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Three

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Lemon Anise: a tart sorbet with a hint of liquorice, sure to set the tastebuds alight.

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34 Axillary Drive. To Grandma Germ and I, it’s also known as ‘home’. Home, in case you were wondering, is a red run-down, hundred-year-old cottage with a garden that resembles an over-grown forest. The roof – rusted corrugated iron – consists of both red and (formerly) cream sections and the chimney, while still useable, has more than its fair share of missing bricks.

The worn path leading to the screen-less door used to be gravel, I think, but it’s now given way to the dusty red soil beneath it. The back yard isn’t a whole lot better, although the garden is actually vaguely recognisable as a place for purposely placed plants, compared than the front yard where there’s only a couple of gigantic shrubs that crowd the house.

Grandma Germ’s of the opinion that it doesn’t need to be pretty, as long as it’s functional. And she’s put all her effort into making sure that it is practical – there’s the verandah for smoking, the grass for tipping ash on to and the flower bed in the garden with the vegetables, even though the only things that eat them are caterpillars.

All in all, the exterior of our shack is stereotypical of something you’d find in one of those towns where everything in it – including the residents – are at least a hundred. My section of town is, according to Grandma Germ, ‘rich with history’ and that we should be honoured to live here, instead of, say, the newer 60’s styles houses that litter most of the town.

Grandma Germ, whilst being particularly ignorant of most things that go on in our area, is an unflagging supporter of ‘local patriotism’. Over the years I’ve figured out that her definition of the words aren’t really all that literal; it’s more of an idea. She likes to claim she’s involved with the town, but ever since she called Bud Langley’s wife a middle-aged whore her application to go on the town council’s been rejected. (She claims she said no such thing, that he’s an old fool who wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between his arse and his face, but it’s painfully obvious she insinuated it nonetheless. She’s always been jealous of Dorothy Langley’s perm.)

She’s tried the Great Yalla Fair Committee (that was back when the town could be bothered), the Agricultural Representation Board (she’s never farmed in her life) and the Rotary Club (I quote, “They’re all a bunch of old codgers who sit around and complain about the old days. I, for one, like the fucking heaters!”). For some reason or other, she’s never really been suited to them.

And sometimes, like today, I can see why.

“Nikita!”

The thing about Grandma Germ’s bellow is that it is positively repulsive to listen to. Nails on a blackboard, Michael Jackson’s face, having an aneurism – anything, absolutely anything is better than hearing that sound.

The one encouraging thing I have to say about it is that in all my (almost) seventeen years, I have never come across a single person whose voice could raise even a decibel higher. In fact, it’s so far-ranging that if she chose I’m sure she’d be able to sing the opening anthem for a footy game and she wouldn’t need a microphone. It’s just that… unique.

“Nikita! When I’m calling you, answer me, girl.” Grandma Germ’s found my hiding place – an admittedly poor decision on my behalf. I thought outside and behind the door was extraordinarily sly, but Tripod’s incessant mewing at my feet probably hasn’t helped my case, either.

“I was just cleaning the cobwebs,” I lie smoothly. Well, I was, except then I decided that rather than killing the poor spider, I’d let Tripod play with it first.

“Whatever.” Grandma Germ waves a hand indifferently. “Clean up the living room. Eloisa’s coming to pay a visit.” It amuses me no end that she’ll willingly speak like ‘a modern day yobbo’ but then she adds in some proper wording to make herself sound intelligent. It sort of comes out as more of a clash of generations, but hey, it’s not like anybody’s ever been game enough to call her up on it.

“Mrs Florshiem?” The lady that’s a regular customer at the ice creamery. I suppose she tolerates Grandma Germ well enough only because they’ll both sit there happily bitching about someone all day, but she’s never come to our house yet. I’m a bit vague on the details, but something about our house resembling a vagrant’s hostel, I think. “What does she want?”

Grandma Germ squints an eye suspiciously in any given general direction. “Too early to tell,” she mutters grimly, “but as soon as she asks me for it, I’ll be sure to give her a piece of my mind.”

