by Tim Winton
He’ll be telling the truth, said Gemma. It’s a Keely thing.
What’s a Keely thing?
Never mind. Carn, you two, I’m as full as a fat lady’s sock. That’s us done.
They left the marina and let the kid run across the little beach behind the long stone mole protecting the rivermouth and the shipping harbour. Riding seaward on the other side of the breakwater a reeking sheep carrier loomed like a slum, the hawser of smoke from its stack coiling back upriver to the wharf. Kai seemed happy enough by himself at the water’s edge and Keely sat with Gemma on the low wall above the sand, taking what little succour the sea breeze offered. They were quiet a while, the two of them, and awkward. Then, unprompted, Gemma told him about her daughter, the boy’s mother. Her name was Carly. She was Gemma’s only child and she was doing a stretch in Bandyup for drugs, assault and thieving. Not her first stint by any means. Kai had been with Gemma, off and on, for much of his life.
You’re good with him, he said, for something to say. He thought of the dreams. Didn’t know why. Tried to focus. Really, he said. You’re a champion.
She shrugged, said nothing.
So what’s it like? he asked before he could help it.
She pursed her lips. Is what it is.
They watched Kai a moment.
You had a house on the water?
Near it, he said.
Posh.
We both had good jobs, I guess.
And?
Had to sell it, he said. Divorce.
And now you’re livin in a one-bedroom flat.
Yep.
What’s that like?
Feeling the rebuke, he looked at her. She blew smoke into his face and smiled.
Tommy Keely.
Yep.
What’s the odds, eh?
The studs of Kai’s new boots rapped at the pavement all the way home. Touching neither turd, crack nor rail. The kid was canny. Pedestrians parted before him and if he noticed he didn’t let on. Keely wittered on about ospreys and other birds of prey for the pleasure of the kid’s attention. He didn’t know that much about raptors. Birds weren’t really his thing. Which was cute, given he’d gone down in flames for the sake of an endangered species of cockatoo.
I need a wee, Kai announced as they came into the forecourt.
Litre of Coke, I wonder why, said Gemma.
Keely followed them through to the lifts. Thought of the same sequence from a couple of days before. Their meeting in the dim lobby. And felt strangely cheered. They rode up in a companionable lull and at the top floor Gemma gave the jouncing boy the keys, sent him on ahead.
Is it safe?
Is what safe?
Letting him run like that, letting him go on his own.
She fixed him with a smirk. What are you, a kid expert, too?
He shrugged, a bit stung. In the distance the screen door slapped; the kid was inside.
For Gawdsake, aim to please! she bellowed after him.
They were silent a few moments.
So, tell me, he said, what did happen to my rats?
Ah, she said. Me, actually.
What d’you mean?
When you all moved. You left em with me.
Geez, I don’t even remember.
I was that excited. Almost forgot why you had to go, I was so thrilled.
So how did it go?
Lasted one day. First night I fed em all rum and raisin ice cream. Thought I’d spoil em. And in the morning they were cactus. Every one of em. Toes up.
Keely honked with laughter.
Fat as tennis balls, they were. Cried me eyes out.
Oh well. They died happy.
As they reached Keely’s door Kai belted back down the walkway.
How do you spell it?
Spell what? said Gemma.
The eagle bird.
Osprey, said Keely, spelling it out for him. I can show you one on the computer. Actually I know where one lives.
For real?
Yeah. True. I can show you.
Today?
Kai —
Well, today’s a bit hard.
Tomorrow?
You got school, said Gemma.
Nan, it’s Sunday!
Well, Tom’s busy.
Actually I’m not.
Well, it’s your funeral.
It’d be fun. We can all go.
Terrific, she said without enthusiasm.
I’m gonna get ready, said Kai, turning for home.
It’s tomorrow, love, said Gemma with tender exasperation.
The screen door slapped to. Keely bellied up to the rail and looked down at the beetle-backs of the tenants’ vehicles below.
Listen, he said. If you need someone to look after him. I mean, I know you work at night.
We’re fine, she said. He’s used to it.
Sure. And I guess you can’t be too careful.
Gemma stood beside him, forearms on the rail. Her hair luffed against his arm in the wind. She smelt like the mums of the old neighbourhood, of smoke and aluminium deodorant, fried food.
Well, she said. I didn’t go to any uni, but I’m smart enough to trust a Keely.
I don’t even know what that means.
How is she?
Faith? She’s in Singapore.
I mean your mum.
Oh. She’s great.
Must’ve been proud.
Yeah?
I used to see you on the telly.
Oh, he said with a grimace.
In a suit. With them greenies.
Yep. That was me.
You their lawyer or somethin?
Campaigner, he said. Spokesperson.
Spokesperson.
Anyway. Doris is great, he said. I’m calling her right now. About tomorrow.
She’s comin?
What? No.
Oh. Right. Well.
Is ten okay?
For what?
Birdwatching.
Christ, she said. Can’t wait.
Years ago an old friend from uni told Keely that only two good things ever came out of Fremantle. And both of those were bridges. He thought of her as the train trundled across the Old Traffic Bridge towards the gilded city. The river shining below for a moment and then the farther shore suddenly beneath him. Melissa was from a stolid suburb of Perth. Wembley, if memory served. She’d gone on to teach history and English. Went back and did a master’s degree. Or maybe it was a doctorate. But last he heard she was up at the mines along with everybody else, flying in and out in hi-viz every fortnight, making four times the dough for half the hours. As a bus driver. Said it was boring as hell but the money soothed all wounds. The way she said it sounded defensive. And that saddened him. As if she expected a crack about her being another cashed-up bogan. What a pious knob he was.
The train eased through the stops until there was no mistaking the tiny but telling territorial differences. The trophy cars. The pouty boutiques. The irrepressible confidence of life in the dress circle.
* * *
He found Doris in the restaurant courtyard with a glass of something newly poured. She was jotting things in a spiral notepad. In the fading light, beneath the trellised vines, his mother was as handsome as ever, perhaps a little less approachable for the self-possession she projected these days. Against the rough pavers and terracotta pots, she was silvery, slim, more noticeable than a son might prefer. Her thick grey hair was twisted into girlish plaits that flapped against her arms and when she hoisted them across her shoulders and stood to greet him, the ethnic confusion of bangles clunked and chimed chaotically – that maddening, reassuring clangour. They were a nightmare at the movies, those hoops, clanking and rattling at every moment of mirth or dramatic intensity, but they’d become the sound of her. She was a calm, quiet person, often so restrained that without the bracelets and baubles you’d never register the intensity of her excitement or agitation. That was the bit of her he remembered most from his bruised adolescence: the chatter a
nd rattle of bangles as she turned pages and made notes, studying late into the night after he and his sister were in bed.
Well, she said, pouring him a glass. What a good idea. Monday really was too long to wait.
You must know somebody. To get a table Saturday night.
Bollocks, she said. I promised we’d arrive early, eat like pokie machines —
And tip like a Haulpak truck, eh?
Money, she said with a sigh.
They’re right. It talks.
But wouldn’t it be lovely if now and then it had something interesting to say.
Keely smiled, enduring her benevolent glance – yes, he was a ruin – and tried to give his full attention to the riesling she’d ordered. Something from the Porongurups, something new.
Well?
Nice, he said. He swished it round his glass, in his mouth. Beneath its citric charm there was something almost sandy. He felt his temples draw in a little, like windows pressed against their frames by a suddenly opened door. He realized Doris was speaking.
Sorry, he said. What?
Nothing, she said. I was just faffing on about the wine. To impress you.
But her face had fallen and he suspected she’d been talking about something more important. Doris, love, I’m always impressed.
She smiled for him and it smarted.
He drew himself up, took in the rich spillover of kitchen vapours, the briny scent of the river. Saw his right leg twitching waywardly. The house music – some generic World nonsense – was loud. He shot a look at the staff flexing their tatts by the kitchen pass. No use asking them to turn it down; these days restaurant music was not for the paying customer.
Hey, he said into the taut pause in proceedings. I might come by tomorrow and grab the dinghy.
Just in time.
How’s that?
I was getting ready to turf it out at the next street collection.
Couldn’t blame you.
Well, it’s been a while.
I’m thinking of a spin on the river.
Good. Lovely.
Listen – did I sleepwalk as a kid?
I won’t even inquire about that rapid transition.
Sorry.
Somebody once peed in the linen press, if I recall.
Don’t remember that.
Well, she said with a laugh. Then you may have your answer.
But you would have said. If it was one of us there’d be an inescapable family legend.
Probably. But I do recall small bodies ghosting about in the night. Having to steer them back to bed.
Kids from the street, he said. Your lame ducks.
Lame ducks? she said with arched brows.
Doris let him marinate a moment. He saw the irony. Now that he was the chief wounded bird in her life, the least functional member of the family. He raised his glass, all the acknowledgement and surrender he could manage.
I remember a lot of sheets on the line, a lot of wet beds. All those kids you took in.
They had their reasons, she said.
I don’t doubt it.
But no. Neither of you wandered or wet the bed.
Huh.
A long moment passed. Doris jingled.
Why d’you ask, love?
Keely sipped his wine, tried not to gulp.
Oh. Nothing, really.
She gave a diffident nod but he knew she wasn’t buying it. She hoisted a clacking arm and summoned one of the prowling narcissists for some service.
Keely tried to address the menu but he was preoccupied by her heightened watchfulness. The flash of her specs coming off and on – clunkitty-click. Every vegetable, every bit of protein on the list had a provenance more complex than a minor Rembrandt. And he didn’t know what half of it meant. What the fuck was a coxcomb of Serrano solar? Or was he just obtuse? Christ, he was starting to sweat. He was leaving great smudgy fingerprints.
Food, she said. It wasn’t always this stressful.
He smiled. What a lovely, impressive old duck his mother was. By some obscure law of nature he was expected to supersede her, yet in her presence he felt like a flake. It wasn’t really what she said that made him feel wet and feeble, it was just who she was, what she’d done for Faith and for him, and what she’d achieved for herself. A young widow with two kids, she’d gone back to finish high school, studied social work part-time and kept two jobs as well as a home life. After that, the law degree, and all the quixotic social justice causes. Daughter of a wharfie, wife of a diesel mechanic, Doris may look like Julie Christie but her voice was still pure Blackboy Crescent, as broad and dry as the coastal plain.
As if resisting the catalogue of fetishes on the menu, she ordered briskly, almost offhandedly, and he found himself following suit. The waitperson stalked off as if aggrieved by their want of reverence and after a shared chuckle they fell silent. Doris drank her wine, chewed her lip. Keely felt his pulse quicken. He sensed trouble.
Well, she murmured, setting her glass down carefully, turning it worryingly once or twice. Here’s an interesting piece of information I’ve been wanting to share all day.
Oh dear, he said, tamping down his panic. You’re actually looking over your shoulder.
Just being sensible.
You’re running for parliament.
Don’t be absurd.
Then what?
The Crime and Corruption Commission is about to call before it a certain lobbyist.
Keely rocked back in his seat. Placed his hands gently upon the table.
Relating to certain matters involving the rezoning of a nature reserve and a subsequent real estate development.
Old news, he said, feeling the pulse in his throat. Ancient history.
In the wake of statements by a shire councillor and a town planner, now deceased. Along with the lobbyist, they’re hauling in at least one member of parliament and several senior public servants.
Why tell me? he said. I don’t even care anymore.
Some methodical drongo kept files, a diarized record. Documenting at least one payment of seventy thousand dollars to a public officer, an inducement from the developer.
One bit of evidence. Hardly a case.
And phone intercepts.
Shit, he said. They knew all along?
Or at least had their suspicions.
Well, whacko, he said bitterly. Put out the flags.
This is just the beginning, Tom. It’s all going to come out.
This is Perth, Doris. Nothing ever comes out. People keep their heads down. They’re shit-scared and they have every right to be. These pricks will string it out forever; they’re lawyered up till doomsday, they’ll wear the CCC to a nub and walk away.
No. Not this time.
Oh, what does it even matter?
It matters that you told the truth. You were right all along.
Of course I was fucking right, he thought, setting his glass down with monumental care. Had she fallen for the smear like everyone else? Was this why she was so excited, because she’d thought he was the embittered nutter they cast him as?
Tom, are you alright?
Fine, he said through his teeth.
You’ll be vindicated.
Redeemed.
Those words still mean something to me.
Yes, he conceded.
I know it’s been hard.
You’re going to tell me it was worth it?
I wish you could have confided in someone. We could have tackled it strategically.
I spent every day for fifteen years doing nothing else, Doris. But we lose. Not because we’re rubbish at it. That’s just how it works. We’re meant to lose. And campaign and calculate all we like, the bulldozers still arrive, the agencies wash their hands, the media get their little flash of colour and it’s back to business as usual. We’re the soft story wedged in before the sports results. Twice a week in a slow week.
Look, I know it’s hard not to be cynical —
Remember the old slogan? EPA: Eve
ry Proposal Accepted. Used to think it was hyperbole, propaganda. But it’s pretty much the truth. Like every other arm of government, it’s a servant of industry, ‘facilitator of ongoing prosperity’. Bribery isn’t even necessary. That’s the real insult. The system works beautifully without it.
But in this instance we’re talking about a prima facie case of actual corruption. And I think it’ll stick.
You really have drunk the Kool-Aid.
Doris blinked. She leant across the table and he knew by the venomous rattle of Third World hardware that he’d crossed a line.
I’m sorry, he said, but it sounded hollow.
Who do you think you’re impressing, some doe-eyed intern in a sarong?
Doris —
You think you’re the only person who has to live and work in this hothouse? I’ve been dealing with this little club of red-faced chancers since you were a schoolboy. You think I don’t know what it is to be traduced?
Really, he said. I apologize.
Anyway, that’s my news. For what it’s worth.
It’s just that being vindicated —
We needn’t talk about it.
There’s no job waiting, no welcome back. You saw how fast we settled. The donors were bolting like rats from a housefire. WildForce couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. And now no one’ll touch me. All for a few trees and fifty birds with faces only a mother could love.
Mothers are like that.
It was stupid. I mean, we’ve lost so many bigger battles, places more important in the scheme of things. When I saw those trees falling I didn’t even feel anything. But that little black cloud of birds. And the wailing hippies and the mums and dads there in their sunsmart hats, and the poor bird-boffin with his specs broken —
Let’s not talk about it.
I just lit up. Like a flare.
I know. We all saw.
And you know, it felt great. Five or six minutes. Like, I don’t know what. Like vomiting hot coals.
Isaiah, said Doris.
He looked at her. Those glittering eyes. The rueful smile. Saw how afraid she was for him, how long she’d kept herself in check. He was ashamed. But angry, too. That there could only ever be one subject.
Oh well, he said, trying to draw this line of conversation to an end. Too late the hero, eh?
Never too late, she said. Never.
To the good fight, he said, brandishing his glass. And all our lost causes.