Free Bridge of Triangles by John Muk Muk Burke

boy’s insides twisted and ached and somehow sent into his mouth a metallic taste of this new and dirty world.
    They got out of the blotchy red weathered carriage and stepped onto a windswept platform where oleanders straggled at intervals down the centre of the gravel surface. Again Sissy looked around. Of course she didn’t expect Rose to be there or anything like that. Jesus, she didn’t even know they were coming. But you never knew.
    â€œWell, this is the suburb where she lives. I wonder if it’s far. I s’pose we’ll have to get a taxi.”
    Sissy led the little group out through the gate where a uniformed man took their tickets and threw them in a bin by his side. He was seated on a solid varnished chair and didn’t look up.
    They walked out into a suburb and over the street saw a couple of taxis.
    â€œCome on youse mob—not far now.”

Clarrie came to the door in his blue singlet and his pants hung below his belly. A cigarette, no longer alive, hung from the corner of his mouth. He pushed open the tattered screen door.
    â€œYou’ve come then. I thought you and Rose were cookin’ up somethin’. She’s out the back somewhere.” He looked at the family without affection and regarded the suitcase. “Ya sister’s here!” he called, turning his head and scratching his stomach.
    â€œWell, can we come in or we gonna stand on the bloody step all day?” Sissy thought of this house as Rose’s and this showed in the proprietorial tone in her voice.
    Before Clarrie could answer, Rose ran across and pushed him out of the way as she hugged her sister. Both the women cried.
    â€œJust look at them kids—’aven’t they grown. And look at Joe—he’s so tall. ’Ere, come in, come in. ’Ow’s Mum and Paula? Whendya get ’ere ’eh? Clarrie, bring that port in. Jesus it’s good to see ya, Sis. And all these kids too. Just look at them—’aven’t they grown? Rose dabbed at her eyes and Sissy and her lot went inside.”
    A Sydney house. Yes, there was a television in the corner. Its screen was a dead dark grey and the cloth grid covering for the sound was silent. The house smelled faintly of leaking gas and stale toast and poverty. “Jeez, I don’t know if we got any bread left Sis. I mean I’m sorry but I wasn’t expectin’ nobody. I’ve got some tea. I can make a cuppa tea.”
    Rose saw Chris eyeing the television. “You won’t get nothin’ on that till six o’clock love. But the kids are round somewhere. Youse can play with them. But I’ll make a cuppa tea first. ’ow many cups we got Clarrie?”
    Chris looked again at the TV. A Sydney house, with a TV. He kept thinking—a Sydney house with a TV and he looked up at the ceiling. Yes, there was an electric light. Ithad a fly-blown shade with yellowed tassels hanging from its scalloped border. It must be real because it was on even though it was daytime. A Sydney house with a TV and electric lights. It must have lots of rooms too. These wonders somewhat allayed the gnawing feeling of hunger which he had. But when Aunty Rose and Sissy came out of the room where the gas smelled strongest they banged a plate onto the laminex table. It held a pile of broken biscuits which Rose had smeared with butter.
    They sat around and ate the food and drank sweet tea. Clarrie fiddled with his cigarette and matches and rubbed his rough chin while making little clicking noises of disapproval with his tongue. Rose seemed not to be the queen the boy remembered with her clothes and cigarettes and lace hankies. But she had a TV, he reminded himself. And electricity in this Sydney house.
    Later Rose’s two boys returned from the neighbour’s house where they’d been playing. They were both older than Chris by about three years so they showed little interest in him. After filling their mouths with biscuit