Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER
Daddy sat at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette whilst looking at himself in a small Jade green mirror. In between tokes ,he would rest the cigarette in a clay ashtray, then pluck hairs from his chin. When the hairs were gone, he would squeeze zits, dabbing them occasionally with clearasil pimple cream.I hated the smell of clearasil, but I did enjoy observing his strange bodily rituals.
Finger nail manicures, facials, hair sculpting,and the infamous ear cleaning ceremony, involving a torch,a tissue and a long barbecue skewer.
“Dad I want a cat”. I stood next to his chair, peering at his whiskery chin in the small mirror.
He looked up and blew smoke rings in my face. I stepped back and broke them up with my eight year old fingers. He replied in his unintentional, aggressive, camp like asian voice, “oh do you darling…Well you know you’re mother say she is allergic to cats… But I say she jus don like cat hair everywhere frew the house… and to tell you the truth i don’t either… but i know she is not bloody allergic to cats… so you want a cat do you?”, He spoke like a mystic who was about to reveal a magic crystal ball that would give birth to a kitten.
“Listen to me closely darling, if you want a cat there is only one thing you can do”.
Before he had a chance to go on with his secret revelations I butt in like a drooling dog, “take me to the pet shop now dad, let’s go down town now, I know it’s open”.
“I’m not taking you to the bloody pet shop! If you want a pet cat, you must find a stray one. Feed it, then put butter on its paws. The cat will lose it’s scent and not know which way is home.Then you have a little pet cat. I’m not taking you to the pet shop. His story was over. He went back to preening himself and pouting in the mirror.
“Really? “
Rolling his eyes, “Darling I have been around longer than you and I know many things. Trust me kiddo, it’s the only way”. His high pitch giggle started up which seemed to waft out of his ears. He looked part sucker fish part cheshire cat.
“But daddy we only have margarine”.
“Trust me. It’s ok, now go away and play,”.
For the next week I did blocky’s on my bike every morning and afternoon searching for a stray cat.
At night I prayed to God to deliver.
Things started to line up.Mum was going to Sydney for a uni residential and dad was working late (out partying with younger women). This meant Nanna was coming to care for us. I kept praying and hoping we didn’t run out of margarine.
Nanna arrived on Friday morning. By Saturday afternoon there was thunder and rain which meant no playing on the streets with the neighbourhood kids.
We ate apricot chicken for dinner. It was 5:30pm and I was bored. I walked down the hallway heading for the front door. I was going on to the verandah to see if I could spot my friend Emma who lived across the road. I was going to shout over the street at her, in case she could hear me through her front window. Instead I found a cat. Holy Jesus, God was real. There on the steps was a grey cat with no collar.I picked it up and swung him around. Cheering and hooraying, all my wishing on stars had paid off.He started licking my fingers. Now was my chance. I ran back into the house, pushed passed my little brother Al, then barging into the kitchen I took the meadow lea margarine out of the fridge, grabbed a chicken wing from out of the pot on the stove and ran for it. Nanna shouted to me but her hands were covered in rubber gloves and dishwashing bubbles. She would not escape from doing the dishes.
By the time I got back to the porch the cat was chewing the side of the verandah with its sharp teeth. I lent down and lured him up from the steps below on to the verandah, using the chicken wing as bait. I fed him with one hand, patted him with the other. Once he was eating, I took my hand away and opened the margarine container. I dug my fingers into it. Then like a maniac I desperately started smearing marg onto his paws and legs. The cat hissed and cried, “it’s ok kitty”, I said as I tried to force his grease onto his soft padded feet. He recoiled, jumped up, swiped my face with his claws then bit my middle finger and didn’t let go. I screamed, he screamed and i booted him off the porch and down the stairs. He ran out the gate and didn’t come back. I sat with the margarine and the chicken bone crying for the cat to come back. “What in God’s name is going on?”, asked Nanna. Her face pressing up against the fly screen looking through the front door.