Free Bliss by Peter Carey

the jug.
    'You harlot,' she screamed at her mother.
    Bettina danced up and down. Pranced. Stamped her small feet. 'You little slug,' she screamed at her daughter. 'Slug, slug, slug.'
    Harry sat very still and made mental notes while 'Lucy' and 'Bettina' acted out their roles in Hell.
    David leaned indolently across the front-verandah rail and watched Joel waddle as he walked up the drive. He did not acknowledge the chubby wave (delivered at the flower beds) but silently criticized the display of bad taste as it crossed the front lawn: the poisonous green cravat, the ostentatious ring, and, worst of all, Gucci slip-ons accompanied by white socks. David winced. Joel was someone, he thought, who should never be allowed to escape the safety of a conservative dark suit, and whose ties and socks should always be purchased for him once a year, in advance, by someone with enough love and concern to stop him committing outrageous errors.
    'Where's your father, Davey?'
    He pointed downwards, towards the garage.
    'In here?'
    David nodded, that cold, distant, masculine nod with which older boys had once so intimidated him. He retired from the edge of the verandah and sat on a wicker settee while, beneath him, Joel banged on a door which would be opened to no one, him least of all.
    Later Joel ran the gauntlet of David's disdain before scurrying into the house, where Lucy would make him coffee while Bettina had her shower. Joel was trying to talk to Harry about business. Harry did not wish to discuss business.
    David, hearing a creaking door, leant across the edge of the verandah, and saw Harry emerge from the garage and slip silently down the side of the house.
    It wasn't until just before lunch that Joel caught up with him just as he was making a run for the toilet. Harry, in tracksuit and sneakers, sped softly along the back verandah whilst Joel struggled along beside him like a reporter trying to grab an important 'no comment'.
    'I've brought balance sheets, Harry.'
    'Uh-huh.'
    What do you want me to do?'
    'Just continue.'
    'Come on, Harry, I can take advice.'
    'Continue,' Harry said, 'that is my advice,' and the last half of the sentence was uttered from behind the snibbed safety of the toilet door.
    It had become very obvious that Harry did not wish to go back to work. Just as it also became quite obvious that the business needed him. In this climate of upset and emergency, with everything threatening to crack and collapse around him, David decided it might be safe to sacrifice his famous medical career before it began. The pressures had built up on him, year after year since he was ten, and now he saw his chance to slip sideways, and away to freedom.
    He approached Harry on the subject, waiting until he was securely ensconced in the hammock, which stretched from the red flaming poinciana to the side fence.
    'Daddy.'
    Harry, making a rare entry in his notebook, started, and shoved it stupidly up his shirt, in full view of his son.
    'Don't creep up on me.'
    'Sorry.'
    The air was so fragrant that day, one could have imagined that the grass was perfumed. It was about twenty-eight degrees and their backyard was thick and glossy with the luxurious semi-tropical vegetation people fly half-way round the world for, but neither of them noticed it.
    'Daddy': he swung the hammock for his father, 'I want to go into business.'
    His father's dark eyes frightened him when they came to bear on him like that. They recalled, too sharply, those recent scenes of hurt and confusion, 'And I thought I might go and help in the agency. It'd be interesting work,' he said, 'I guess.'
    'You guess?'
    'Yes.'
    'And what about this doctor business?'
    'I'm prepared to give that up.'
    'For what reason?'
    'For family reasons. For the family business. I could help. You know...' and did not say (did not think he needed to) anything about the current business problems.
    'For the money?' Harry said in a neutral tone, as if that were quite a reasonable thing. He swung a