Well. That clears things up a whole lot. Grandma Germ’s drawn the battle line already, despite the fact she doesn’t know what the battle’s about or who’s in it.

“Good luck,” I say, making my way back inside so I don’t have to hear numerous complaints about the enemy or tentatively formed combat plans. That’s what Grandma Germ’s like – as soon as she finds herself in a situation that she’s not liking, wham! Out comes the Attack Plan. She never has an Escape Plan, though, because she’s all for ‘fighting not fleeing’.

Yeah, whatever. In the end she’ll only end up beaten by someone who happens to be better at ‘fighting’ than her, but who I am to argue with a scary old lady? She’s practically alienated half the town already, why not the other half?

Actually, that’s not true. Everybody talks to her, although most of them – particularly the old men, whose reasons I don’t want to think about – are visibly intimidated by her. If we weren’t a democracy, she could take this town by storm, proclaim herself Queen, and still nobody would argue against it.

Her position on the frozen social tundra of Yalladandah’s old people hasn’t discouraged her from attempting to do anything and everything (and possibly anyone, although that’s still not confirmed). In spite of her failed attempts at being involved with Committees, she’s taken up lawn bowls (hit some poor guy so that he won’t be reproducing any time soon, if he had even been able to before), joined a ‘ladies’ book club’ (never read any of the books) and enthusiastically volunteered to coach my under eights netball team (she decided to retitle us as ‘full forward’ ‘ruck’ and ‘half forward’).

Mrs Florshiem has been there for almost every step of the way, subtly discouraging her from joining anything else. So it’s kind of a surprise to hear that she’s actually willing to grace us with her presence. Not that I’m jumping for joy, or anything, because I can already tell how it’s going to turn out. She’ll be patronising and Grandma Germ will get hostile, ‘accidentally’ drop something on her foot and encourage her to leave and visit the doctor. Sometimes the old people in our town are way too predictable.

“Nikita! Stop dallying and make yourself useful!” The woman has x-ray vision, I swear.

I bend down to pick up some of the bottles and take out them out to the recycling bin on the curb. It’s – not surprisingly – full, and I know to some of the residents on our street it’s just a representation of the sort of woman that Grandma Germ is.

I’ve heard the rumours. Alcoholic. Is it even possible to become dependant on wine? I will concede, however, that a few of her friends are less than savoury. Those are the ones that will drink themselves into oblivion no matter the occasion – including my tenth birthday party – and have no qualms about leaving their mess behind.

At least we’ve never had to pay for it, I suppose. They just like to leave the bottles as parting presents. And they’re nice people; I’m not saying that they’re not, it’s just that sometimes I can see so many similarities between them and Grandma Germ that it scares me. In less than five years time most of them will be dead. I know because they’ve told me; emphysema, liver poisoning, lung cancer… they’ve got it all. So how long until Grandma Germ contracts all of those?

The clank of the bottles startles me out of my reverie. It’s dead quiet out in the street. We’re fairly far away from the main road, the highway, where people go through on their way to Casino or the coast, and it’s not like the back streets of Yalladandah are exactly buzzing with activity.

I’m about to go inside when I get a feeling. You know those weird sensations where the hair on the back of your neck stands up? I turn around listlessly – expecting a creepy black cat, or something of the sort – only to see, on the opposite side of the street and a few doors down, a figure standing in the middle of their immaculate green lawn.

It’s not so far away as that I can’t make out the details. The hair that sticks out at all angles, along with the fact that they’re wearing what looks to be an infinite amount of layers – despite the fact that it’s fairly warm – alludes as to who it is. Grayson Clarke evidently finds the sight of me taking out the trash fascinating.

He waves an arm, but I roll my eyes – even though he clearly can’t see them at this distance – and shift to move back inside. The week has been bad enough without him stalking me now, as well.

Okay, that’s a lie. I really haven’t seen him since Monday afternoon when we walked home, mostly in silence. The four days after that he disappeared off the face of the earth, and I can’t say I exactly missed him, either. Oh, I know he was at school – the sudden disappearance of Sweeney Ellis was proof enough of that – but he’d missed home-room every day, and when he did come to philosophy he’d sit over the other side of the classroom, next to some boy I’d never spoken a word to in my life.

