The Beloved by Annah Faulkner Page A

Dad’s office he wanted one in the same building. Dad said they were all taken, but Mr Breuer said ‘all taken’ meant nothing to him. Sure enough, a week later someone moved out and Mr Breuer moved in. The other thing he wanted was a piece of Dad’s export business. Dad had so many orders he could hardly keep up and Mr Breuer was offering a lot of money. Though he didn’t want to sell, Dad was tempted. Aside from Mama’s trip and our education the extra capital would help expand the business. But he and Mama were wary.
    â€˜I like Magda,’ Mama said, ‘but I’m not sure about her husband. Now that I’m working we’ll have money for those extras so let’s try not to involve Konrad Breuer.’

    As Christmas got closer I discovered I already had what I never knew I wanted – a best friend. Knowing Stefi’s family and ours would share Christmas dinner this year made the day extra special.
    Our Christmas tree was only plastic, but pretty. Shiny red, gold and blue bubbles caught the light as they twirled, and tinsel winked among the branches. At the base of the tree was a pile of presents but Tim’s was too big to fit beneath the branches. Santa had brought him a bike.
    â€˜What about me?’ I wailed.
    â€˜When you’re bigger,’ Dad said, passing me a long box. ‘But look, CP, Santa left you this.’
    I wondered about Santa. He’d be awfully hot in that woolly suit and there were no chimneys in Port Moresby so how could he get in? The verandahs were fly-wired and the doors were locked every night. Santa left me a doll with yellow hair and staring eyes. Mama named it Margaret. I didn’t care what she named it, I didn’t want Margaret. I had Moose and Molly and besides, I didn’t want dolls, I wanted a box of seventy-two Lakeland colouring pencils.
    Tim spent the holidays out on his bike. He and his mates went everywhere together: to Jackson’s Strip to watch planes take off, to Mrs Scott’s farm to see real cows and goats, to Boroko, Murray Barracks, even as far as Ela Beach and the movies in town.
    Mama chased after stories and tapped them out on her new portable typewriter at the kitchen table. She tried to be home as much as possible over the holidays but I liked it best when she wasn’t there because when she was, she gave me sums. ‘If I can’t get you up a grade at least you can be top of the one you’re in.’
    Sometimes when Mama was out I visited Stefi but mostly I stayed at home with Josie. She let me plait her fuzzy hair and draw as many pictures as I wanted. One time I did a picture of her sitting cross-legged on the ground, pulling husk from a coconut. She had on a black dress with red and yellow polka-dots and behind her, hot pink and orange bougainvillea climbed over the roof of her little house. I drew the round outline of her body, bare dusty feet and springy hair and coloured the dress and dots. But her brown body looked drab in the black dress so I made her skin blue instead. I could see bougainvillea through the coils of her hair so I coloured pink, orange and green between the curls.
    When I showed her the picture she laughed.
    â€˜It’s not supposed to be funny.’
    Josie patted my head. ‘Namo herea, Bertie. Very good. Blue legs nice.’
    â€˜You like it?’
    â€˜Yes, number one picture.’
    My first fan.
    My colouring pencils were worn to stubs so I asked Mama for a box of Lakelands. She came home with a small packet of six gritty pencils.
    â€˜I wanted seventy-two Lakelands.’
    â€˜Lakelands? You still can’t colour inside the lines for Pete’s sake.’
    â€˜I don’t want to colour inside the lines.’
    â€˜Do you want these or not?’
    Dad came home early one afternoon to find Josie and me in the kitchen playing cards.
    â€˜What’s the game?’ he said.
    â€˜Poker.’
    â€˜ Poker? You’re seven! What