Carol was by then aware of Jan in conversation with Bruce and of Mark a long way up the beach. Heaven alone knew what Mark was up to; why he hadn’t come back with Jan. Carol tossed the hipsters at Colin’s tree, then latched her suitcase. She wanted to go back to Gerald, but knew she couldn’t. There was a limit to that sort of thing.
‘Thanks for the pants,’ Colin said.
‘That’s all right.’
‘I’m awfully sorry I swore at you last night.’
‘You didn’t mean it.’
‘I didn’t either. I’ll be careful with your pants, Carol. They’re new, aren’t they?’
‘They were. They’ve been in the sea now and you might be wearing them for years, anyway.’
He came out from behind the tree but didn’t notice the object in her hand. ‘They’re not too bad,’ he said, ‘I s’pose.’ And stood and looked at himself. ‘Well, I suppose they’ll do if Bruce doesn’t make it too hot for a fellow.’
‘Blow Bruce,’ said Carol.
‘Yeh. Blow him. I knew he’d laugh about the lap-lap; but fellows look good in them. Polynesians and Indians and fellows like that.’ Then he squirmed. ‘Gee, they’re wet . . . What did you mean – I might be wearing them for years?’
She shrugged. ‘Depends on where we are, doesn’t it?’
He pulled a face. ‘Well, that’s something we’ve got to work out. Don’t worry. We’ll work it out. Don’t you worry about that.’
His face was not as mobile as Mark’s but expressive nevertheless, in a level-headed way. She began to dislike herself for belittling this boy. Perhaps he was going to be their real strength. After all, he had proved himself already, hadn’t he? He might look a perfect sight but there was something of merit about Colin that even bony ribs and pink satin pants did not destroy.
‘You’ve got blood on you!’
‘Yeh,’ he said, ‘but it’s nothing. When I saw it I thought my innards were fallin’ out, but I don’t even remember it happening. It’s all right.’
It was amazing what a pair of pants, even pink pants, did for a fellow’s morale. He took her suitcase from her and was surprised by its weight. ‘What have you got in it – bricks?’
‘It’s all wet, Colin. And worthless, really.’
‘Nothing to eat in it?’
‘No.’
Then he saw the wireless set in her hand. ‘Your transistor!’ he screeched.
‘That’s right,’ she said, with a widening smile that she couldn’t hold back. She was an absolute stunner when she smiled like that.
‘Oh, bless you, Carol,’ he cried and dropped the suitcase and impulsively hugged her. Then suddenly realized that he had his arms around her and fell back embarrassed. ‘Does it work?’ he said, almost shyly.
‘Not yet. I suppose it’s too wet. We’ll have to dry it out.’
She offered it to him.
‘It’s a beauty,’ he said.
‘I know.’
‘Short-wave, too.’
‘It’s a good set, Colin. It’s Japanese. It wasn’t very expensive, but it’s a good one.’
‘That means we’ll be able to pick up Radio Australia and hear about ourselves on the news. If it’s short-wave we’ve just got to pick up something, Carol, haven’t we? Where do you switch it on?’
She showed him and he held it to his ear and turned the tuning knob. ‘It sure doesn’t work yet,’ he said, a little more soberly, ‘but I suppose it will when it’s dry. Do you think it will, Carol?’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’
‘It’s been in the water, that’s all. I mean, it mightn’t be just a matter of drying out. Perhaps parts of it have been spoilt. Gee, wouldn’t that be a blighter . . . Does anyone know anything about wireless?’
‘Gerald you mean, or Bruce?’
‘Gerald mainly. Bruce wouldn’t. Bruce wouldn’t know any more about it than I do. Gee, I hope we can get it to work.’
He looked at her seriously, with a straight face and steady eyes and handed the set back to her. ‘If there’s a local station or anything coming in strongly we’ll know where we are then. But it’ll be awful if it doesn’t work, Carol. Wouldn’t it be awful, though.’ He sounded rather breathless and they started back down the beach.
Carol had an eye on Gerald. She was edging his way rather than directly back to Bruce and Jan. Gerald hadn’t opened his present; it was still on the sand beside him. Colin sensed her drift that way and said, ‘What’s biting Gerald?’ Then he saw that she was close to tears. ‘Aw,’ he said, ‘don’t carry on, Carol. He’ll be all right. He’s been through an awful lot.’
