Gift of the Gab Read Free Page A

car.
    Dermot went mental.
    â€˜It’s not funny,’ he yelled and tried to grab me.
    Sergeant Cleary pushed Dermot back. He wasn’t smiling now.
    â€˜You’re right, son,’ he said. ‘It’s a serious crime, attempted assault. Do it again and I’ll take you both in.’
    Dermot tried to grab me again.
    Sergeant Cleary took us both in.
    Except that Dermot’s being released now.
    I can see him and his mum out in the corridor. She’s got her arms round him in a big hug.
    He’s lucky, having a mum who’s got a motel. Sergeant Cleary’s got a lot of rellies who visit from interstate.
    Why are my eyes going all hot and damp? Police perks are a fact of life, nothing to get upset about.
    It’s not that.
    There’s another reason my cheeks are wet.
    Watching Mrs Figgis hug Dermot makes my heart give the most painful skip of all.
    Because even if I sit in this cell for the rest of my life, my mum can never come here and hug me and set me free.

I still can’t believe it.
    There I was, mentally preparing myself for jail, feeling lucky I can have these conversations in my head so at least I wouldn’t get too bored in the dink, not for the first couple of years at least, when suddenly I heard a rattling and Sergeant Cleary opened my cell door.
    â€˜OK,’ he said, ‘hop it.’
    I stared at him.
    â€˜Off home,’ he said, ‘and don’t upset any more eighteen-year-olds.’
    â€˜But,’ I said, gobsmacked, ‘aren’t I under arrest?’
    Sergeant Cleary watched my hands closely, frowning, but he didn’t understand.
    I wrote it in my notebook and showed him.
    He gave a weary grin. ‘No, Rowena,’ he said. ‘You’re not under arrest. What you did was technically a crime, but under the circs, given that Dermot Figgis had it coming, and given the stress you must be under with that dopey dad of yours, I’ve decided not to charge you.’
    As I followed Sergeant Cleary down the corridor to the front desk, I wrote indignantly in my notebook.
    â€˜What do you mean, dopey dad?’
    Sergeant Cleary gave a sigh.
    â€˜I don’t mean anything,’ he said. ‘I’m just saying it must be tough for you having a dad who’s a bit of a ratbag.’
    For a sec I couldn’t speak. My hands were rigid with anger. I wondered how many years in jail I’d get for filling up a police car with rotting apples. We’ve got heaps more back at the orchard.
    Constable Pola looked up from the TV.
    â€˜Don’t get us wrong,’ he said. ‘Your old man’s a nice bloke. It’s just that he’s a bit of a disaster area in the singing and clothing departments.’
    It was an outrage. The police are meant to be tolerant and understanding. We did a project on it at school.
    Sergeant Cleary offered me an oatmeal biscuit.
    â€˜We’re not having a go at you,’ he said gently. ‘You do a top job, coping with him. We understand it’s a tough call for a kid, having an embarrassing dad, that’s all.’
    I ignored the biscuit.
    I didn’t ignore the vicious insults about Dad.
    I grabbed a sheet of paper off the desk and wrote on it in big letters so they’d understand.
    â€˜MY DAD IS THE BEST DAD IN THE WORLD. IF YOUR WIFE DIED, YOU’D PROBABLY TRY TO CHEER YOURSELF UP BY WEARING BRIGHT SHIRTS AND SINGING COUNTRY MUSIC TOO.’
    Sergeant Cleary and Constable Pola looked up from the sheet of paper and exchanged a glance. I could see they’d never thought about it that way before.
    Sergeant Cleary pushed about six biscuits into my hand and steered me out the door.
    â€˜I haven’t told your dad about this,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want him coming down here and singing at me.’
    He went back into the police station. If I could, I would have shouted after him that Dad doesn’t sing at just anyone, only when he’s feeling really