It hasn’t exactly bothered me; I’ve just sort of taken heart in the fact that he’s already given up ‘trying to get to know me’. God knows he’s trying to get to know every other kid in the school – he must have already befriended half of Yalladandah High’s population.

He waves an arm again, so that I can’t pretend to have missed it, and begins to walk over. Fifty metres, forty metres, thirty metres… Too late to run, so I do the next best thing: give him a polite, indifferent smile and turn to leave. I’m a few seconds too late, though, because he has time to catch my arm.

“Hey.”

I subtly try to free myself from his hold, but if his slight turning of his lips is any indication, he’s noticed. “Hi,” I manage. Really, this would be an opportune moment for Grandma Germ to yell for me.

“Where have you been lately?” He asks, taking in the sight of everything from our dilapidated house to my dishevelled appearance – I’m still in my pyjamas, which consist of a much-too long pair of grey tracksuit pants and a slightly too-tight green t-shirt.

“At school,” I reply dully. “In the same classes and the same places I was on Monday.” I can’t resist adding that bit in, even if it’s a little spiteful. What does he take me for? An imbecile?

“Right.” This could quite possible go on record for most awkward and forced conversation I’ve ever been forced to partake in. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

I simply stare at him. Does he actually think I care? I’m quite satisfied living the apathetic and solitary life I lead, thank you very much. In spite of that, all I manage to utter is, “For what?”

He raises an eyebrow. If he’s not careful I’m going to have the overwhelming urge to shave it off. “I just figured that you seemed like you wanted to be left alone,” he says finally, ignoring my comment. He doesn’t even seem perturbed to admit it, just faces me off calmly.

Uh huh. “So why talk to me now?” I enquire mildly. I can hear Grandma Germ shuffling around inside the house, although she’s evidently not looking for me or we would have heard about it by now.

His gaze moves to the cottage. “You’ve had enough time to get used to the fact that I’m here, haven’t you?” It’s more of a rhetorical question than anything, but nonetheless my mind immediately drifts back to the long afternoons of trailing behind him on the way home, too stolid to either move past him or walk with him.

I’m saved from trying to come up with something to say, because Grandma Germ has a rare well-timed moment and yells for me to come inside; Eloisa should be arriving any minute. I turn back to Gray, my mouth open to say something appropriately regretful, but before I can Grandma Germ barges outside dementedly.

“Nikita! I’ve been-” She catches sight of Gray and slows right down. “Who’s your friend, then?” The only friend she’s ever met is Mardi, and I hardly ever invite her over because, as bratty as it sounds, I don’t really feel comfortable having people over here. Thus resulting in her opinion that I’ve been ostracised by the general youth of Yalladandah and that I have no friends, which could explain her almost deliriously happy expression right now.

I don’t even get a chance to open my mouth before Gray’s off and running. “Hi, I’m Grayson Clarke, I just moved here last week. You must be Nikita’s grandmother.” He produces a hand and she shakes it, beaming over to me.

“A nice, firm grip. I like that. You can call me Germ,” she answers, but Gray doesn’t even blink an eye. I mean honestly, if someone told you to call them a germ you’d be a little bit hesitant, wouldn’t you? “Nikita and I were just about to have afternoon tea. Would you like to join us?”

I stare at Gray, shaking my head and mouthing ‘No’ over Grandma Germ’s shoulder. He sees me, I know he does, because his grin gets even wider as he turns to Grandma Germ and answers graciously, “Sure, I’d like that.”

-

“Why did you move here?” Mrs Florshiem loves a good scandal. And in her mind, the only reasons to move are an illicit pregnancy, an arrest or someone who’s under witness protection. I don’t think anything conventional such as a job placement or a change of scenery has ever really occurred to her.

Gray blinks, obviously wondering who the hell she is and why she’s bothering to talk to him. “Uh… My mother wanted a change, something different from the suburbs to raise us kids.” He shifts subtly, but any idiot can see it’s a clear indication that a person does not want to be there. The look on his face alone is priceless enough.

