Jago put the duffel on his bed—Selevan could see this much from where he still stood, unsure whether to sit or stand, to go or remain—and he began opening the drawers of the built-in chest. And what came to Selevan then was what should have come the moment he saw the duffel in Jago’s hands: His friend was leaving.
He said, “Where you off to, Jago?”
“What I said.” Jago came to the door again, this time a small stack of neatly folded shorts and vests in his hands. “Things’re finished here. It’s time for me to shove off. Never stay in one place long, anyway. Follow the sun, the surf, the seasons…”
“But the season’s here. It’s just coming on. It’s round the corner. Where you going to find a better season than what you’d get here?”
Jago hesitated, half turned towards the bed. It seemed that this was something he’d not considered: the where of his journey. Selevan saw his shoulders alter. There was something less definite about his posture. Selevan pressed the point.
“And anyways, you got friends here. That counts for something. Let’s face it, you see a doctor yet for those shakes of yours? I reckon they’re going to get worse, and then where’ll you be if you set off on your own?”
Jago seemed to think about this. “Doesn’t much matter, like I said. My work is finished. All’s left is the waiting.”
“For what?”
“For…you know. Neither one of us is a hatchling, mate.”
“For dying, you mean? Tha’s rubbish. You got years. What the bloody hell did those coppers do to you?”
“Not a sodding thing.”
“Can’t believe you, Jago. If you’re talking of dying—”
“Dying’s got to be faced. So’s living, for that matter. They’re part of each other. And they’re meant to be natural.”
Selevan felt a margin of relief when he heard this. He didn’t like to think of Jago pondering the idea of dying because he didn’t like to think what this suggested about his friend’s intentions. He said, “Glad to hear that, at least. The natural bit.”
“Because…?” Jago smiled slowly as comprehension dawned. He shook his head in the way a fond grandparent might react to a beloved child’s mischief. “Oh. That. Well, I could end it easy enough, couldn’t I, since I’ve finished up here and there’s not much point in carrying on. There’s lots of places to do it in these parts cause it’d look like an accident and no one’d know the difference, eh. But if I did that, might end it for him as well and we can’t have that. No. There’s no end to something like this, mate. Not if I can help it.”
CADAN HAD JUST ARRIVED at LiquidEarth when the phone call came. He could hear that his father was in the shaping room and Jago was nowhere to be found, so he answered it himself. A bloke said, “That Lewis Angarrack?” and when Cadan said no, he said, “Fetch him, eh. Got to talk to him.”
Cadan knew better than to bother Lew in the middle of shaping a board. But the bloke insisted that this couldn’t wait and no, he didn’t want to leave a message.
So Cadan went to fetch his father, not opening the door but pounding on it to be heard over the tools. The power planer switched off. Lew himself appeared, his mask lowered and his eye gear around his neck.
When Cadan told him there was a phone call for him, Lew looked into the glassing area and said, “Jago not back?”
“Didn’t see his car outside.”
“What’re you doing here, then?”
Cadan felt that old plummeting of his spirits. He stifled a sigh. “Phone,” he reminded Lew.
Lew took off the latex gloves he wore for work, and he strode to the reception area. Cadan followed for want of anything better to do, although he peeked into the spraying room and considered the lineup of shaped boards to be painted as well as the kaleidoscope of bright colours that had been tested against the walls. In reception he could hear his father saying, “What’s that you say?…No, of course not…Where the hell is he? C’n you put him on the phone?”
Cadan wandered back out. Lew was behind the counter where the phone sat amid the mounds of paperwork on the card table that served as his desk. He glanced at Cadan and then away.
“No,” Lew said to the bloke on the other end of the line. “I didn’t know…I damn well would have appreciated it if he’d told me…I know he’s not well. But all I can tell you is what he told me. Had to step out to speak to a mate in a bit of bother up at the Salthouse…You? Then you know more than I do…”
Cadan clocked that they were talking about Jago, and he did question where the old man was. Jago had been nothing if not a model employee for his dad during the time he’d worked at LiquidEarth. Indeed, Cadan often felt that Jago’s performance as a stellar worker bee was one of the reasons he himself looked so bad. At work on time, never out for illness, not a complaint about anything, nose to the grindstone, perfectionist in what he had to do. For Jago not to be here now brought up the subject of why and made Cadan listen more closely to the conversation his dad was having.
“Redundant? God, no. No reason for that. I’ve a pile of work and the last thing on my mind is making anyone…Well, then, what did he say?…Finished? Finished?” Lew looked round the reception area, particularly at the clipboard on which the orders for boards were attached. There was a thick stack of them, the mark of longtime surfers’ respect for Lew Angarrack’s work. No computer design and computer shaping here, but the real thing, all of it done by hand. So few craftsmen could do what Lew did. They were a dying breed, their work an art form that would pass into surfing lore like the earliest long boards fashioned of wood. In their place would come the hollow-core boards, the computerised designs, everything programmed into a machine that would belch out a product no longer lovingly shaped by a master who rode waves himself and consequently knew what an extra channel or the degree of tilt of a fin would truly do to a board’s performance. It was a pity, really.
