Brad hauled himself to his feet, clutching at his lower back, and sidled up to her, eyes still on the screen. ‘Boys, say goodbye to your mother.’
They all raised their hands in her direction. ‘Bye, Mum! Have a good time! See ya! Bye!’ Nina bent over to kiss each cheek and steal a cuddle. She inhaled the familiar teenage-boy aroma of sweaty T-shirts, pimple cream and damp socks. She turned and stretched out her arms to her husband.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he groaned.
‘You’ll be fine—it’s only two weeks,’ Nina soothed. They would miss her after all.
‘Two weeks? Coughlan’s gone for the rest of the year! It’s his fucking knee. And we’ve got Polo out with his shoulder. Hall’s done his hip. We’ve got no chance. The whole year’s a total write-off. Christ, my back! I’m the friggin’ team manager—I should be there.’
‘For God’s sake, Brad, I’m talking about ME. I’m the one who’s going for two weeks.’ As Nina turned on her heel to leave, Brad caught her by the waist and bent to nuzzle her neck. Nina stood for a moment letting ‘Kingie’, the giant former Richmond full forward, put a smothering tackle on her. ‘Everything you need’s in the freezer. I’ve left a note for the rest on the fridge.’
Brad stepped back, sensing the umpire had blown the whistle on the sensitive moment, and took up Nina’s bulging handbag. As he hobbled to the front door, he ran through the drill one more time: ‘Right. Now remember what I told you. It takes diesel, not petrol. If you’re not on a powered site, you switch the fridge to gas and the generator to number 2. Don’t forget to check all the latches, vents and windows before you take off. And close down the gas cock. Put the fold-out step up, and secure that hook. Watch out for height limits. Don’t panic, it’ll only start in neutral. Just jostle the gear stick. If something goes wrong, all the roadside assist numbers are in the glovebox. And don’t forget what I told you about the annexe—you have to wiggle that bottom bolt. It’s got a mind of its own. And remember what I said: if there’s a problem, DON’T TRY AND FIX ANYTHING!’
Nina nodded. She possessed a fully functioning brain, despite what Brad might think. They’d been through the van’s routine a dozen times. He’d only driven it once during the school holidays to the campground at Bright but now, apparently, he was an expert on its operation. Nina was confident she was up to the challenge of the mighty RoadMaster. After all, during those years when Brad Brown—first as ‘BB’, then as the legendary ‘Kingie’—had spent every weekend toughing it out on the oval, she was the one who had been captain of the home team. She had wrangled pushbikes and bouncy castles, skateboards and scooters, kayaks and tents. She had cleared the guttering on the roof, pruned trees and used an electric eel to unblock the drains. The carport was all her work too—she’d drawn up the plans, found the builders, even stapled the shade cloth on top. After shepherding three boys under five, there was nothing a first-grade footballer could teach her about stamina or perseverance . . . or driving a 3500-kilogram motorhome with an inscrutable annexe.
‘Just wave me out, Brad. Get out in the street and make sure there’s nothing coming,’ Nina called from the driver’s seat as she adjusted the rear-vision mirrors. Meredith was beside her, making a note in a Japanese silk-covered travel diary as to the exact time of their departure. Annie was in the back, lounging by the table and holding her champagne bottle up to the light to see how many mugs-full were left.
‘OK now, turn slightly to the left. No, YOUR left! Yep. Now come straight forward!’ Brad was waving wildly, as if he was signalling to his centre-half forward that he was in a position to boot for goal.
‘Over a bit! OVER. OVER! You’re going too—’
CRUNCH! The sickening sound of torn metal and splintering wood came from the roof.
‘OH, NO! Fuck, Nina! The carport! The TV aerial!’
Nina saw Brad limp up the driveway, grimacing in pain and annoyance. She turned off the motor, threw open her door and jumped down onto the concrete. The TV aerial was bent, its head lolling like a snapped sunflower.
‘CHRIST! Didn’t I tell you to go through the checklist?’