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304 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1987
My mum – Bea Ryan, the slut of the Tamborine Mountain, Queen Bea, Honey Bea, that Bloody Breeder B. – my mum would stare and shake her head. Never seen anything like it, she would say. There were always brothers and sisters, older and younger, falling all over each other and me. There were always the men, stopping by to have a beer with my mum. It was a small and noisy place, a fibro shack with lizards on the walls, and cracks and holes that were hung with sacs of spiders’ eggs. But I would wedge myself into a corner, two sides protected, crosslegged on the floor, a book propped open on my knees, and I wouldn’t even deign to acknowledge the company.
How’d you get that one, Honey Bea? the men would laugh. Been fooling around with a cyclo-pee-dia, have ya? That accounts for her hair, they would say. (It stuck out in all directions like the pages of a riffled book; it was fair and my mum’s was dark.) This is the little cuckoo in your nest? there was always someone to ask; and that someone always got rapped on the knuckles by Bea. Uh-oh, they would laugh. Cutting close to the bone, is it? Whyn’t you ever come clean on this, Bea? (p.46)