For here came Timbo wandering up the hill, his tiny brown chest tagged with fat inky swirls: No Justice, No Peace. Better pay or I ring DOCS. And in certain parts of certain cities that would be Aboriginal art. Teach the lad to stand still, and people, we’ve got ourselves an installation.Timbo beamed at Jo from beneath the number-three haircut that Kym gave all her boys until they were big enough to resist the onslaught of the clippers. What her nephew mouthed was drowned out by the roar of the Mullumbimby Council’s ride-on mower.‘Hey?’ Jo cupped her hand to her ear.‘I got dadoos,’ Timbo yelled, his arms outstretched in demonstration.‘I can see that, darlin.’ Jo grinned as she drew the Honda to a halt. She took off her hat, hung it on the cracked grey-black knob of the gearstick, and mopped her forehead with her arm. Dollops of sweat flew sideways onto the newly shaven couch grass. Pulling the boy close, she used the bottom of her damp red singlet to remove a transparent snail trail from beneath his nose.
