The Near Miss by Fran Cusworth Page A

still warm. The girl tried to curl up on his lap, a move he deftly dodged, telling her she was too heavy. He sat her beside him, put a blanket over her and tucked her in.
    â€˜Can you tell me a story?’ she asked.
    He glanced outside; the child’s father had now yielded his place at the esky and was chanting along another contender. No real reason to bother him.
    â€˜Uh. Once upon a time a man loved a lady very much. So much, that he wanted to ask her to marry him.’
    â€˜Was she a princess?’
    â€˜Well, to him she was. Anyway . . .’
    â€˜Was she a real princess?’
    â€˜A suburban princess, let’s say. Anyway, he wondered how to go about this task . . .’
    â€˜He has to get a ring.’ At their feet, a baby moaned and jabbed some unseen monster with a chubby fist before rolling over.
    â€˜Exactly. So he went off to the shop and got a ring.’ He tugged a blanket up over a curly blond boy, and pushed a pillow away from a sleeping toddler’s face. Ella watched him until he sat down again.
    â€˜And he has to do a mission,’ she told him.
    He stared at her. ‘What?’ This may have been the wrong topic to choose; Ella’s eyes were wide with opinion, and her wakefulness seemed to be gently sweeping the room. One toddler made a short, unintelligible but distinctly formal speech in his sleep, another kissed the air longingly and began to whimper. Eddy spotted a nearby dummy and hastily reinserted it.
    â€˜You know, if she’s a princess, he has to do a mission — like kill a dragon, or find a riddle that makes the sad king laugh . . .’
    Eddy thought about bungy-jumping in New Zealand, which Romy had wanted them to do, and which he had wriggled out of. God, could you imagine the risk ranking matrix on that? The insurance premiums those people must pay . . . ‘Well, maybe he went to the king and the king didn’t need him to do a mission.’
    â€˜They always need to do a mission.’
    â€˜Who’s telling this story?’
    She stared at him doubtfully. Man, little girls were being born hard-wired to want more, more, more. What was it, some genetic selection programme? Now that a diamond ring, the ability to vacuum and a willingness to take family leave when the kids were sick were commonplace, thenext generation would want all this plus a dragon slain, to say nothing of an act of undergraduate stupidity involving a steep drop and a massive rubber band. He pressed on.
    â€˜Okay then, the king said you must go and speak to every frog in the land . . .’
    â€˜Are you and Romy going to get married?’ Like a flute, that little voice.
    â€˜Maybe. Keep your voice down a bit.’
    â€˜Well, are you?’
    He blinked and consulted his empty hands. ‘Er, maybe. No. Well I don’t know.’
    â€˜Can I see the ring?’
    Eddy regarded her. She stared back at him. She was scary. She could read minds. She had x-ray vision. It was time he left this nursery; went and did man things.
    â€˜That’s enough. Go to sleep.’

    Next morning the air in his tent smelt stale and alcoholic, and he wrenched open the zipped door, gasping for oxygen. He fell back and stared at the polyester roof, tracing the lines of the seams, and finally Romy stirred and opened her eyes.
    â€˜My head.’
    He kissed her forehead and got up alone, the ring still in his pocket. He would make her a coffee. But out in the eucalyptus morning, where sun kissed dewdrops on every glittering green surface and the air was sweet, dirty urchins drifted upon him like a polluted tide.
    â€˜I’m hungry.’
    â€˜I’m thirsty.’
    â€˜Can we have breakfast?’
    â€˜Don’t you have parents?’ he muttered, as he built a fire, boiled water and crossly washedbowls still caked with the previous night’s dessert. He dried them and laid them out in a row. He found some Weetbix and rationed them out. Raided