Rhubarb by Craig Silvey

Author:Craig Silvey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fremantle Press
Published: 2021-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Warren is curled asleep on a comfortable Turkish rug. Lilian dozes beside him.

Above them, two possums scurry about preparing a lovepit with carfoam and roof insulation.

Ewan opens his front door to a dark hallway and relief. His bare feet shuffle inside. He turns, doesn’t know what to think. Eleanor waits at the door.

Can I lose your ewe quickly?

Sorry?

She flushes. Can I use your loo quickly.

Pause.

Okay, yeah. It’s down here. She steps in, takes his arm. He leads her down the hall, flicking switches.

The footsteps wake her guide dog, who bursts out of the room with confusion. He sniffs aggressively at Ewan’s shins, and the smear of congealed blood on his calf. He follows them to the toilet.

Okay, it’s just here.

Right, thanks. Warren! Bugger off will you?

Warren backs out of the toilet, eyebrows high.

Ewan moves towards the kitchen. Frowns at the damp tongueprints on his floor. Hisses as he sees the scattered debris around his bin. Looks at the dog, then hatefully to the ceiling, as though they’re watching.

He is warming up the espresso machine when she emerges.

Something stinks, she says.

Possums raided my bin again.

Well, you should feed them.

Feed them? They aren’t my pets, they’re my enemies.

So you do torture furry animals?

I’d like to.

You better not. Possums are nice. You know, in Aboriginal folklore, possums are seen as fateful creatures.

Really?

No. But it would be convenient if you thought so. Eleanor takes up Warren’s harness. Starts to move back towards the hallway, smiles. Well, Ewan, I think I’ve seen enough for one night.

He follows her out on to the verandah. It’s a different silence to the one that escorted them home, which was punctuated only by Eleanor’s directions. However, it is broken quickly as they hear the obnoxious bellow of an inflatable whale across the road; pissed on wine and maraschino and wheezing a concertina.

My god, is that Bruno?

Fraid so. Every Sunday, remember.

That’s right. Is why he iss clozzed on the Mondeye till noon.

Ewan smiles. He’s even louder than you are.

She shakes her head, shudders. He is such an arsehole. And sleazy. Oozy. I can feel him looking at me, it’s horrible.

Warren kickstarts at his belly with a hindleg. He struggles for balance. They listen to Bruno sing to himself.

Eleanor is suddenly excited.

Hey, is his car outside?

Sorry?

Is his car parked outside their house? It’s a Mercedes, he’s always talking about the fucking thing. Is it there?

Ewan peers. Yeah. It’s just across the street. Why?

Her smile gleams. Her eyes narrow.

Ewan, do you have potatoes?

What?

Potatoes. Do you have any?

Well. Yes.

Go get one, she whispers. Get a big one.

A potato.

Yes.

A potato.

Yes!

What? Why?

They’re both whispering now. Just go get one!

Ewan finds himself in the kitchen, reaching for a big gnarly spud in a dark corner of his cupboard. It looks angry.

Here, he says and slaps it into her palm.

She grabs his hand. His fingertips are hard, like they’ve been dipped in wax.

Come on.

What?

Warren, sit! Stay there, okay?

Warren sits confused.

They are watched by a bashful gnome, a leaning sunflower, and a row of cardboard reindeer on a roof across the street.

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