Julie Lamb - Harriet and the Eye of the Bird

Julie Lamb 2019. Julie Lamb has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing with the purpose of private study, research, criticism, or review, as permitted under copyright laws, no part may be reproduced by any process, nor transmitted, nor translated without prior written permission from the copyright owners. Enquiries should be addressed to the publisher.

Edited by Anna Golden and Mary McCallum.

Typesetting and book design by Paul Stewart.

Cover illustration by Christina Irini Arathimos.

Cover design by Sarah Bolland.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

ISBN 978-0-9951197-0-3 (pbk); 978-0-9951197-6-5 (epub); 978-0-9951197-7-2 (mobi)

Ahoy!

An imprint of The Cuba Press

Box 9321, Wellington, Aotearoa New Zealand

to Abby

I was working on my school project about the moa, and fiddling with the fake nose ring Id made from the link of an old chain. Its what Id had to resort to, because no way was I allowed to get my nose pierced. Like, ever.

Claires violin was squawking upstairs, stopping and starting in a jerky way as she worked out a new piece, and I was trying to get my cover right. The moa was a funny sort of bird to draw. It was over two metres tall for a start, with a huge body, a long neck, a tiny head and no wings to fly with. Imagine that, being a bird and not able to fly.

For their project, Kate and Josie were writing that the moa became extinct because the Maori ate them. I reckon it was because they were so sad.

Anyway, I was sitting at the table working on my cover, my nose ring hurting a bit, wondering if Moa The E! True Hollywood Story would be a captivating title, and worrying because Dad hadnt come home last night.

Mum wasnt worried, she was fuming which, if you asked me, would make her feel bad if it turned out hed driven his car off a cliff, or banged his head and couldnt remember who he was.

Thats when the front door opened, and he snuck into the house.

He was still wearing his work shirt even though it was now Saturday, but it was all wrinkled and mussed up. He was mussed up too. His hair was sticking out funny and he hadnt shaved.

Of course, it was good that he wasnt hurt or lost, but it meant hed have some explaining to do. At least his timing was spot on: Mum had just taken a load of washing out to the clothesline.

Hiya, cookie, he said, and gave me a wink. He dropped his wallet and keys onto the table, then slipped into the bathroom and locked the door. I recognised the sickly scent left in his wake, like golden syrup, stale smoke and petrol fumes. Not totally disgusting but bad enough to make you wrinkle your nose a bit.

Mum must have been on high alert, because she came rushing in, clutching a flannel and two pegs.

Where is he? she said, charging into their empty bedroom and charging back out again. Thats when she heard the shower turn on and her eyes went dark like theyd sucked in all the light.

Hes not getting away with it, she said. Not this time. Which is exactly what Mrs Douglas said about Scott Marshall when he was caught smoking in the bushes at the end of the field.

Mum went back outside to finish hanging out the washing and Claire came downstairs.

So hes home, she said, poured herself a bowl of cornflakes and carried it back up.

I took my nose ring out and drew Moa a sad, beady eye.

Mum was waiting for Dad when he came out of the bathroom. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and his chest hair was damp and plastered down.

Not now, Cilla, he said, because youd have to be a bit simple not to see that Mum was livid.

Dont you not now me! she said, and all that sucked-in light came sparking out of her. Why dont you tell me instead where Claires music moneys gone?

This was news to me and I joined Mum in waiting for a reply, which must have felt like a gang-up to poor Dad, because he walked away without answering.

Mum followed him into their bedroom. I heard a drawer open and close as Dad got dressed.

Claires violin started up again.

Leave it, Cilla, Dad said. Ill sort it. Okay?

But Mum wasnt going to leave it, I couldve told him that.

Youve blown it, havent you? On one boozy night. I can not believe you. I cannot believe you.

Jesus, Cilla, he said.

When things didnt go right for him, Dad always said religious words like Jesus, godssake or hells teeth. Claire said it was blasphemous saying words like that. She said it would put Dad in hell when he died for sure. Claire was a bit over-the-top sometimes, but still.

Look, said Dad, Daves having a hard time at the moment. He just needed a

Do you think I give a fig what Dave needs? Mum said. Dave can go jump in the figgin lake for all I care.

According to Claire, words like fig and figgin wont put you in hell.

Dad came out of their bedroom and went to the kitchen. He flicked on the kettle and winked at me again, but his face was tight like hed washed it with soap.

Mum was right behind him. Shall I tell Claires music teacher we cant pay her this month?

Dad left the kitchen and went to the lounge it was really just one big room. He picked up the TV Guide and began flicking through.

Mum stood behind him, her eyes bright with tears. Or would you like to do the honours?

Give it a rest, Cilla. I told you Id sort it.

How? said Mum, her voice rising, just as Claires violin hit a dramatic spot. How? How? How?

Mum never shouted at us like that, just at Dad, and he hated it. He spun around, sweeping the lamp off the side table. It cracked open on the floor like a hollow egg. Giving the table a shove, he knocked that over too.

I gripped my pencil. Mum backed up, but only for a second.

She stepped around the table and pieces of broken lamp, and followed him back into their bedroom.

My heart was thudding as I slipped off my chair and slid along the wall until I could see in.

Dad was packing a bag, chucking in T-shirts, socks and undies. He took some clothes out of the wardrobe and threw them over his arm, hangers and all.

Claire and her stupid music lessons, I said from the door, and clicked my tongue. But no one heard me.

Thats right, said Mum. Run away! Oh look, dont forget this. She threw Dads backgammon trophy onto the bed next to him. He picked it up and hurled it at the wall.

My hands automatically went up to block my ears, but I still heard a dull thud. The trophy didnt break but the wall got dented.

Great! Mum said. Something else for me to fix.

Dad didnt say anything as he pushed past Mum. He must have known I was there, but he didnt look at me. He snatched his wallet and keys from the table and went to the door. A shirt fell off one of the hangers, but he didnt pick it up, and the door slammed shut behind him.

Car doors opened and closed. The engine started and Dad reversed down the driveway too fast. Out on the road a car tooted.

Mum forced a shaky smile onto her face and picked up his shirt. Hell be back, she said, folding it over her arm. Give him a day or two to cool off and hell be home with his tail between his legs.

I was sitting at my bedroom window, thinking how it would be pie, chips and movie night with no Dad, when there was a blur of black and a plunk against the glass. I raced down the stairs and out the front door.

I found him lying amongst the lavender and forget-me-nots. A blackbird. He didnt look broken, but he was definitely dead. I hoped it had been quick and he hadnt felt any pain. His little eye was open, but it wasnt a sad eye like I drew on Moa. It was a wise, knowing eye.