‘How old are you?’ he said.
My heart jumped. For the first time I realised that being a certain age could be a problem. It was the first time it came home that society had preconceived ideas about what people should be like according to their age. Kitty saw it to.
‘Eighteen,’ she said. I sat up instantly. In one way she’d read the situation right, but in another I knew we were in real strife if we started that. I just looked at her and said, ‘Tell the truth, Kitty.’
Kit had really sharp features and when she looked hard at you, you felt pierced. Now she turned her ice-blue eyes on me and it triggered something I’d never experienced; my face reddened and my eyes welled. A whole minute passed and then I saw her shoulders slump. ‘Fifteen,’ she said without averting her stare.
‘I’m nearly seventeen,’ I said as though it might help things; raise our collective age.
The cop rolled his eyes.
‘Christ almighty,’ he said. ‘You’re juvenile delinquents. I could have you institutionalised.’
I stared at the floor. We were in his hands now. But at least we told the truth; it was the only way. We’d been through the whole story just like I’ve done now. We’d told him how much we’d come to love old Milo and how we carried him to his grave. And in the end we simply signed off the paperwork and our mother was contacted. They took our photos and as we posed it suddenly occurred to me that our young age had actually worked in our favour.
Late in the day a man from Social Services drove us home. And there was our mother, still with the bed crammed into the little lounge thick with smoke. She said she was worried sick, that she thought we were dead, that she missed us, that things would be much better from now on.
Back in our room we slammed the door and laughed so hard the tears ran down our faces. I think it was just the relief of being away from the police, away from the whole idea of people trying to box us up in some way and throw away the key. Kitty tapped my planets poster on the wall but Haley didn’t come out. The next morning we were gone again.
A person breathes 370,000 cubic metres of air in a lifetime. At sixty-two I have a lot of cubic metres left, though some in here are way over their quota.
A good program on the ABC: Where to next? About the exploration and travel into space. In my view we’ve been getting ready for this for fifty years - we want to construct our own future world. Each day more and more synthetic stuff in our lives, not just the artificial products and plastics but the whole attitude to what we like and what’s best. A lot of people prefer to take a vitamin than eat an orange. A lot of people type an email rather than talk. A lot of people would sooner watch a documentary on TV than go to Africa. Me, I’d rather go to Africa. I still might.
So far 270 planets have been found in our galaxy. There are 50 billion galaxies visible with telescopes. We can therefore estimate that there are at least 100 billion galaxies. Each galaxy has billions of stars, let’s say at least 100 billion, on average. That means the total number of stars vastly exceeds ten thousand billion billion or in proper terms, ten sextillion. If there was only one planet orbiting every one millionth star - not a number of them like our own solar system - there must be a minimum of ten million billion planets. And if just one in a million can support life, there are more than ten billion life-supporting planets. And so far we have seen 270 planets in total. Like an infant knowing the world from the inside of its crib.
At least I’ve had a go at it; I have attempted a Theory of Everything. I’ve kept that stuck up my jumper since the day it was written - apart from the copies that were sent out, so far, to no avail. What’s wrong with the world? Doesn’t anyone want to know how it all came to be, how the universe works?
Still can’t get a handle on how I have ended up in this place. Lisa’s choice of course. Eden Aged Care Facility my arse, ‘house of the dying’ more like it. Before I came here I was quite happy at The Grace. Hardly ever saw the other tenants except on the way to the bathroom. I had a good room onto Very Street and I could always go to the lounge for a quiet drink and a game of pool - one of the few boarding houses to allow a bit of responsible alcohol. And cheaper than here! All very well while you have your health.
The good Matron Collier just stuck her large pro-boscis through my door, no doubt checking to see if I’m smoking. I enjoy the way they just march in. I wonder what she’d say if I came over to her house, walked right into her bedroom to check her socks and undies? I’ve only been here a few weeks but it’s obvious she’s no Mother Theresa. Hates her job, hates the people and runs this camp like the Gestapo. Messages over loud-speaker: Residents may NOT close their doors during daylight hours. Residents caught smoking in their rooms will be evicted. Residents caught washing their clothes in their hand basin will be evicted. They charge six dollars a time to take your clothes to the wash and then they are gone for a week. Never mind if you need a shirt or a clean pair of socks. Can’t afford to buy more on the Invalid Pension.
Invalid: Enfeebled or disabled by illness or injury. Verb, to invalid someone: Remove from active service, send away. Oxford p. 423 (also see invalidate).
A few of the others in here: Dooley the ex-publican. Don’t know his other name. Everyone calls him Dooley and it seems his great claim to fame is that he once owned a pub in Fitzroy. Won’t say which one - or can’t remember. Only lucid about 50 per cent of the time and then the only thing he talks about is his days at the hotel. A bit of a loudmouth, but harmless.
Joe. The closest thing to a skeleton other than death itself. I’m thin but this bloke takes it into a new realm. Walks OK, if painfully slow, but he’s bent double like a gerbera left in a dry vase. All he ever sees is the floral carpet, poor bugger. Must be at least eighty-five or ninety but still gets around. Don’t yet know what’s wrong with him.
Ivan Radish or Radisich? The one who stole my little table for me. He has a way of leaning in so close that you can hear his lips smacking. He wears bottle-neck glasses and I’m of the theory that he thinks he’s further away. Also Clem in a wheelchair, all ears and nose. Speaks in riddles but when he looks at you it’s clear he hears well enough. Look at his eyes and you can tell he’s not like all the other dementia inmates. I’d bet a fortnight’s pension he knows what people are saying. He tries to use his wheezy little voice and what comes out is hard to comprehend. Unfortunately all the carers treat him like the other senile ones, shove him in a corner facing the TV, lock up his wheels and there he stays until supper time.
Collier is the registered nurse. Then there’s Osborne, Stinson and Gillies who aren’t nurses but registered carers, by degrees all sharp and economical. I’m talking about their comments not their care. Can’t get too close to the dying I suppose. And in truth that’s exactly what I’ve got in here, the walking dead waiting for a heart attack, or die in their sleep. Or just fade away like an accidental stain on the carpet.
Just back from lunch - the muster in the dining room. Hilarious if it wasn’t so tragic. First, Joe was sitting in my spot and I asked him to move - only to learn he’d arrived at the table without his hearing aid. I’d have shouted in his ear except I didn’t want to get that close. I’m on a table with five others - some of the more ‘capable’ ones, all men. Keep the men and women separate.
This is lunch: Ivan stealing other people’s bread and also peaches from dessert bowls. Even speared a sausage off Dooley’s plate! Created quite an uproar. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ says Nurse Stinson. ‘You’ll get used to him.’ It was he who stole my little side table for me - now I can see it’s in his blood. The highlight of the meal? Watching old Clem trying to get his fork into a