. ‘See?’
This emergence of spiky, itching hairs protruding from his nostrils, observed since he had been on his break, was yet another irritation that fed Barry’s nagging unease about the progression of his age. He knew he should have snipped them back last night instead of defiantly refusing to accept their presence. Again.
Rosie began to fidget, tucking her head in and closing her eyes so she couldn’t be seen. Her grandfather wrapped his sturdy arms around her and stood up, shaking her gently. ‘And this giant spider’s going to take you to his web where he’s going to eat you all up!’
Rosie wriggled to get free as he lowered her to the ground. She scampered towards her mother who was drying the last of the pans and slotted herself between her mother’s legs for safety. The aroma of freshly baked bread wafted heavily in the air.
‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy. The spider’s going to eat me … what’s for dinner, Mummy?’
‘What’s Grandpa scaring you with now? He’s such a Silly Billy.’
‘Yes, Gampa’s a Silly Billy.’
Barry picked up the pink plastic scissors Rosie had been cutting coloured paper with earlier from the floor and cut out the article about Minnie Donovan, folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket. Back at the coalface tomorrow, where Rosie, with her child’s virtues would disappear completely from his mind. He settled himself on a red painted stool at the kitchen counter, breathing in the yeasty fragrance. Melinda was wiping her hands at the sink. Rosie was now ensconced in her high chair picking raisins, one at a time out of a packet and making patterns with them on the tray.
Melinda whispered something in Rosie’s ear. She stopped fiddling with her raisins and clapped her hands. ‘Happy birth day Gampa. You’re very old now and here is your book that I made with Mummy. It’s a surpise!’
Kant held the stapled stack of coloured papers, covered in scribbles and stickons. Of course, for Kant, the manuscript displayed the secret ingredients of eternal youth and happiness.
‘What a clever girl you are. Did you do this all by yourself?’
‘Yes. Mummy helped me.’
She returned to her raisins which had become scattered on the tray.
Melinda handed her father a bottle of Johnny Walker. ‘Happy birthday, Dad.’
‘Ooh, thanks sweetheart. I’ve run out of this particular medicine!’ He kissed his daughter on her cheek. ‘Very kind of you to spoil me.’
‘Gampa, Gampa, look at your book.’
Kant filed through the pages, commenting astutely on each and every mark, blob of colour, and scribble. On the front page was a self portrait of his granddaughter, a red Texta circle for the head with a single curved line smile that cut through the edges on both sides. There was no body but two long lines came out from the head, the ends of which contained two small circles. From these circles there were at least a dozen smaller lines, little fingers radiating enthusiastically outwards. She’d run out of room for legs, a mere detail.
‘This picture has to be the most optimistic statement of embracing life to its fullest I’ve ever seen,’ Barry enthused, kissing Rosie on the cheek.
‘Don’t be silly, Gampa, it’s Rosie!’
Melinda beamed as she lifted the last two tins of bread from the oven.
‘Smells nice, Mummy.’
‘Thank you, Poppet. It’s a new sour dough recipe I’m trying,’ she told her daughter informatively.
Rosie tilted her head in the way her mother did. ‘Mm.’
‘I can see a master chef in the making,’ Barry said.
Melinda looked at her father. ‘So, who have you got in your sights this season?’
‘Not sure I like your analogy. Vince just phoned in with an African refugee who has … ’ He lowered his voice a little, as if Rosie might understand, and continued, ‘ … a price on his head in Sudan. I’m seeing him tomorrow. There are others according to Vince. Other than that I hope I can ease into it gently. How’s that boyfriend of yours, what’s his name?’
‘You mean Mungo, Dad, you know … my partner!’ Melinda kissed her daughter on the top of her head. ‘I told you Grandpa’s a Silly Billy.’ Then poking her father lightly in the tummy she said, ‘You gave me away to him five years ago, if you remember, in that little ceremony with Mum on Shelly Beach.’
‘Really? Oh yes, that’s right … M u n g o.’ Barry spoke the word slowly with a pinch of friendly scorn, wishing Mungo was present to hear his retaliation. ‘How is the musical guru you support?’
Melinda smiled, again not reacting to her father’s taunt.
Actually, David Smith was Mungo’s real name. He had adopted the nickname whilst he was a student at the conservatorium of music. Obscurely, it was to do with his penchant for riding a bicycle back then, a few too many rough reds one evening with friends, some chatter about bands from the seven ties, in particular Mungo Jerry who sang the Pushbike Song, apparently. David latched onto it, liking the exotic musicality of the word thought it sounded like a Caribbean dance and also that it went hand in hand with the experimental nature of his endeavours.
‘For your information, Mister Skeptic, Mungo and the others have finished setting up the studio in town. The grant they got from the Arts Council helped pay for specialised digital recording equipment,’ Melinda said. ‘Then it was only a few hundred dollars to buy the computer software.’
‘I suppose a normal job teaching music or even playing jazz in a pub would be out of the question, you know, so he can contribute to my granddaughter’s wellbeing.’
‘He’s happy. And Rosie’s just fine.’
‘Yes, Gampa, Rosie’s just fine,’ Rosie chirped.
‘I don’t get it really. Why does he … ’
‘Dad, don’t start! There’s nothing to get. And anyway, since when did you become so narrow minded? You can sound so … out of touch sometimes!’
Several seconds of awkward silence stood between father and daughter.
‘Sorry Dad, I … ’
‘It’s okay. I know I’m just … Look, tell me about the music.’
Melinda took a breath. ‘He calls them sound sculptures. It’s cutting edge. Mungy couldn’t do it if he had to do a nine to five. I’m sure Mrs da Vinci didn’t nag Leonardo to get a real job selling pizzas instead of painting.’
‘You got me there.’ Barry smiled. ‘Maybe that’s why Mona Lisa has that supercilious grin.’
Melinda wiped another surface, allowing her discomfort to disperse. ‘Good one, Dad.’
‘Good one, Dad,’ Rosie echoed.
‘Mungy played me a demo the other day. It’s really fascinating stuff and it’s amazing how many dissonant sounds there are around us that we just take for granted. But if you don’t push the boundaries you’ll never achieve anything really great or worthwhile. You’ll just be floating with all the other debris in the current.’
‘Is