Free Have You Seen Ally Queen? by Deb Fitzpatrick Page A

Jerry?’
     
    ‘Fine. Missing you, though. When do you ... When do you think you’ll be able to...’
     
    She looks at the bedspread. ‘I don’t know.’
     
    Now we’re both looking at the bedspread. I know that was the wrong question. What was I thinking? Stupid idiot. I start talking to try to get rid of it.
     
    ‘Oh, it’s okay, it doesn’t matter, Mum, we just want you to get better, that’s all—don’t worry about us. Hey, get this: Dad cooks us brekkie every morning and Jerry even makes cups of tea and stuff now.’
     
    She’s grinning again. ‘You’re kidding.’
     
    ‘Nup. Here, I brought you some things from the beach.’ I pass her the plastic—oops—bag and she peers inside. ‘I thought it might remind you of home. You could put them next to your bed, or something—youknow, smells of the sea.’
     
    ‘Oh, Ally.’
     
    Her smile’s bending downwards and her chin pulls in the tiniest bit, so I start talking again. I tell her about the mark I got for my English assignment (but not the one I got for maths), and what Ms Carey said about it, and how cool she is, and about stuff that Jerry’s doing at school. Then there’s a bit of a pause, but not a sad one, so I think, okay, now’s my chance, and as she’s turning over the shells in her hand I try to say the right words in the right tone and I end up with:
     
    ‘Mum, can you—I mean, could you sort of explain to me why you’re sick? I mean, ‘cos I don’t really understand—because no one’s said why, really, and I think it might ... help, a bit.’
     
    Shite, that was terrible. She’s gunna tell Dad about this, for sure, and then I’ll be in trouble.
     
    Instead, she looks at me and says, ‘Oh, Ally, there are lots of reasons.’ She sounds tired. She fingers the bag of sea stuff. ‘I’ve ... found things hard for the last year or so. I don’t fully understand why ... I wish I did.’
     
    ‘Is it ... to do with the accident?’
     
    ‘I think so. But I was probably always a bit like this.’
     
    ‘No, you weren’t,’ I say.
     
    She sits up a bit then and says, ‘Have you heard ofcapitalism? Have you done that stuff at school yet?’
     
    Uh-oh. Oh, no. This sounds like the old Mum, with the volume way up, times a hundred.
     
    ‘Capitalism?’ I squeak. ‘Not really.’
     
    She takes a breath. ‘Well, it’s the system of economics that we live by here in Australia. Money has become people’s priority. People aren’t happy just to be happy, they have to prove to everyone around them that they’re happy, so they work huge hours in order to have a big house and car and boat, and it’s not until they’re my age that they realise they’re actually having a terrible life.’
     
    Mum’s eyes are kind of staring at something that isn’t there. I look over: it’s just the wall. I shift a bit on the bed, but she goes on.
     
    ‘They’re locked into working for the rest of their lives to pay it all off. They don’t have time just to live —to spend time with friends and family, or to explore places they’ve never been, or help people less fortunate than themselves, and, usually, they regret those things when they’re about eighty and it’s way too late. But if they change the way they live, people think they’ve lost it—“gone feral”, don’t you kids say?’
     
    I open my mouth to respond but she’s not actually interested. It’s a river of words.
     
    ‘...because no one in rich countries knows any other way of living anymore. No one can remember a time when it was enough to have a roof over your head, and food in your home, and healthy kids and a loving husband. Your dad and I travelled when we were younger, Ally, and I can tell you, people in other parts of the world have a lot less than us and are a lot happier than we are. You can either lead a soulless existence counting your bucks and keeping up with the Joneses, or you can be forever misunderstood by your peers, who can’t see why