To go to the toilet, I suspect.
Or to find a real snake to throw back at Noah.
And where is Noah?
He’s quietly returned to his sleeping bag, climbed inside and zipped it up.
I hope he doesn’t have a zoo of plastic animals hiding in there. A goanna, a crocodile, a spider – all ready to launch across the campground at unsuspecting sleepers in the night.
Our nerves couldn’t stand it.
Ms Pine stands. ‘Everyone back to bed. We’ll discuss this tomorrow.’
Tim hurls the log as far as he can throw it into the river. Sparks flicker over the blazing trail and I picture catastrophic bushfires broadcast on the evening news for the next week. Smoke-affected teenagers rescued by helicopters with one nerdy kid holding what looks suspiciously like a melted chess set, Mr Jackson valiantly trying to explain how it all started.
A plastic snake, a berserk warrior.
Tim swears loudly and repeatedly as he walks back to his sleeping bag.
He looks across at me.
I try to look innocent.
I AM INNOCENT!
Tim doesn’t seem to think so. He says ‘shit’ once more before climbing back into his bag. Mr Jackson winces at the language, then buries the plastic snake in a shallow grave, muttering darkly about toxic fumes and bad language.
Noah
Noah wakes impulsively early, pokes his head out of the sleeping bag and whispers, ‘Psst, Darcy. You want to watch the sunrise?’
Short answer?
‘Piss off!’
Long answer?
‘Piss off, Noah!’
Noah shuffles around in his bag until I begin to get a little suspicious of what he’s doing. I hope no-one wakes and hears him.
Can’t he do it somewhere discreet?
Like Africa, or the wild jungle of his bedroom.
Noah rolls over and grunts, banging his head on his boots beside the sleeping bag. He says ‘damn’ quietly and then unzips the bag and quickly climbs out, rubbing his hands with the cold. He’s fully dressed.
So that’s what he was doing in the bag. Thank God and the Cat Empire.
He reaches across for his boots and slips them on.
He walks down to the river and sits beside the bank.
The mist rises from the water and a long-legged bird on the opposite bank searches for food. The dull orange glow of the sun peeks over the hill. It’s like a romantic early Australian painting of the virgin bush. If only the virgin Noah wasn’t sitting in the foreground.
The sound of snoring comes from beyond the fire. There’s no chance of more sleep, so I try to get dressed undercover.
No wonder Noah did all that grunting.
After ten minutes of wrestling with jeans, shirt, sweater and socks that really should visit a laundry immediately, I climb out of the bag and walk down to the river.
The virgin bushman has the only log dry enough to sit on. I deposit myself a suitable distance away, hoping he’ll let me quietly enjoy the sunrise.
‘I slept fine, Darcy. Just like in a real bed.’
‘Ugghh.’
‘That was pretty funny last night. Tim sure looked stupid. And scared.’
Not half as scared as you’ll be when he tries to get even later on, Noah.
I look at the dreaming mist, the glassy river, the soft light, a whisper of cloud. Which reminds me.
‘So what is it with you and poetry, Noah?’
He looks at me, confused.
‘Rescuing dead books from rose bushes. Remember?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on, Noah. Fess up.’
He glances back at the sleeping camp.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’
‘Not if it involves plastic snakes and chess.’
Noah’s voice is quiet. ‘My dad came home from work on Monday last week. First thing he does is switch on the television for his favourite quiz show. He tries to beat the contestant, you know. He can’t hear the correct answer over his own voice. He thinks he’s right, even when he’s wrong. Sometimes I sit with him and we both yell at the screen.’
‘That’s not much of a secret, Noah.’
‘We were watching the show and Dad starts stammering, trying to get the words out, only nothing comes, just a squawk, like a sick bird. A little bit of dribble leaks from his mouth, not foamy or anything, just dribble. He still can’t get the word out. Mum looks at me as if I know what to do? Dad reaches up to wipe his mouth and his arm starts jerking and waving uncontrollably in front of his face, like he’s conducting an orchestra.’
Noah shakes his head. ‘Mum reaches out to hold his arm. His eyes lose focus, his jaw goes slack, his head tips forward, his body slumps. Mum screams, as if the noise can stop him falling. And do you know what I do? Come on, guess?’
I don’t know what to say.
‘Nothing. Dad is fading away in front of me.’
His voice is tense. ‘Mum shouts my name and I snap out of it and call an ambulance.’
Noah sighs and closes his eyes, remembering.
A gaggle of ducks fly in formation down the river, their necks craning forward.
‘They took ten minutes to arrive. Me and Mum sat beside Dad, each holding a hand. Mum kept saying “You’ll be okay, dear,” but I don’t think he could hear.
‘When they wheeled him outside to the ambulance, all of the neighbours were standing around. The ambulance driver came up to me and said he’d be okay.
‘I wonder how many times she says that each day?
‘Mum jumped in the back with Dad and they drove off.’
Across the water, the long-legged bird digs in the mud.
There are tears in Noah’s eyes.
‘He’s still in hospital. He can’t talk. One side of his face is slack.
‘Mum holds a glass with a straw. He sucks as hard as he can and the water dribbles out. Me and Mum sit either side of his bed, looking at him.
‘He closes his eyes, probably bored with us.’
Noah shakes his head.
‘We can’t ask him questions because he can’t answer, can he? He can’t hold a pen to write anything. Mum gets me to tell him about school.
‘Bloody hell. I never told him when he was well. Why would he want to hear that stuff now?’
Noah looks down at his shoe.
A lady bug walks slowly along the laces. He reaches down and flicks it away.
The bug lands on a rock and keeps walking.
‘I tell him school is good. What else can I do? Dad stares across the room at the bloke in the opposite bed. The man has a tube attached to his arm and it goes up to a machine on one of those stands with a bag of fluid. They’re feeding him through the tube. The machine beside his bed makes a humming noise. Dad stares at this man. And I stare at Dad.’
Noah takes a deep breath–
‘He has dark bristles on his chin, flecked with grey. But the hair doesn’t grow evenly. There are bits where it’s shaded and full and other bits, just below the ear, where it looks smooth. His face can’t even grow a beard properly any more. Dad used to shave every day for work. Mum asked the nurse and she said they shave patients once a week.’
Noah rubs his own chin, thinking aloud.
‘I tell Mum I’ll shave him if she doesn’t want to. I can do it. I look at the folds of his skin, imagining how I’m going to do it. I don’t even know if he uses an electric shaver or a razor. I hope it’s electric. I whisper in his ear, “I’ll be careful, Dad. Don’t worry.”’
Noah sighs. ‘He smiles, even though his mouth stays limp and crooked. His eyes flicker. Just enough to tell me that it’s okay, me shaving him.’
Noah reaches down for a small round pebble. He tosses it as high as he can and it lands in the middle of the river, barely disturbing the smooth surface.
‘And that’s what I’m going to do, Darcy. Shave my dad until he comes back to us. A whole person again.’
I want to reach across and give Noah a m
anly hug, to let him know there’s someone who cares, to reassure him his dad will pull through, but I hear sounds of waking schoolboys coming from the campsite.
‘But why get the poetry book, Noah? What’s that got to do...’
‘Ms Hopkins said something about a life discarded and I reacted. I don’t give a shit about poetry.’
Noah gets up without looking at me and walks back to the campfire.
***
The smell of sausages and bacon drifts from the barbecue Mr Jackson has set up beside the bus. Should naked flames, gas bottles and petrol tanks be in close proximity? Bellbirds, hidden in the high branches, call to each other to come and watch the explosion. We stand in line, each of us holding a single slice of white bread. As we reach the barbecue, Mr Jackson says ‘Bacon or sausage’. Audrey, Stacey and Miranda, the vegetarians, choose tomato sauce smeared over their slice of bread, laden with extra onions. Onions cooked in bacon fat. Tim asks for bacon and sausage. Mr Jackson doesn’t have the energy to say no.
Noah sits on his sleeping bag, chewing slowly, staring towards the river. Audrey stands beside the fire, alone. I know where I want to go, but I’m not totally heartless. And besides, Claire has just walked over to Audrey for Part Two of Me and the pork chop story. Maybe her butcher provided today’s breakfast?