‘So’s every one else.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, except to herself.
‘Not the same way.’
‘It is the same way. You were just as brave as he was.’ She was vaguely surprised to realize that she meant it.
But Colin shook his head. It was all a bit hazy, anyway, and there were things about it that he didn’t want to drag up into the light of day; the memory of them was disturbing enough. Then he was looking into Bruce’s eyes – Bruce staring back, looking him up and down, though not with the good-natured insolence that was more typical of him.
‘Carol’s fixed me up,’ said Colin awkwardly, referring to his pink pants. ‘Not bad, eh? And she’s found her transistor, too!’
‘It doesn’t work yet,’ Carol said, ‘but I’m sure it will when we dry it out.’
But Colin had become aware of Jan. Obviously, she had been crying. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
She sighed. ‘Col . . . it looks as though you’ll have to bury Mr Jim.’
In that moment Carol’s heart went out to Colin, for he visibly stiffened and put her suitcase down with a jerky movement, as though his limbs were mechanical things.
‘I see,’ he said. That was something he had heard his father say in unpleasant situations. Then he added, not really meaning it, but hoping frantically for a response: ‘Why shouldn’t we do it together?’ But he answered his own question breathlessly when no one else answered it for him. ‘Yeh. It’s not for girls, is it? Or for you, Bruce.’
Bruce flexed his leg and looked wretched.
‘And certainly not for him.’ Colin meant the Gerald he had hated when he had lain sick on the floor of the Egret. ‘He’s a dead loss.’ Carol’s sharp intake of breath hastened him on. ‘Oh, not in everything. Not in everything. Just in some things. Where’s Mr Jim?’
Jan pointed. ‘That way.’
‘What’s Mark doing up there?’
‘Digging in the sand.’
‘With what?’
‘His hands.’
‘What happened to the shovel out of the crash kit?’
‘We lost it.’
‘Well, someone had better look for it. It’ll be out there somewhere. A shovel can’t float away.’
‘Look,’ said Bruce, ‘if the sea tore the Egret to bits it’d push a shovel for miles.’
‘I don’t reckon it would. I reckon a shovel’s different. It’d dig in.’
Carol said, ‘I’ll look,’ and went at once, running out to the wreck of the Egret.
Colin was trembling, but trying not to show it. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘we just can’t dig a hole in – in the sand. It’s got to be in – the ground.’
Bruce looked away. ‘That’s what I think. That’s what I keep telling Jan.’
‘And you can’t bury people without a preacher. People aren’t like scraps or dogs. They’re people.’
‘We’ve got to bury him,’ Jan said. ‘Things might get at him; it’d be awful. And we can make a cross. We can tie the pieces together with wire from the Egret . . . We can’t leave him there!’
‘Who’s been to a funeral?’ Colin said.
Colin hadn’t. Bruce hadn’t. Jan hadn’t.
‘You’re pretty good on the prayer book, Jan . . .’
‘I couldn’t . . .’ Almost a panic hit her.
‘Do you know what it says?’
‘Only bit
s . . . I can’t remember that sort of thing . . . I couldn’t – conduct a service.’ She sounded fervent, almost frantic.
‘When I get him in the ground,’ Colin said, ‘we must assemble to say a prayer. It’s got to be done right.’
‘Look,’ said Jan desperately, ‘Bruce reckons there might be a town back there . . . Do you think I should go and see?’
‘There’s no town,’ said Colin. ‘You know that.’
‘But there might be,’ Bruce said. ‘If you don’t go and look you’ll never know. Crikey; we might be only a couple of miles from help. There’ll be a parson there – and a doctor – and water – and food. After all, Jim’s past danger. We’re the ones that are in trouble now.’
‘Look,’ Colin said, surprising himself by his own vehemence, ‘if there was a town there’d be houses on the foreshore and boats and litter and . . . There’d be kids down here by now; it’s Saturday. And don’t tell me they wouldn’t have heard us last night. They’d have heard the engine; they’d have heard us crash. There’s not even a homestead; there’s nothin’; because they would have heard us, too . . .’ By then he was breathless and his voice had gone up the scale to a thin pitch and he had caught sight of his pink pants and felt foolish and miserable and ill-used. ‘Oh, crikey,’ he wailed, and ran away up the beach towards Mark.