“Gone altogether?” Lew was saying. “Damn…No. There’s nothing more I can tell you. You seem to know more than I do anyway…I couldn’t say…I’ve been busy myself. He didn’t seem any different…I can’t say that I did.”
Shortly thereafter, he rang off and he spent a moment staring at the clipboard. “Jago’s gone, then,” he finally said.
“What d’you mean, gone?” Cadan asked. “For the day? Forever? Something happen to him?”
Lew shook his head. “He just left.”
“What? Casvelyn?”
“That’s it.”
“Who was that?” Cadan nodded at the phone although his father hadn’t looked at him to see the nod.
“Bloke Jago lives by in the caravan park. Talked to him as he was packing up but couldn’t get much sense out of him.” Lew took off his headphones and dropped them onto the table. He leaned against the counter with its display of fins, wax, and other paraphernalia, his hands supporting him and his head lowered as if he were studying what was inside the case. “Well, that buggers us,” he said.
A moment passed during which Cadan saw Lew reach up and rub his neck where it was no doubt sore from shaping the surfboard blanks. He said, “Good thing I came by, then.”
“Why’s that?”
“I c’n help you out.”
Lew raised his head. He said, “Cade, I’m far too tired to argue with you just now.”
“No. I don’t mean what you think,” Cadan told him. “I c’n see how you’d reckon I was seizing my moment: Now he’ll have to let me spray the boards. But that’s not what this is.”
“What is it, then?”
“Just…me helping you. I c’n shape if you like. Not as good as you but you can show me. Or I c’n glass. Or spray. Or do the hand sanding. Doesn’t matter to me.”
“And why would you want to do that, Cadan?”
Cadan shrugged. “You’re my dad,” he said. “Blood’s thicker than…well, you know.”
“What about Adventures Unlimited?”
“That didn’t work out.” Cadan saw his father’s expression alter to one of resi
gnation. He hastened to add, “I know what you’re thinking but they didn’t sack me. It’s just that I’d rather work for you. We’ve got something here and we shouldn’t let it…die.”
Die. There was the frightening word. Cadan hadn’t realised just how frightening die actually was until this moment because he’d spent his life so focused on another word entirely and that word was leave. Yet trying to stay one step ahead of loss didn’t prevent loss from happening, did it? The Bounder still bounded and other people still walked away. As Cadan himself had done time and again before it could be done to him, as Cadan’s father had done for much the same reasons.
But some things endured in spite of one’s dread, and one of them was the blessing of blood.
“I want to help you,” Cadan said. “I’ve been playing it stupid. You’re the expert, after all, and I reckon you know how I can learn this business.”
“And that’s what you want to do? Learn this business?”
“Right,” Cadan said.
“What about the bike? The X Games or whatever they are?”
“At the moment, this is more important. I’ll do what I can to keep it important.” Cadan peered at his father closely then. “That good enough for you, Dad?”
“I don’t understand. Why would you want to do it, Cade?”
“Because of what I just called you, you nutter.”
“What was that?”
“Dad,” Cadan said.
SELEVAN HAD WATCHED JAGO drive off, and he wondered about all the time he’d spent with the bloke. He could come up with no answers to the questions that were filling his head. No matter how he looked at things, he couldn’t suss out what the other man had meant and something told him that the entire subject didn’t bear too much consideration anyway. He’d phoned LiquidEarth nonetheless in the hope that Jago’s employer might shed some light on the situation. But what he’d learned told him that whatever Jago had meant by finished, it wasn’t connected to surfboards. Beyond that, he realised he didn’t want to know. Perhaps he was being an out-and-out coward, but some things, he decided, were none of his business.
Tammy wasn’t one of them. He got into the car with all her possessions packed, and he drove to Clean Barrel Surf Shop. He didn’t go in at once to fetch her as there was time to dispense with before she closed the shop for the day. So he parked down on the wharf and he walked from there to Jill’s Juices where he purchased a takeaway coffee—extra strong.
Then he returned to the wharf where he walked the length of it on its north side, edging along the canal. Several fishing boats nudged the dock here, barely bobbing in the water. Mallards floated placidly near them—an entire family of them with mum and dad and, unbelievably, a dozen babies—and a kayaker paddled silently in the direction of Launceston, taking exercise in the late afternoon.
Selevan realised that it felt like spring. It had been spring for more than six weeks now, of course, but that had been a spring of the calendar until this point. This was a spring of weather. True, there was brisk wind off the sea, but it felt different, as the wind does when the weather shifts. On it the scent of newly turned earth came to him from someone’s garden, and he saw that in the window boxes of the town’s library, winter pansies had been replaced with petunias.
He walked to the end of the wharf, where the old canal lock was closed, holding back the water till someone wanted to go out to sea in one of the fishing boats. From this vantage point, he could see the town rising above him to the north, with the old Promontory King George Hotel—a place for adventurous tourists now—acting as doorman to a different world.
Things change, Selevan thought. That had proved the case in his life, even when it had seemed to him that nothing was ever going to change at all. He’d wanted a career in the Royal Navy to escape what he’d seen as a life of unfaltering drudgery, but the fact of the matter was that the details of that life had altered in minute ways, which led to big ways, which led to life not being drudgery at all if one just paid attention. His kids grew; he and the wife turned older; a bull was brought by to service the cows; calves were born; the sky was bright one day and threatening the next; David moved off to join the army; Nan ran off to marry…One could call it good or bad or one could just call it life. And life continued. A bloke didn’t get what he wanted all the time, and that’s just how it was. One could thrash about and hate that fact or one could cope. He’d seen that daft poster in the library one time and he’d scoffed at it: When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Bloody stupid, he’d thought. But not really, he saw now. Not altogether.
He took a deep breath. One could taste the salt air in this spot. More than at Sea Dreams because Sea Dreams was way up on the cliff and here the sea was close, yards away, and it beat against the reefs and wore them down, patiently, drawn by the course of nature and physics or magnetic forces or whatever it was because he didn’t know and it didn’t matter.
He finished his takeaway coffee and crushed the cup in his hand. He carried this back to a bin and paused there to light a fag, which he smoked on the way to Clean Barrel. There, Tammy was working at the till. The cash drawer was open and she was counting up the day’s take, alone in the shop. She hadn’t heard him come in.
He observed her in silence. He saw Dot in her, which was odd, as he’d never seen the similarity before. But there it was, in the way she cocked her head and exposed an ear. And the shape of that ear…that little dip in the earlobe…it was Dot all right and he remembered that because…oh this was the worst of it, but he’d seen that earlobe time and again as he’d mounted her and done his loveless business on her and there couldn’t have been a scrap of pleasure in it for the poor woman, which he regretted now. He hadn’t loved her, but that hadn’t been a fault of hers, had it, although he’d blamed her for not being whatever it was he’d thought she should be in order for him to love her.
He harrumphed because things were dead tight inside him and a good harrumph had always loosened them up a bit. The noise made Tammy raise her head, and when she saw him, she looked a bit wary and who could blame her. They’d been having rather a dicey time of it. She’d not spoken to him other than in polite response to what he said to her since he’d found that letter under her mattress and waved it in her face.
“Shouldn’t be in here alone,” he told her.
“Why not?” She put her hands on either side of the cash drawer, and for a moment Selevan thought she was doing it because she expected him to leap on the funds and shove them down the front of his flannel shirt. But then she pulled it out altogether and carried it to the back room, where extra inventory and cleaning supplies and the like were kept along with an overlarge antique safe. She stowed the cash drawer inside this safe, slammed its door home, and twirled the combination lock. Then she shut the back room door, locked this as well, and put the key in a hidey spot that had been created for it on the underside of the telephone.
Selevan said to her, “Best ring up your guv, girl.” He was aware that his voice was gruff, but it was always gruff when he spoke to her, and he couldn’t make it any different.
She said, “Why?”
“Time to leave here.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes did. The shape of them. Just like her auntie Nan, Selevan thought. Just like the time he’d told Nan that she could sodding shove off if she didn’t like the house rules, one of which was her dad deciding bloody who his daughter would see and when she would see him and believe you me, lass, it’s not going to be that yob with the motorbikes over my dead body. Five of them, mind you. Five bleeding motorbikes and every time he’d roar up on a new one with his fingernails all gone to grease and his knuckles blacked and who the bloody hell would have thought he’d make a go of it and create those…what did they call them? Choppings? Chopped? No, choppers. That was it. Choppers. Just like in America, where everyone was bloody crazy and rich enough to buy just about anything, weren’t they. This is what you want? he’d bellowed at Nan. This? This?
Tammy didn’t argue as Nan might have done. She didn’t storm round the shop and slam things about to make a scene. She said, “All right, then, Grandie,” and she sounded resigned. She added, “But I don’t take it back.”
“What’s that?”
“What I said before.”
Selevan frowned and tried to recall their last conversation which had been a conversation and not merely a request to pass the salt or the mustard or the bottle of brown sauce. He recalled her reaction when he’d waved the letter in her face. He said, “That. Well. Can’t be helped, can it.”
“Can be helped. But it doesn’t matter now. This doesn’t change anything, you know, no matter what you think.”
“What’s that?”
“This. Sending me off. Mum and Dad thought it would change things as well, when they made me leave Africa. But it won’t change a thing.”
“Think that, do you?”
“I know it.”
“I don’t mean the bit about leaving and the things changing in your head. I mean the bit about what I think.”
She looked confused. But then her expression altered in that quicksilver way of hers. Did every adolescent do that? he wondered.
“S’pose,” he said, “your grandie’s more’n he seems to be. Ever reckon that? I wager not. So collect your belongings and make that phone call to your guv. Tell him where you’ll leave the key and let’s shove off.”
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