Noah finishes his white bread breakfast.
‘Do you think Jacko will give us seconds?’
‘Noah, have you seen how much dead animal is on the barbie?’
Noah walks to the bus. He turns and says, ‘You want extra, buddy?’
Buddy!
Buddy!!
I shake my head, quickly glancing at Tim. He’s stuffed a whole slice of bread and two sausages into his mouth. He wants to say something, I’m sure, but it’s taking him too long to swallow all that food. I have a sudden vision of prehistoric cavemen sitting around the campfire, gorging on an enormous leg of meat, blood dripping at their feet as a woolly mammoth lumbers towards them from out of the jungle. The last thing Caveman One (let’s call him Tim) says to his hairy friend is, ‘Ummm, tasty.’
And then both of them get squashed flat. Pancakes.
A-rowing we will go...
‘Mr Jackson, I have a suggestion.’
‘Not now, Darcy.’
He’s counting the canoes, again.
‘There’s fifteen, sir. Two people per canoe.’
‘Kayaks! They’re kayaks, not canoes. How many times have I said that.’
Mr Jackson has been a little testy since Ms Pine suggested they move the barbecue away from the bus. He sulked until the kayaks arrived. They were unloaded by two hairy outdoor types in waterproof jackets and rayon trousers. They dumped them by the river, counted the paddles, the lifejackets, the canoes – sorry, kayaks – got Mr Jackson to sign a form and told us they’d meet us at the dam in six hours. The one with the beard and the rasta hair jumped back into the truck and smiled at us. He stuck his head out the window and said, ‘Easy’.
They drove away in a haze of dust.
Easy.
‘I have a suggestion, sir. About sharing the kayaks.’
‘Yes, yes, Darcy, you can go with Noah.’
He turns to the group,
‘Come on everybody, pair up. Life jackets on.’
He fiddles with the buckle to his jacket, trying to tighten it.
‘Boy–girl, sir. That’s what we should do.’
He’s not listening, so involved in the simple difficulties of putting on a life jacket. Everyone is pairing up, dragging the kayaks into the shallows and tumbling aboard. Noah walks among the kayaks, trying to decide which one is the most seaworthy. Riverworthy?
‘Hey Darcy, let’s get the blue one.’
‘Mr Jackson!’ I almost shout his name. He looks up quickly as if I’ve fallen into the river and he may have to dive in, life jacket or not.
‘Sir. Why don’t we go boy–girl in the kayaks?’
Tim and Braith are already sitting in a green kayak, life jackets untied, paddles pushing away from the bank. Mr Jackson sees them and calls out, ‘Hold on, you two. It’s not a race.’
Which is exactly what Tim and Braith think it is as they paddle out to mid-stream.
Mr Jackson grabs the bow of the nearest kayak and calls to Ms Pine.
He looks at me and says, ‘Find somebody will you, Walker.’
Claire Rusina is standing on the sand calling to Audrey. Audrey looks at me and shrugs as if to say, ‘What can I do?’
My ideal answer is ‘hit Noah and Claire with a paddle!’
Audrey and Claire push off.
Noah pulls the kayak into the water,
‘Hurry up, Darcy. We don’t want to be left behind.’
Oh yes we do, Noah.
The first splash of water hits me in the face.
Noah paddles like an ironman high on caffeine. Except he keeps lifting the paddle out of the water at the wrong time. He doesn’t stroke so much as flap.
Or flail.
Or flounder.
There’s another f-word I’d like to use, but I’m too busy wiping drops of water from my face.
‘Just stroke, you goose!’
He turns around, a hurt look on his face.
‘No need for names, Darcy. It’s my first time.’
He’s telling me something I don’t already know?
‘Watch me, Noah.’
I dip the paddle in the water and sweep it slowly alongside the boat. Then I do it on the opposite side.
‘Slow and long, okay, Noah. Don’t splash.’
