Freeing Grace by Charity Norman

can’t play again unless I want to end up doing foot and mouth painting.’
    ‘Bummer.’ I had a feeling my teenspeak was at least twenty years out of date, but Matt seemed to understand it, because he nodded gloomily.
    ‘Yeah. Mum doesn’t get that. She says it’s a stupid game and she’s glad I couldn’t even finish the season. She’s a cow. She thinks shooting is mindless violence and fishing is for morons and everything I’m half good at is a waste of fucking time. She never even bothered to watch me play.’
    ‘Fault on the right side, mate. My old man only ever spoke to me when I had a mouthguard and black shorts on.’
    ‘He fetched up to your games, then?’
    ‘Oh, he fetched up , all right. Maniac. Frothed at the mouth. Hollered. Swore. One time he smacked the ref.’
    ‘Shit.’
    ‘Gave him a bloody nose. Got himself banned. I was four years old at the time.’
    ‘ Four? You’re kidding.’ Matt laughed until he was crying again.
    I cackled wildly too, but it wasn’t funny. ‘They start ’em young in the Antipodes. Small Blacks.’
    ‘How the fuck d’you get boots for a four-year-old?’
    ‘You don’t. Bare feet for the little kids. We ran about on the frost with our toes practically dropping off, while Dad stood there in his farm jacket and two pairs of socks and nice warm gummies, screaming. And if I dropped a pass or missed a tackle, he used to belt me when I came off. It kind of spoiled the fun.’
    ‘Did you pack it in?’
    ‘Wasn’t allowed to. I represented our region for eight seasons, made captain, then left home and never played again. Broke the old man’s heart.’ That’s the reason I quit, even though I love the game. Just to piss him off.
    Matt swore sympathetically, and shut his eyes for a minute—or maybe ten, I tend to lose track on these occasions. Then he stirred. ‘What about your mum? She a cow, like mine?’
    ‘No, mate. No. Poor old lady, she did her best.’ I watched the smoke curling up and away. ‘Tried her very, very best.’
    He didn’t comment. After a while, I heard my own voice.
    ‘She gave me a puppy once for a surprise, for my birthday. Even though she knew Dad was going to go ballistic. Dogs aren’t pets, in his book.’ He had gone ballistic, too. Worse than usual. I’d hidden with Sala, shivering in the orchard. I passed Matt the spliff.
    He inhaled, thoughtfully. ‘You still got the dog?’
    ‘Nah. I was eight, so Sala would be more than thirty by now. That’s about two hundred in dog years. She’d have to be the oldest terrier in the history of the universe.’
    Matt fell about laughing, and I pretended to. When he next spoke, he seemed to be having trouble getting the words out, as though his tongue had been injected with local anaesthetic. I knew the feeling.
    ‘You goin’ look for my mum?’
    ‘I dunno, mate.’
    ‘She has to get back here. She’s needed. She’s really needed. It’s an emergency. Tell her she’s needed, quick.’
    ‘ Why’s she needed, mate?’
    He leaned unsteadily across and grabbed me by the collar. ‘It’s life and death, tell her. Life and death. Bring her back.’
    ‘I won’t be going anywhere if you’ve throttled me.’
    ‘Promise you’ll bring her home with you.’ He let go of me, sank into the pillows and shut his eyes again.
    ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I promise.’ After a minute I pulled the duvet over him, stubbed out the spliff, and left him snuffling quietly.
    I sat on the window seat in my room and looked out at the stars, and, my God, they were bright that night. They were as bright as car headlights. They were so bright, they looked as though they were going to leap right in through the window.
    I don’t remember getting into bed. That was hot stuff, all right. I remember the dreams, though. I wish I didn’t.
    Mum crept into my bedroom in the early morning light, because it was my birthday and Dad had gone to the sales. She had something hidden up her jumper, and a smile on her face.