Mark was sitting on the edge of the hole. ‘Swipe me,’ he said. ‘You look pretty.’
‘Aw, shut up.’
‘Anyway, pirates used to wear pants like that.’ Then the subject lapsed, because Mark decided that Colin was not amused and when Colin was not amused he sometimes got rough.
‘Where’s Mr Jim?’
‘Over there. Behind that dirty big rock . . . It’s going to take all day to dig this hole, you know. Six feet under. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘Something like that. But it won’t do here.’
‘What won’t?’
‘The hole.’
Mark was immediately indignant. ‘Course it will. It’s a bloomin’ good ’ole.’
‘You’re hardly above the high tide mark, you drip.’
‘I am above it!’
‘The beach won’t do. It’s got to be way back. Way back from the sea.’
‘Yeh? And who gets him there? Who carries him?’
Colin hadn’t thought of that, and regarded his kid brother with faint respect. Mark had used his head, or Jan had, or someone had.
‘And how are you going to dig back there, anyway?’ Mark went on. ‘It’ll be hard up there and there’ll be tree roots and all to cut. I know. I’m good at diggin’ ’oles.’
‘Yeh,’ said Colin. Mark was, too. His backside had been tanned a dozen times for digging holes under the house and behind the fence, and once, with a pick, clean through the kitchen drain.
‘And apart from anythin’ else,’ said Mark, ‘I’ve got a bellyache. I’m hungry.’ He didn’t feel squeamish any more about Mr Jim, now that everything was in the open. ‘I’m awful hungry, Col. Aren’t you?’
Colin nodded.
‘So we dig the hole here, eh?’
‘No we don’t.’
‘Fair go, Col. All me work an’ everything?’
‘It’s got to be done right. Proper ground and prayers and a cross and – and respect. You’d want it done right for you, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’m not dead. I’m not goin’ to die . . .’ Then Mark slumped, outwardly and inwardly. A great, shapeless black shadow seemed to wrap itself around him like a blanket. After a while, with drooping mouth, he looked up at his brother. ‘Gee, Col . . . I s’pose we’d better try. See if we can find a place that’s not too hard, eh? I don’t fancy much diggin’ with sticks.’
12.
Somewhere
The spade had dug in just as Colin had said it would. That was how Carol found it, dug in deeply at an angle, with the top of its handle barely above the sand, and after she had wrenched it free, by sheer good fortune she found the tomahawk as well, a few inches away, in the spill of oil from the Egret’s engine. Then she called Jan.
‘There’s no saying what’s buried round here,’ she said. ‘I reckon this is the spot where we should look. I reckon we should dig the sand over foot by foot before the tide comes in.’
‘But Col wants the spade.’
‘I know, I know. But what’s more important?’
Jan wasn’t sure.
‘Look, even Bruce reckons we should worry about ourselves, and the way the tide’s coming in, it’ll be up this far in half an hour. I know what Col would say. At least, I think I do. And I think Jim would say the same, too; Jim, of all people. I’d say we’ve only got an hour to save everything along the beach or it’ll be gone. I reckon everybody should get on to it; Col, too. Don’t you, Jan, honestly?’
‘What’s the use? It’s all a lot of junk. It’s all smashed up.’
Carol drew a deep breath. ‘We can put it together and make a hut out of it, can’t we? And there’s no saying what use we’ll find for other things . . . We might find more clothes – and we’re going to need them, I think. There’s not much in my case, only girls’ stuff. And we might find things that we can cook in.’
‘Cook what?’
‘Please Jan. Don’t let’s fight about it. We’re wasting time.’
They were, too, but there was a stubborn streak in Jan that didn’t want to go Carol’s way in anything, or anybody else’s way either. It was such an effort to talk, to do anything, to walk, to think, even to argue; but argue she did. ‘I think it would be more to the point if you got Gerald on his feet; great big loafer he is. Is he scared to soil his hands or what?’
‘You leave Gerald out of it.’
‘Why should I?’
‘He’s sick.’
‘Sick, my fat aunt. If he’s sick I’m sick.’
Carol glared at her. ‘You’re sick, all right. Real sick. Do you want to die or something? Don’t you want to help yourself? You’re a real prawn, Jan Martin.’
Jan could see herself all the time and hated everything that she saw. But she sneered, ‘Yeh?’
‘Yeh!’
‘Hey,’ bellowed Bruce from the beach, ‘you two at it again? Turn it up!’
Carol, on impulse, suddenly flung the spade at Jan’s feet, so close to her feet that Jan had to jump to save herself from injury. ‘Go on,’ Carol shrilled, ‘take the spade to Colin. Take it yourself. What do I care if you want to cut your own throat?’ And she started walking as the words started coming, away from Jan, away from Bruce and Gerald, away from them all; she was fed up with the lot of them.
They were nothing but petulant children. She felt so much older than the oldest of them, though but for Mark only months were between them. To bother any more with them was beyond her will or her patience. What on earth was wrong with them? What on earth was the matter with them?
She walked south, alone and determined to be alone, far along the beach, deliberately ignoring the scattered wreckage, not even stopping to recover a sand-encrusted garment of uncertain description that caught her eye, unaware over a considerable distance of the tomahawk still in her grasp; in fact, until then, probably unaware of anything but a torrid condemnation of her friends that broke over her silence, that had her mumbling and murmuring to herself. She was tempted to throw the tomahawk furiously away, but a saner instinct withheld her, and for a minute or two she stopped, hands on hips, conscious of the uncomfortable build-up of sand in her shoes, of the fast-stepping gulls that had preceded her, and of the surprising proximity of the headland that from the area of the Egret, had seemed so far away.
She glanced back and couldn’t see the others at all, then at last counted them off, three of them, at a much greater distance than she had at first supposed: three figures, three specks, almost indistinguishable from rocks.
Carol pulled off her shoes, emptied out the sand, tucked them under her arm and walked on in her stockinged feet, until the stockings, too, began to annoy her. They were in an
awful state – she simply hadn’t noticed them before – and all at once all her clothes seemed to be shrinking, seemed to be constricting her and irritating her. They were all crumpled and creased and sticky. She felt a longing to be wholly free, to be out of sight of the others completely, perhaps to get beyond the headland and there to bathe herself clean in the sea.
A new light, diffused sunlight, lay on the sea, and the colours out there were swiftly changing from leaden hues to living greens and blues. Cloud was melting away; perhaps in its greater depth it had passed on and the scum that was left was dissolving into the heat of the day; for there was heat in the air now; real heat generating with the showing of the sun.
She thought of thirst and hunger, of breakfast in the nook at home. She supposed it was about eight o’clock, Saturday breakfast time. Perhaps there wouldn’t be any breakfast at home this morning. She thought of her mother and father and her stride lost its purpose. Oh dear; what a state they’d be in. How would her mother behave? She’d be hysterical, probably; inconsolable probably. A woman without backbone, that was her mother; a small, fluffy, silly, slightly brassy sort of woman running to fat, whose world was fashion magazines and hair-styles and diet plans and a blind conviction that she was beautiful. But she had a heart for all that; there were many mothers less motherly. Poor woman; she’d be desperate. All her eggs were in one basket; Carol was her first-born and last-born, her only one. She’d be sobbing; inconsolable. (A new word for Carol, but there it was again.) Her Dad would have his hands full; he’d have no time for thoughts of his own.
Carol’s stride was slow, pensive.
It was very hot; all of a sudden, very hot. Stifling. She had a feeling that perhaps she should not stay in the sun; that it would be dangerous to become thirsty to a greater degree than she already was. She had thought a little along that line before but now took it further. There was no water, no milk, no cokes, no tea, no coffee, no hot chocolate. None of the fluids that before had ever been more distant than the kitchen or the refrigerator or the garden tap was to be had for the taking any longer.
Carol stopped and spoke aloud. ‘It can’t be true. How can it be true?’
It was so difficult to grasp. Maybe that was the trouble with everybody. They couldn’t grasp it. They could talk about it, but not really understand it.
To the Wild Sky Page 13