He nods and digs his paddle so far into the water the kayak tips alarmingly to one side. I quickly grab the cockpit, expecting to roll, leaning desperately the other way so the kayak rights itself. We rock to and fro for a few seconds like drunken sailors on a barstool.
Noah yells, ‘Sorry,’ and takes a deep breath.
This time he executes a beautiful flowing stroke. Except he doesn’t put the paddle into the water. The whoosh of murderous paddle fans my skull.
‘Almost got you!’
I’m glad someone thinks this is funny.
After five minutes of crisscrossing the river trying to head in a straight line, we achieve some mad pattern to our stroke work. Noah splashes and flails as I chart a course heading downstream. We don’t bother keeping up with most of the group, floating quietly along a few metres behind Stacey and Miranda. While Miranda strains, Stacey rests the paddle across the kayak, lies back in the seat and lets her hands drift along in the water.
I wonder if there are bass in the river. Could they mistake Stacey’s fingers for fingerlings? One bite should be enough.
Actually, it’s not a bad idea. The simple way to get out of camp. All you lose is the tip of a finger.
A squadron of insects skim the river surface, poking tongues at the trout lurking below. We glide over weeds, submerged logs, the water stained rust brown. Noah whistles a tune. The back of his head resembles an inverted triangle. Thin neck, pinned-back ears, expanding to an over-sized brain. The stringy red hair looks like it’s never seen a comb, a brush, or shampoo.
Did Shakespeare ever go shopping for shampoo in the Elizabethan supermarket, reading the label on the bottle, trying to decide whether it offered his hair a better chance than plain soap? Did he use that piercing intellect to study the ingredients label and make a conscious choice? And did Mrs Shakespeare make her husband take out the rubbish every Wed nesday night? He’s in the book-lined study, deep into the love scene of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as his wife calls from the kitchen.
William mutters, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’
And did he have to take the dog for a walk in the park, looking the other way when it did its business? What sort of dog would Shakespeare own? A daschund. A German shepherd. Certainly not a greyhound. Genius and greyhounds don’t go together.
Much like Noah and kayaks.
Noah turns to me, grinning. ‘Hey Darcy. I feel just like Huckleberry Finn!’<
br />
We round the bend. Most of the group are pulling their kayaks onto a sandy beach. Tim and Braith take off their shirts and dive into the river, splashing the girls, trying to coax them into a swim. Tim’s laughter cackles over the constant splashing of Noah’s paddling.
I recline in my seat.
Noah paddles even harder.
‘Relax, Noah.’
He turns and whispers, ‘I don’t want to be last.’
He flicks his head towards Stacey and Miranda. We’re the only two kayaks left in the river.
Noah says, ‘Come on, buddy.’
A splash of water hits me in the face. Noah is doing this with or without me.
He’s so obvious, even Miranda notices. She starts paddling faster, urging Stacey to help. Stacey grips hard and joins in. They paddle like crazy windmills in a hurricane.
Noah grins. ‘We can do it, Darcy!’
He digs the paddle in deep and swishes.
Too deep.
The kayak tips awkwardly. I’m leaning too far back to help. Noah panics and leans the wrong way. The weight of the boat shifts dramatically and we start to roll. Miranda and Stacey stop paddling and stare open-mouthed.
We lurch sideways. Noah throws his paddle forward and flops into the water.
I take a deep breath and dive, hoping I can push far enough away from the upturned kayak.
The last sound I hear before going under is mocking laughter.
The water is cold, bracing and murky. I close my eyes in case I see schools of bass, piranha-like, swimming towards me. I come up spluttering and put my feet down to kick myself towards the kayak, floating off slowly downstream.
My feet touch the bottom and I stand.
The water is only chest deep.
Noah flails like a man falling from a towering sky scraper, his arms reaching desperately for something to hold onto. I walk over to him and grip his hands. He realises I’m standing up.
He stands as well.
A kookaburra laughs.
Tim and Braith and twenty-four students join in.
Mr Jackson does the honourable thing and stops our kayak from floating further downstream. I plod to the beach, dripping wet, embarrassed beyond belief.
Shrugging out of my life jacket, I casually say, ‘I felt like a swim.’
Slice Page 7