Janine

Nobody wants to die the way Janine did.

Rufus was only seventeen, and she was fine that morning. Chirpy, bright, excited to finally have three days off in a row. She’d been planning a little makeover. She had bought this questionable nail polish which was green and sort of shiny and Rufus didn’t have the heart to tell her it was reminiscent of cat’s piss. She had laid out a couple of trashy magazines and was preparing a hot bath, to indulge in some much needed rest and relaxation. She had a bowl of cherries, her favourite, and some dried apricots to accompany her in her pursuit of utter tranquility. She’d just finished running the water when her son was leaving.

“Bye mum, enjoy yourself!”

“Bye darl, don’t forget the onions on your way home!"

He looks back on the day wishing he hadn’t gone to lunch. Maybe if he stayed home, maybe, she’d still be alive.

Instead, he went out with Doc for fish and chips just down the road, and they sat around the skatepark by the beach, trying to pick up chicks. They’d do the usual thing where they’d say ‘hey’ and insert whatever distinguishing colour of skirt or top or shoes she’d be wearing. They’d wait for the usual snigger from her accomplices and follow up with ‘pass us the vinegar ladies’ when the girls would walk past, all ice, no response.

The fish and chips were his favourite though. For some reason, your local always has the best ones. No matter where you go, the one just round the corner from your house will always be top.

There’s nothing that Rufus didn’t like as a kid. Janine would bring home all the specials from Woolies and just chuck them all together, making any kind of weird gruel or fry up or baked ensemble and Rufus would gobble it up. It was a strange sight, really. This tiny kid, waiting excitedly, all eyes and mouth agape, leaping from his chair to eat a horrific and eyebrow raising dinner.

So on a good day, you had some threatening chicken with a looming expiry date you wouldn’t wanna joke with and maybe some disfigured vegetables. We’re not talking celery or potatoes or anything normal here. Think squash and radishes. Bokchoy and leek. The chicken would arrive in one of those awful sealed plastic trays and smell suspiciously when you tore it open. His mum always let him watch her cook if he wanted but he much preferred to actually guess what was in his mouth. It was a game they played. If he got all the ingredients right, his mum would read him his favourite book after dinner. If he didn’t, he had to go straight to homework.

And but so, on a bad day, you’d be expected to feast on weird animal offcuts, jellied seafood and stale bread or pasta or some kind of carb which has lost all meaning in the world and should really stop existing.

One day, she brought home fish heads. No joke. And for some reason they were all dripping, the fish heads, cos the only bag she could find was calico. The owner had wanted to throw them but Janine caught up to her and begged to have the entire five kilos of fish heads for you know, consumption reasons.

“You sure you want these Jan? There’s nothing to them."

"Oh absolutely. I can work with anything.”

The fishmonger gave her a weird look but obviously gave the fish heads to old Janine because you would, wouldn’t you? A single mum with a wisp of hair protruding from her little hair net and a stained apron, asking you for a five kilo bag of fish heads, you’re not gonna say no are you?

“Just use them today then and don’t let Merlin catch ya.”

Merlin, fittingly, was the supervisor and liked to slither and slink up on all the workers at Woolies and peer down their necks whilst they stubbed “special” stockers onto products, unpacked boxes or just generally were efficiently doing their jobs.

He’d walk around like a proud pelican after doing his usual rounds and telling people they weren’t doing their jobs properly, and hum a little tune to himself. His hands were always clasped neatly behind his back and his belly hung like an oversized drum, his yellow face always looking a little like he’s on his way to an insane asylum.

Old Merlin. He helped out Rufus alright though. The day his mum died, he really shocked everyone. Who knew, old Merlin could be so resourceful. Tell ya what, you wanna judge a man by the size of his belly, you better think twice about his heart.

At least, the doctors kept repeating, she died quickly. Although, Rufus sort of failed to see how that was possible. Given the circumstances, it sounded like she would have died slowly and painfully. Not to mention she would’ve been shit scared.

Oh so also, as a bonus, his mum told him that if he write her a little poem about the food, she would read to him before bed. They didn’t have to be long. Just a haiku, or a couple of lines.

Mum made

Me eat

A plate

Of eel

It wasn’t

Unnice

She cooked

It twice

Shovel more into my mouth, sweet potato candied trout

Leg of pig and ear as well, tongue of cow it’s hard to tell

Peas and mash

Are not trash

Yummy bone broth

Beetroot cream pot

Janine grew up on a farm near Bowral, and didn’t have the most luxurious or varied tastes. As you can no doubt imagine, country Australia is awash with your hearts desire of meats and dairy, but if you want something other than a roast or a steak, take your bourgeoisie requests elsewhere mate.

