Forever Shores

by Peter McNamara

  Garth didn’t reply. He drove hunched forward, staring intently at the road, trying to distinguish the bitumen from the water-filled potholes. Dee Dee shrugged and turned her head away in silence.

  When they turned onto the dirt road leading to the site, the low-slung Saab ground through the slush uneasily. Garth imagined the mud-encrusted paintwork and gritted his teeth. A high wire-mesh fence appeared from the blur of rain, separating scrubby bushland and vast areas of cleared land, all in shades of grey.

  They drove through an open gate. ‘Here already?’ said Dee Dee brightly, and her sarcasm was as palpable as the humidity in the air around them. He ignored her.

  The road led on to a concrete-block site office, where a Jeep Cherokee was parked. Garth pulled up beside it. ‘That’s what you need for this sort of thing,’ Dee Dee said. He nodded, feeling a stab of envy. ‘Right, we’re here,’ he said, distracting himself.

  As he switched off the motor, he heard the low booming of distant surf beyond the heavy patter of rain on the car’s roof. He looked around. The misted distortion of the windows made the huge expanse of levelled ground surrounding them shimmeringly unreal and depressing. All colour was washed from the scene, with the exception of random groups of brilliant orange earth-moving machinery, like herds of gargantuan grazing beasts, oblivious of the rain.

  Dee Dee nudged him sharply. ‘Is that the legendary Bedlow?’ He turned his head and saw a man in the doorway of the office block, gesturing at them.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered, feeling a spasm of excitement. He unbuckled the seat belt and opened the door. ‘Come on.’

  Rain soaked them warmly. ‘Shit,’ said Dee-Dee.

  Garth and Dee Dee huddled under big black umbrellas on a small knoll some distance from the concrete office, trying to catch what Jonathon (‘I’m sorry, Mr Bedlow is unable to attend in this inclement weather.’) was saying under the fusillade of drops on the taut fabric.

  The scale model of the proposed resort, displayed on a large table in the office and explained by Jonathon, was magnificent. Garth’s breath caught in his throat every time he thought of it. Inside the office block, Jonathon’s dry voice was barely audible over the sweep of the rain as he lectured them on lists of necessary material—brochures, videos, posters, advertisements—and issued them with a brief on Mr Bedlow’s mandatories. Garth, nodding incessantly, passed them on to Dee Dee. Then Jonathon had requested, as Mr Bedlow would have suggested, that they walk through the area ‘to absorb the atmosphere’. ‘He’s bloody joking,’ Dee Dee mouthed worriedly as Jonathon went to a cupboard for the umbrellas. Garth frowned at her.

  Now Garth’s legs were aching from trudging through the morass of furrowed mud, and he could see Dee Dee’s face was grim as she swayed, trying to stop her high heels sinking.

  ‘The most important thing,’ Jonathon was saying, ‘what Mr Bedlow wants to impress most strongly, is that this resort is to be natural. An ecological resort. Five-star, of course, with every conceivable facility and luxury, but still uniquely ecological.’

  He gestured towards the far-off beach. ‘From here to there will be the golf course. Eighteen holes, designed by Davis if we can get him. The scrub has already been cleared and we’ve bulldozed the mangroves and imported some plantings to find the best grass for this area, as you can see.’

  He pointed to the ground. Tufts of bright green grass struggled desperately upwards, but were drowning in the black mud oozing up around them. Garth saw his shoes were sinking into it too; the Gucci’s had been a mistake, already soaked and stained. He shuffled surreptitiously, leaving deep footprints that immediately filled with water.

  ‘Right,’ he said, making his voice sound congratulatory and capable both at once. ‘I think we’ve probably seen enough, Jonathon. Perhaps we could go back now …?’

  Jonathon looked at him through spectacles misted with moisture. ‘It is very important that you incorporate everything that Mr Bedlow has to say about this resort.’

  ‘Believe me, Jonathon,’ said Garth. ‘This is the most important thing in the world for me.’ He forced a smile. ‘I won’t let Mr Bedlow down. Never. Nothing will stand between me and whatever Mr Bedlow wants. Now can we get out of the rain?’

  Even the teeming continual rain and half-heard news reports of flooding as the river rose couldn’t dampen Garth’s spirits on Monday morning. The staff briefing for Bedlow’s was scheduled at nine and he wanted to start on it immediately with Dee Dee and Mike, and maybe that freelance Zac, the illustrator-cum-copywriter, who was good, very good, if expensive. Later, when this was a success, he could put on a staff copywriter, the firm would grow … He left the house promptly, before the girls were up, with a brief goodbye to Lauren.

  He’d expected chaos on the roads, but there was surprisingly little traffic, even on Brunswick Street. Anne Street, though, was bumper to bumper with heavy haulage trucks, the rain beating savagely on their canvas loads and spraying the few pedestrians, but he was able to finally manoeuvre the Saab into the Chinatown parking lot, finding it only half-full. It’s early yet, he thought.

  He dived through the deluge for the cover of the footpath, under the dripping facades of the buildings, and glanced around. There were no cars at all in Brunswick Street on this side of the mall, but a flurry of activity and uniforms outside the railway entrance in the next block caught his attention, and he noticed three ambulances parked on the road. He wondered what had happened as he hurried on towards the office.

  There was a rapid tapping of heels behind him, and his elbow was caught. He swung around. Dee Dee’s face was pale under her heavy make-up and locks of damp hair hung loosely across her scarf.

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it awful?’

  ‘What?’ said Garth.

  She gestured back towards the ambulances. ‘All those kids,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said impatiently. ‘Come on.’

  ‘But they’re dead!’

  He looked more closely at the distant figures. They were carrying stretchers and raindrops pounded on the plastic bags they held, reminding him of the drenched canvas of the trucks. ‘What happened?’ he said.

  Dee Dee’s voice had lost some of its usual confidence. ‘I’ve just come up from the trains—mine’s one of the few left running. Apparently a bunch of street kids were sheltering in a tunnel, and the river broke near it. There was a flood, they couldn’t get out.’

  ‘That’s bad,’ he said. ‘Well, come on. We’ve got this meeting—’

  Dee Dee stared at him. ‘It’s more than bad. The river’s flooding all over, they’ve evacuated whole suburbs in places. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t notice. I’ve been busy,’ he said pointedly. The nearby gutters were overflowing, sending tiny waves racing over the footpath at their shoes. Tendrils of wire-grass growing from the cracks trailed across the concrete, swept by the current. Garth looked more closely at them. They seemed to be growing while he watched …

  He turned abruptly. ‘Come on,’ he said again to Dee Dee.

  She shrugged and followed him through the rain.

  Cara and Mike were late. ‘It’s the rain,’ said Dee Dee reasonably. ‘It’s getting hard to move around.’ Garth tried to curb his impatience. He spent the time going through Bedlow’s documents again with Dee Dee.

  When Cara came in she was flushed and damp, her make-up streaking, and her wet dress clinging to her body. ‘Sorry,’ she said breathlessly as Garth looked at her. He was about to say something, but Mike entered just then, swearing.

  ‘Shit, Garth,’ said Mike. ‘This is ridiculous. We can’t keep coming in through this. