Free His Brand of Beautiful by Lily Malone Page B

too.
    Tate lingered, enjoying the feel of floorboards that actually moved beneath his feet.
    Floorboards should vibrate, he thought, pressing down with the sole of his boot, feeling the flex in his knees.
    Generations of Newells stared from photos on white‐plastered walls, some black and white, some colour, depending on the era.
    After Jolie’s accident he’d avoided the photos. Seeing her frozen in time on the wall hurt too much. The photos opened a raw hole in his chest every time he came home, but it hurt worse if he stayed away. At Binara it felt like Jolie forgave him.
    His eyes sought the photograph that mattered most.
    His mother had it blown up. Jolie as a pony‐tailed teenager; long‐limbed, gangly. He and Shasta used to call her Octo‐girl because of those long arms and legs, tease her until she’d chase them, ornery as an angry bee and almost as fast. If she caught you, her pinches stung.
    When she got boobs they made up the name Miss Pointer . Sometimes she’d get so mad at their teasing her cheeks would puff‐up bright red and she’d chase them until she couldn’t scream, and then until she couldn’t speak, and if she still hadn’t cornered them to deal her own brand of justice, she’d run to their father, never Margaret. Gilbert Newell could stop their teasing just by setting his weathered hands to the buckle of a belt almost as gnarled, and saying: “Now you two boys, that’s enough.” He didn’t even need to raise his voice.
    Jolie had always been Gilbert’s little girl.
    The photo had been taken at sunset. Red dust swirled like steam. Jolie rode a coal-black quarter‐horse in a gallop after a steer, giving the horse its head, the animal’s ears hard back against its skull. The determination on her face was etched there for anyone to see.
    He rested his fingertip against the photo frame so he wouldn’t smudge the glass.
    I’m so sorry, Jols.
    She’d have been thirty‐five this year, his baby sister. Same as Christina. The niece he never met would have been six. There’d have been birthdays and milestones, playground visits, first teeth, first steps, first day at school.
    But Ian Callinan got in the way, and Tate hadn’t stopped him. You boys oughta look after your sister . For a moment it was as if he heard his dad’s voice echo in the hall.
    He shook his head, once. Margaret and Gilbert had the campervan down at Lake Eyre. Last time it flooded, Margaret had three kids under seven tripping over her feet.
    He heard the chink of glass from the kitchen. Somewhere, far away in the house, a door clicked shut.

    ****

    Tate and Shasta leant against the island bench in Binara’s kitchen, their thighs against timber marked by three decades of use: slipped knives, coffee‐cup rings, red wine stains and the odd dent from a cast‐iron pot. Copper pots hung from a frame attached by chains to a hook in the ceiling; frying pans, saucepans of every size, a long‐handled copper colander.

    Lily Malone
    “Do you remember when Dad put this up?” Tate asked Shasta, reaching up to touch the cold metal.
    His brother snorted. “Jesus, do I? Thought my arms were going to drop off holding the damn thing up.”
    “Mum couldn’t use the kitchen all day.”
    They both chuckled.
    “So have you seen Ben?” Tate sucked white froth from the top of his second Pale Ale.
    “Not since he graduated year ten. The Shrew says he doesn’t want to see me so I have to take her word for it.” Shasta popped the seal of his beer against his forearm.
    “How old is he now? Fifteen? Alicia can’t control him forever. He’ll want to know his father, his grandparents. Our family.”
    “He turns sixteen in September and I’ve seen him one week, twice a year at best, for fifteen years. That’s it. I’ll never get that time back. Alicia fills his head with crap that his old man’s just a country hick with cow shit on his boots.
    “Doesn’t matter what time I call, she says he’s out. Sunday night. Saturday