Six Impossible Things by Fiona Wood Page A

when that’s full – squeaky clean glasses, no trace of lipstick. I get the hang of sweeping methodically, every chair up on a table, starting around all the skirting boards and counter edges and working my way into the middle of the floor. Ali goes ballistic when he sees my first attempt at wiping a table.
    ‘What’s this?’ he growls, running a finger through the beaded smear I’ve left on the surface.
    ‘I don’t know . . .’ I haven’t got a clue what I’ve done wrong.
    ‘It’s laziness. It’s blindness. It’s sloppy. It’s out the door if you ever do it again.’
    He shows me how to do it properly. Scalding hot cloth, wrung out till it’s nearly dry. Catch all the crumbs and goop in your hand, don’t sweep them off the table onto the floor.
    ‘And the essential ingredient?’ he asks with a look of dire threat.
    I’m mute.
    ‘Elbow grease. Work it! Put some muscle into it.’
    I practise that first week until my back is ready to break. Then I’ve got it. Never need reminding again. So just when I’m used to Ali’s barking, it stops. We spray and wipe all the tables at the end of the day with a eucalyptus oil and water mixture. That freshness blends with the morning smells. My first Saturday morning shift, I meet Ali’s mother, Anne. She starts cooking at six. I walk into the warm baking smells of lemon peel, pistachios, walnuts, honey and rosewater. Mingling with the smell of cakes is the first coffee of the morning. Ali is the only one allowed near the coffee machine.
    I clear glasses and crockery, learning how to move around the tables and chairs and people and not trip over myself. It’s like working out dance steps. You’re moving quickly all the time, but always hesitating for a fraction of a beat to check the way is clear. ‘Behind you,’ we say over and over again, avoiding collisions with other people weaving through the same space.
    Anne cooks with ease and grace, usually working with her friend Irena. They chat and laugh as they roll, peel, pound and stir. It looks as though they’ve been doing what they do every day forever – so different from my mother’s focused, frowning, scientific approach.
    Phrenology is thriving, but I Do Wedding Cakes is not managing to get off the ground. Despite our recent rational discussion, my mother has counselled two more would-be customers out of getting married. And they’re just the ones I know about. Who knows how many others she’s put off.
    Mrs Da Silva is not surprised when I tell her about my mother’s latest losses.
    ‘Marriage is the problem, Dan. And there’s no getting around it if your business is wedding cakes. Perhaps we can move her gently into some other special occasion cakes.’
    ‘Do you think you could mention it? She’s a bit sick of me trying to tell her stuff like that.’
    ‘Certainly,’ she nods. ‘Look after the shop while I get Howard some bones?’
    I stand behind the counter, staring into space. If my mother can’t make a go of the business, what does that mean for us? My job at Phrenology isn’t a sure thing yet. But even if it happens, it’s not going to be enough to kick a hole in things like power bills, which now come twice, the second time on red stationery.
    Mrs Da Silva comes out with the bones and gives me a bag of mixed lollies – she makes them up herself and sells them for fifty cents – for minding the shop. I protest, but she’s a determined woman.

    When I get home, finishing the last lolly, a musk stick, my mother is sitting at the kitchen table crying. Big, snotty, gasping crying. She’s been at it for a while, judging by her blotchy swollen face.
    ‘I thought you were working,’ she says.
    ‘I’ve finished. It’s dinnertime.’
    ‘I haven’t made anything.’
    I’m starving. I know I should be offering sympathy and comfort. I know she’s going through a hard time. I feel sorry, but not for her. For myself. I’m working hard. I’m copping shit about her business at school,