Henry Hoey Hobson Read Online Free Page B

swinging at it. I didn’t fit in, perfectly well, anywhere. Not state, not private. Sometimes I wondered whether that had been a factor in any of our many moves.
    She balanced on one leg as she unstrapped first one skyscraper heel, then the other. ‘Hon, we’ve got a great house, in a nice street, four doors up from a school. What we spend on fees we’ll save on travel time, and I won’t have to fret about you while I’m at work.’
    She tottered over on the loosened platforms and kissed my forehead. ‘Don’t worry so much, honey-bun. It’ll give you wrinkles.’
    With that she stepped down from her teetering heels and settled with a sigh onto the couch beside me. Her blonde halo brushed against my shoulder. I shifted away from the contact. How’s a kid supposed to look up to his mum when she’s so much smaller than him?
    She shifted position and swung her legs up onto my lap. ‘Want to give me one of those world-famous Henry Hoey Hobson foot rubs while you tell me about your day?’
    Her feet were toy. And smelly after twelve hours in patent leather. Crisscrossed with ugly welts where the ridiculous shoes had cut into the skin. That had to hurt.
    She passed me the jojoba oil that lived beside the couch. The label claimed it was a natural fungicide and excellent moisturiser. I automatically doused both her feet before remembering that I was supposed to be mad at her.
    â€˜Damn, that feels good.’ The tiredness was leaking through into her voice.
    I risked a quick look and noticed for the first time that there were worn patches in her smile. A cold hand squeezed my heart and I ducked my head, concentrating on her feet.
    â€˜Only three days in the job and I already have a couple of prospective buyers for that old house overlooking the river.’ She poked me with an oily toe. ‘You know the one I mean?’
    I nodded. One of our old neighbours had given Mum the listing on her grandfather’s deceased estate. It had gotten her the job at a flash inner-city real estate agency. She said the house was our ‘pot of gold’, but if you asked me, it looked more like something you’d put a match to...
    I’d gone with her to the Open for Inspection on the weekend. A big sign out the front offered prospective buyers the only logical advice it could in the circumstances: ‘Demolish or renovate!’ Very helpful, seeing that no-one in their right mind would consider living in it as it was.
    She settled back into the lumpy couch with a sigh. ‘Your mumma’s going to be a thousandaire by the end of the week, Triple-H. Within six months there’ll be real-estate billboards for Lydia Hoey Hobson all over town. It’s going to happen, honey-bun. Don’t you worry about that.’
    She could have saved her breath. I worried about everything. I wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it up. How she could work so hard, stay so optimistic ... After so many setbacks, it was beyond me. It was as if her whole life was a triumph of hope over experience.
    She lay still while I worked silently on her poor, battered feet. Then the toe poked me again. ‘So come on, tell me, how was your day?’
    Her voice had lost its energy now that she was lying down. She was always joking that she was a shark: she needed to keep moving or she’d die. I didn’t want to think of her dying, so I told her that she was more like a fox terrier, running around at a million miles an hour, except when she slept.
    I risked another quick glance. She had worked all weekend, left the house an hour before I got up this morning, and arrived home five hours after I had. She looked like she was ready to call it a day. Did I really need to tell her about mine?
    I concentrated on working the base of her foot with my thumbs, massaging up and out, pulling on each toe in turn.
    This little piggy went to market ... This little piggy stayed home...
    Some