Free The Lost Child by Suzanne McCourt

red, the doorstep glistens black. There is a plant with glossy leaves in a pot next to the step. Grandpa Ted opens the door. His face is a shiny plate with piggy eyes and a Santa Claus nose.
    â€˜You’ve left him, haven’t you? Well, you can’t stay here.’
    â€˜I haven’t. That’s not why I’ve come.’
    Grandpa Ted steps back. My nose is next to his leg. He smells of soap and mothballs and something filthy dirty underneath.
    In the lounge room, there’s a never-never lounge suite with every chair a different colour. On the wall, three ducks are flying towards the window. I want to be out that window. I want to be a duck on the Coorong or on Uncle Ticker’s swamp. But not in the shooting season.
    â€˜Well, sit yourself down,’ says Grandpa Ted in the kitchen. ‘Bess’ll be back soon. She’ll make us a cuppa.’ And as we wait, Grandpa Ted pulls out a chair and sits himself out. ‘Divorce is a dirty word. If a man’s having a fling there’s something missing, that’s what I think.’
    Mum is looking at the laminex. There are swirly patterns, red and white clouds and a snake creeping out of the corner near me. I trace its scaly path with my finger; I wonder about the King and that Wallis woman and when I reach the doily in the centre near the vase of pink plastic flowers, Mum grabs my hand and puts it on her knee. ‘Don’t,’ she says with a warning squeeze and I know she doesn’t like Grandpa’s smell either.
    â€˜Here’s Bess,’ says Grandpa Ted.
    Grandma Bess has eyes without smiles. She takes biscuits from a tin and puts them on a plate. ‘You haven’t left him, have you?’
    Mum shakes her head and nods at me.
    Grandpa Ted takes a biscuit. ‘Times are tough. It’s no life for a woman trying to manage by herself.’
    â€˜Your father was promoted last month,’ says Grandma Bess. ‘Best thing Ted ever did, getting out of the railways. And Joyce and Bill have just moved into their new house. Lovely, isn’t it, Ted?’
    Grandpa Ted is spread all over the end of the table next to me. When he breathes, I can see hairs moving in his nose. Joyce is Mum’s younger sister, the grumpy bridesmaid in the wedding photo on the mantelpiece. Mum doesn’t like her because she’s the favourite who never says boo to a goose. Auntie Joyce has two boys who are my cousins but we hardly ever see them because we are not a close family.
    Grandma Bess and Grandpa Ted sip their tea and dip their biscuits. I would like another gingernut to dunk in my milk but I’m afraid Mum’s hand will reach out and stop me. Outside, a sprinkler swishes round and round. Through the window, I can see a high blue sky, cloud-speckled in one corner above the spotty curtain. I wonder if Lizzie can see the same clouds as me even though they’re a whole day away from the city.
    Grandma Bess opens the window. ‘Hot,’ she says. ‘A hot September means early summer.’ When she sits again, there are water droplets nestled in the fine black hairs above her painted lips.
    â€˜A touch of the Dago,’ says Dad when he talks about Grandma Bess. He says Dagos have black eyes and hair and skin, and the women have hairy legs and moustaches like men.
    I slide off my chair onto the floor and pretend to pull up my socks. Grandma’s legs sit beneath the cloth like two extra table legs. Dad is right: they are covered in black hairs. Grandpa Ted’s legs are covered in pressed grey trouser pants. He has little feet in shiny shoes, polished patent bright, like Faye Daley’s Scottish dancing shoes. Up close, I can see my face in the toes. But Mum’s hand is yanking me up and I am glad to be out of there, away from Dago legs.
    â€˜You’re a big girl now,’ says Grandma Bess. ‘What are you? Six?’ I nod but now she is talking to Mum. ‘School must be a blessing.