66

TULLY

Two months later . . .

A hundred hours of community service. That was Tully’s sentence for her theft from the hardware store. She had to admit, it was quite exciting fronting up to court. She felt like she was on one of those TV crime shows. The Magistrates’ Court wasn’t quite as exciting as the ones shown in Law & Order SVU – it was mostly just traffic offences and some quite entertaining drunk-and-disorderlies – but she’d been reasonably entertained until her name had been called.

The case had been dealt with in a matter of minutes. The judge and her lawyer both seemed somewhat bored as they spoke, and Tully hadn’t had to do much other than state her full name for the record. Her lawyer had been apologetic afterwards; he’d tried to get her off without any punishment at all. But community service wasn’t too bad. She’d been assigned to cleaning graffiti from local tennis courts and neighbourhood community centres. A couple of the areas were quite close to Tully’s house, and she found the exercise quite gratifying. That graffiti had been bothering her for a while.

‘Come on, girls!’ Tully yelled. ‘Elbow grease!’

She liked to think she’d taken on a bit of a leadership role in her community service group. Honestly, some of them didn’t know the first thing about stain removal. Yesterday she’d gone to Bunnings – the scene of the crime – and bought better rubber gloves for everyone. The full circle of this delighted her. As she went up to the cashier to pay for the gloves, she contemplated telling the young man the story, but she suspected he wouldn’t appreciate it. Youths could be so self-absorbed these days. Didn’t know a good story if it came up and bit them. And so she just paid her money and took the gloves. That in itself was no small victory.

She enjoyed the banter between the ladies as they scrubbed the walls. Valerie – a woman about Tully’s age whose proudest achievements were her son and the fact that she’d never paid a parking fine in her life – was one of her favourites.

‘My son Carlin did this one,’ Valerie said, pointing to an eagle sprayed on a corner of the wall. ‘He knew I was cleaning down here today. Rascal.’ She laughed.

Tully looked at the eagle. It wasn’t half bad.

‘How old is Carlin?’ she asked.

‘Fourteen.’

Tully looked at the picture again. ‘He’s got talent.’

‘Yeah. Talent at making stress for his mama.’

‘He should go to art school,’ Tully said.

‘I can barely get him to show up to his supermarket job. How do you think I’m gonna get him signed up to art school?’

Tully shrugged. But she made a mental note to make some enquiries about art school scholarships anyway.

She’d invited the girls back to her house for lunch afterwards, an offer only three people accepted. But three was better than none, which was the reception she’d got the first time she offered. Progress not perfection, she always said. She’d made a round of chicken sandwiches, some lemonade and a chocolate sponge cake. It wasn’t to Rachel’s standards – nowhere near – but over the past few months, now that ordering catering was out of the question, Tully had grown quite adept at cooking basic things. She understood why Rachel and Mum loved the art of casual dining now. There was something soul-affirming about it.