“Oh.” Mrs Florshiem’s face is full of mock sympathy. “It’s a little late for her to be having more children, isn’t it?”

I can’t believe the gall of her. Judging from the position of Gray’s eyebrows – way up into his hairline – he can’t, either. And I’m sure if Grandma Germ had heard that, she’d have a can dropped on her toe faster than you can say ‘alcoholic’.

She comes back into the room with four cups of tea and a plate of biscuits, and I take one gratefully. I was denied lunch because Grandma Germ didn’t want ‘the house to get messy’, despite the fact that the mice keep it clean, anyway.

“You know, dear, you really don’t need that,” Mrs Florshiem says in a kind voice. “You’re big enough as it is.”

My face burns but I nonetheless take a bite out of it, sadistically enjoying the way Mrs Florshiem sits back in slight shock. She turns her attention back to Gray instead. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear your answer?” She knows as well as I do that he hasn’t bothered to reply.

“My siblings,” he says clearly, placing emphasis on the word, “are five, seven and nine. My mother only got married ten years ago.”

The outrage in Mrs Florshiem’s scoff lets me know that I’m not the only one who heard the hidden meaning behind his words. I smirk behind my hand at the way her cheeks go pink and she places a hand to her forehead, as if she might faint dead away. Even Grandma Germ is snickering out-right.

“But yeah, my step-father and my mum wanted to raise the kids out of the city, so that’s why we’re here. You don’t mind, do you?” If it were anybody else other than Mrs Florshiem, I would have snorted at the question. Who the hell asks that, anyway? But seeing her so flustered brings me a smug kind of satisfaction.

Grandma Germ obviously enjoys it, too, because suddenly she’s in a much more acquiescent mood. She learns forward, “What was is you wanted to discuss, Eloisa?”

“Oh.” Poor Mrs Florshiem takes a moment to gather her wits. “I just wanted to offer you the position of chairperson of the new and improved Yalladandah and Surrounds Agricultural Festival,” she says graciously, as though she’s doing us a huge favour.

The only reason, though, that Eloisa Florshiem – self-appointed town coordinator – is offering the position to Grandma Germ is because nobody else wants the job. It’s as simple as that. It’s notorious for turning over next to nothing, despite the full dedication and hard work required to even put it together. It’s arguably the worst job to possibly get landed with, and now Grandma Germ’s got it.

That was why the festival was shut down for years in the first place, because nobody wanted to head it. But naïve Mrs Florshiem concocted the ludicrous idea of staging it again, and after renaming it, has decided that this year’s festival will be the best yet. Her only obstacle, though, is to find someone who’s willing to organise it.

If Grandma Germ’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. Instead she asks blandly – through a mouthful of biscuit, nonetheless – if Mrs Florshiem’s sure that she’s the best woman for the job. “It’s a difficult task, after all, and I wouldn’t want your unflagging faith in me to be all for nothing, would I?” Manipulative is a word commonly associated with my grandmother.

“Oh, er, of course you are. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve asked.” Lie. I heard straight from the horse’s mouth that she couldn’t get anyone of her calibre to step up and take the reins. She even told me last week that she was desperate – although I don’t suppose she thinks that I remember that.

“Well,” Grandma Germ’s smile stays firmly in place, “in that case, I’d love to help out. In fact, Nikita and Grayson can be my associates.”

“But I-”

“I really don’t-” We both open our mouths to argue at the same time. Honestly, she can’t seriously expect us to partake in such debacles. It’s going to fall flat on its face, and for what? A hundred dollars that will go straight back to the cost of setting it up?

But Grandma Germ’s death glares, such as the one we’re on the receiving end of right now, are nothing to argue against. They can pierce through even the most stoic composures, and we’re left to mumble mutinously to ourselves.

“You will? Fantastic!” Mrs Florshiem exclaims, not bothering to hide her evident relief in finding a new lackey. “Now, I’d love to stay and chat, but I have people to see, things to do. I’m sure you understand.”

