Girl Next Door - Alyssa Brugman [44]
'Yeah, you get a bit of that going on,' Bryce Cole tells me. 'If you just ignore them they generally go away.'
'Generally?'
And that's when I decide we have to get off Bryce Cole's crazy conga line.
18
100 POINTS
There's a little shopping centre in the suburb where we used to live. There aren't any clothes shops. It has all the banks, a deli and a post office. There's a bakery, a florist, a newsagent and a big coffee shop. It doesn't matter what time of day you go, there are good-looking people everywhere. Nearly everyone has well-cut, properly fitted clothes, straight white teeth and clean hair. Even the old people wear jaunty hats. They sit in their wheelchairs at the coffee shop with their daughters and grandchildren and smile contentedly. They eat cake together. People smile at each other.
We walk to this suburb's equivalent of that. They have mostly the same shops, but there's also a big Centrelink. There are no old people in jaunty hats. Everyone seems to be alone – even the people who are with other people. There are families arguing with each other. They're swearing. They don't care that people can overhear. If they ever had pineapples in the first place, they've taken them off their heads and are throwing them at each other.
The kids of the parents who are swearing aren't even crying. They're just watching everything.
I make eye contact with a toddler lying on the floor. I would swear that's Coca Cola in her bottle. She's got crusty boogers around her nostrils. The knees of her pink tights are dirty and baggy as if she's been wearing them for a week.
Eventually her mum growls, 'Come 'ere, you little witch.'
Mum keeps crossing and uncrossing her legs. I'm worried she'll walk out, and then we'll have sat in this horrible place for no reason. I hope they'll give us our money soon so we can leave.
Finally our number is called and we're ushered into a little room. Mum explains about the letter and the sheriff. The Centrelink man is nodding as he shuffles through his manila folder. Mum's voice is all wavery as she tells him about the boys rocking the caravan and stealing Will's clothes. The Centrelink man glances at his watch. It could be that he's just really anxious to rush out and help all those people out there waiting in the queue, but I don't think so.
He gives us some brochures for charity organisations and a women's shelter. Mum nods, but I know she won't go there. He needs to see Mum's identification before he can process a payment. Mum hands over her licence.
The Centrelink man stares at it for a minute. 'This licence is out of date. Do you have another one?'
Mum explains that she didn't renew her licence because it costs money, and there didn't seem to be any point when they took her car away.
'What other forms of identification do you have?'
Mum rifles through her wallet. She lays her Medicare card and two credit cards on the table.
'They're worth twenty-five points each,' he says. 'You're still short twenty-five.'
She slides across her Myer card, her blood donor card and her Video Ezy membership.
'I'm afraid they're not from a financial institution,' he tells her.
Mum's flustered. She flicks through her wallet again. She has her gym membership and a wine club card.
Will lines all the cards in a row on the table facing the Centrelink man. 'This out-of-date licence has Mum's photo on it, so that's who she is, right? You don't need to know whether she's allowed to drive, you just need it to prove who she is, isn't that right? That's her in the photo, isn't it? And all these other cards have the same name and address, so it stands to reason that she is who the licence says she is, even if it is out of date, doesn't it?'
'I don't make the rules,' the Centrelink man says. 'Do you have your birth certificate? Passport? Pension card? A council rates notice?'
'I'm not on a pension,' Mum says in a scratchy voice. She clears her throat.
Will interjects. 'Who carries