Janine was a curious cat. She’d always be riding her bike to the local Milk Bar and asking if the owner would get an exotic flavour of chip in. Or if they could possibly, perhaps, sir, order a frozen dim sim, which she’d seen someone on television scoffing down and looking delighted.

She really didn’t deserve to die the way she did.

The day that Rufus came home from lunch, she was sprawled across their coffee table, face a gut wrenching bluey-green, hair still in her towel and her cat’s piss nail polish spilled all over the table and magazines. Her eyes were wide open and horrified, like she’d seen the devil himself, her robe twisted and tight, and it was clear she had been frantic just moments before her death. There was a half eaten bowl of cherries and some more half eaten cherries escaping from her mouth.

Asphyxiation.

The doctors managed to extract the culprit. It was a little cherry seed which had lodged itself down the wrong pipe and took out one entire, wholesome life.

Rufus stood there for hours. Or what felt like it anyway. The sun was still up when he came home and by the time he found his hands dialling triple zero it was already well behind the hill just in front of their apartment.

The ambulance came, sirens, important and quick movements, expert hands shoved him aside, practical police officers shooed him away, delicate detectives drew their spiral notepads but were told by their smarter supervisors to give the kid a break. Let him sit down and have some water and maybe hold off on the questioning. Like at least for another couple of hours. Let the kid rest.

Their little suburb was made up of only about five streets so the whole commotion obviously drew everyone to the house. People stood all around the driveway craning their rubber necks and gawking at the various people in uniform all executing their own little function. Couples in robes and shorts and thongs and some with no shoes wondered up to find out what’s going on. Merlin had arrived well after nine, in a pair of pyjamas which had little bells and cartoon cows on them and were a delicate baby blue, and asked to see Rufus at once.

The police said he was still to give a statement and couldn’t see anyone, but Merlin tore through the police tape to find poor old Rufus.

“It’s orright kid. This is life. Your mum was a good woman but it was just her time.”

“I should’ve stayed home.”

“Don’t blame yourself. If it wasn’t the pip it would’ve been a rogue fallen piano. Don’t blame yourself.”

"Is she really dead?”

Merlin wrapped a big hairy arm around Rufus and drew out a deep sigh.

“Dead as a dingo in the desert, kid.”

Rufus didn’t respond. He wasn’t crying. He sat there, staring at the tree in front of him, fascinated by the way it was losing its bark and softly swaying in the cool summer breeze.

“You know what she told me the other day? That she was real proud of you.”

Rufus blinked but didn’t look up.

“She said that?”

“Yeah mate. Heaps proud. Said you had a way with words.”

Rufus finally looked at Merlin who was stooped next to him, his wild pyjamas flailing in the evening breeze and a glint in his eye. It’s unclear whether the glint was from the moon or whether the old bastard was really planning something outrageous.

“No shit. Said you had a tongue like a firecracker and could taste almost anything too. Real proud of you.”

Rufus breathed in.

“She would never shut up about how she once tried to smuggle in some oregano in a pumpkin pie and you called it in your first bite.”

There was a figure approaching them, or maybe two, and this time it was clear they meant business.

Merlin leaned back across and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You keep making your mum proud, m’boy.”

The detectives arrived and wore looks like they’d just lost a lot of money on a poorly placed bet.

They questioned Rufus about the day and what he saw and all the usual crap police ask you when you’re a murder suspect. Merlin left and told him he need not worry and that he’ll take care of him.

The police hung around and asked Rufus if he had anyone to stay with. They asked where his dad was but Rufus said he hadn’t seen or heard from him since he was six. The cops eventually left and Rufus went back inside to crawl into his own bed, a sleepless night no doubt awaiting him.

The very next day, Merlin dropped in with a smile and dangling a calico bag, poking out in all kinds of weird directions and angles, which could only mean one thing.

“She said these were your favourite mate,” he jingled the bag like it was a Christmas stocking. “Let’s cook up a storm.”

Rufus gave a weak smile. As much as he hated to admit it, the old man was right. Janine really did have a way with fish heads.

Slimy, slick

Salty, smelly

Fish heads rule

Get in my belly

Boil them long

And fry them quick

Lotsa salt,

That’s the trick

They sat on the porch cradling their concoction, a soft swirl of steam dancing up from the sloshing of the gruel in the bowls. The sky was now a dim, warm orange, the birds now at rest and ready to meet the night. No words were spoken, both pairs of eyes fixed to nowhere in particular and gazing out past the sunset.

Rufus had never made this by himself before, but after his first suckle, he knew he got it right. Janine left no recipes but had taught him well. A second sip made his mouth fill up with a smooth broth, salty, oily and delicious. His taste was the only guide he needed. The fish head soup was perfect.