Grandma Germ nods unflinchingly. “Of course. Anyone in your position must have an unimaginable list of things to do.” It’s clearly a dig at her self-importance, but Mrs Florshiem doesn’t seem to notice. Instead she smiles tightly at Grandma Germ – she’s not hiding behind the pretence of liking her any longer – and pulls on her gloves.

“Thank you again, Germaine, for your…charitable hospitality. Your home is simply delightful.” I’m not the only one who notices her too-cheery tone and strong emphasis on the word.

Grandma Germ’s lips thin and she pointedly opens the door, letting the cold wind gush in right before Mrs Florshiem’s put on her coat. “I hope to see you again soon, Eloisa.”

“Oh, likewise,” Mrs Florshiem says, clasping the buttons and beating a hasty retreat to her superfluous new silver car, while the three of us stand at the door bearing forced grins.

“Thank god she’s gone,” Grandma Germ doesn’t labour under pretences either. “I was getting to my last nerve… now where’s that bottle of wine?” She moves into the kitchen.

“It’s under the sink, where you hid it last week because you got the sudden idea I wanted to start experimenting with alcohol,” I drawl over my shoulder, before following her into the same room with Gray trailing behind me.

“Why’d you volunteer us for the stupid parade?” I demand heatedly. “I-”

“Festival.”

“What?” I turn to Gray, who’s made himself comfortable at the kitchen table, still eating our biscuits. They tasted like shit to me – probably because they’ve been in the cupboard for the last couple of years – but he’s barely swallowing as he gulps one down after another. It’s kind of an impressive feat, really.

“It’s called the Yalladandah and Surrounds Agricultural Festival,” he supplies, before raising an eyebrow and smirking. “Would’ve thought you knew that.”

“I do,” I snap, now thoroughly stressed out. The idea of doing stuff… with people, no less, was giving me nausea. “I was making a point.” To Grandma Germ – who is watching our exchange with unbridled fascination – I add, “I don’t want to help out with your commitment.”

Grandma Germ shrugs, pouring herself a glass and offering one to Gray, who gracefully declines by holding up a piece of masticated biscuit. “We all have to do things we don’t want to, Nik.”

“Yeah, but you bent under Mrs Florshiem’s iron stare, not me. You shouldn’t have let her come over if you knew she was going to proposition you.”

“You make it sound so illicit,” Gray notes as he pours himself a glass of water over by the sink. He scratches at a bit of wallpaper and it falls of, leaving him to try and stick it back down with water.

I ignore him. “It’s going to be a flop, you know that.”

Grandma Germ tilts her head to the side. “It most certainly won’t be, not when I’m in charge,” she barks, as if my lack of faith in her coordinating abilities has offended her. “Some optimism would be appreciated about now, young lady. Grayson! What are you doing?”

Gray jumps. “Your… er… wall fell off,” he concludes lamely, unable to come up with a suitably suave response. He produces the insulting piece of plaster and hands it to her.

She stares at it. “And what in god’s name am I supposed to do with it?”

“How about I take him home?” I intervene. When Grandma Germ’s annoyed – as she doubtlessly is now – it’s not really a good idea to appear incompetent, or she’ll tear your head off and feed it to the cat for making so much as a noise.

“I need another drink,” is all she says in response, and I take the opportunity to escape with Grayson in tow.

It’s gotten chilly outside and I can see Gray start shivering. “It’s not that cold,” I roll my eyes at him.

He glances sideways at me and grins slightly. “Compared to where I used to live, yeah, it is.”

“Where’d you used to live?” I ask curiously as we cross the street without bothering to look for oncoming traffic. I guess it’s one good thing about living in a town like mine, but one day I’ll be living in civilisation and I won’t think to look, so it’s a habit that’ll probably kill me eventually.

“Burleigh. The Gold Coast,” he explains patiently at my bemused look.

“And you moved here so your siblings could be brought up ‘in the countryside’?” I ask sardonically.

He chuckles aloud at that one. “Pretty much. They love it, though, except for Shalom. She’s the seven-year-old, and a bit feral. She’s had a hard time settling in.”

We’ve reached his house but he doesn’t move to go inside, instead plopping down onto the curb and looking up at me expectantly. I sit down along side him and wait for him to continue.

