LIZ ELSON

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Egg on his Face

Friday night Frank didn’t come in – maybe he was throwing a sickie, maybe he’d quit. We didn’t know, didn’t care either. He didn’t fit in.

Saturday we had a barbie at our place. Maggie’s sister, Karen, was down from Palmy, staying with us for a few days. Joe and his lot came over, and Maggie’s mum and dad and a few of the cuzzies, so we were quite a family crowd. It was a beaut day, all the kids were happily running around and the beer was flowing nicely. I heard Karen ask Joe how he got the bruise on his face, so he was telling her all about Frank. And she looked kind of thoughtful.

‘Was he quite a tall guy, good-looking, with a little mo?’

‘Yeah, and some scars on his face. Walked with a limp – but he could pack a punch!’ Joe said.

‘I reckon that could be Frank Patterson,’ Karen said. ‘Poor guy.’

‘What’s so poor about that stuck-up arsehole?’ I asked.

‘He was our Joanne’s teacher a couple of years back. He was really great with the kids, but he left after he had a terrible accident. He was driving home from church one Sunday with his wife and three kids. Anyway, they come round a corner and some idiot going like a bat out of hell comes round the corner on the wrong side of the road. Frank’s car went up in flames. The doors were jammed and people could hear the kids screaming inside. A farmer ran to get an axe but it was too late. Frank was the only one they got out and his legs were badly smashed up.’

Everyone had stopped talking. I looked at Joe. He was as white as a sheet.

‘Another beer, mate?’ somebody asked.

‘Yeah. Thanks.’ I ripped the tab and sculled the beer and opened another and downed that one too. Then I went inside to the bathroom and was as sick as a dog.

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