“She reminds me of you, actually.”

Well. That was random. The only thing I can think of to say is a feeble, “But I’m not exactly feral, in case you can’t tell.” Although apparently I was when I was a little kid, right after I moved here.

“Sure,” Gray concedes, plucking a strand of grass and twisting it in between his fingers. “But you’ve both got the whole ‘I’m not telling anybody anything’ sentiment going on.”

I give him a blank look.

“Okay, well you don’t volunteer information about yourselves. Or say anything at all, really.” It’s a subtle dig at my treatment of him and I bristle.

“What am I doing now, dickhead?”

Instead of getting offended or whatever, Gray just grins. “That’s better. Shalom’ll talk to me as well… only she’s not quite as verbally abusive. Maybe a bit more physical, though. And you’re both technically classed as midgets, although I’m pretty sure Shalom will grow, whereas I don’t think you will.”

“Well if she’s smart enough to bash you, I’m sure I’ll like her,” I say lightly, ignoring the defamatory comment.

“Yeah?” He grins, then turns towards the house and bellows, at a level that rivals Grandma Germ’s, “Shalom!”

There’s a two-second silence, where I hear the early crickets chirping and it’s all peaceful, until all hell breaks loose and the sound of footsteps thundering down a hallway reaches my ears. I turn to watch as a small girl with brassy pigtails in jeans and a pink top screeches to a halt in front of Gray. It’s only then that she notices me, and she instantly glares up at me.

“Who’re you?”

Right. Bold and to the point. Because that sounds a lot like me, Gray. Not. “I’m Nikita,” I tell her, glancing unsurely towards Grayson. I’ve never really been around kids, except for at work, and then all I have to do is hand them a cone and they’ll shut up.

“No,” she says slowly, “who are you?”

I’m at a loss as to what to say, but evidently Gray understands because he hastily turns to his sister and says vigorously, “O-kay. Stop right there, shall we? Shal, Nikita wanted to meet you because I told her that you guys are actually a lot alike.” He pulls her down to sit on his other side.

The little girl’s quiet for a moment, until she leans around Gray and asks, in all seriousness, “Do you like people?”

‘Do you like people?’ Not, ‘do you like talking to people?’ or ‘do you like being around people?’ Just a generalisation, and I’m not quite sure what to say.

“Uh,” I start, then decide to tell her the truth. Why not? “No,” I shrug honestly, and it’s obviously the answer she wants because her face lights up and she beams at me.

“Good,” she tells me firmly, as if that settles everything.

Gray opens his mouth to say something to me when another child appears at the door, this time a slightly older boy, and announces, “Grayson! Mum said that if you didn’t get your arse inside right now she was going to-”

“Okay, I’m coming!” Gray interrupts the boy’s faithfully delivered monologue, which obviously disappoints him because he sighs heavily and turns back around.

“Anyway, I’ll see you later, okay?”

I tune back in and realise that Gray’s staring at me, awaiting a response. “Oh, yeah, sure. Have fun with the punishment,” I smirk, and he grins, amused, before turning and following his brother’s footsteps.

I watch him go and get to my feet, prepared to leave, when I feel a tug at my top and look down to see Shalom, looking at me solemnly. “Just so you know,” she says, in a tone that belies her true age, “Gray never brings his girlfriends home. He must really like you.” Then a thought occurs to her and she tilts her head enthusiastically. “You’ll have to come over and play Barbies with me one day!”

Just like that, a change of attitude and she’s looking up at me hopefully. I don’t bother trying to explain anything – she’s seven, it’s unlikely she’ll get it – but instead glance back down resignedly. “Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I guess I’ll have to.”

-

NO TRESSPASSING

OFFENDERS WILL BE PROSECUTED

–And be made to strip

Sincerely, G.L. Allitt

Proprietor

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A/N: Wow. What a quick update. Especially seeing as I should really be doing an assignment that’s due in two days and I haven’t started. Also, my collab partner and I have a new story out on our account, Lumberjack Jim, called Gossip at the Thunderbox. It’s pretty much what the title suggests.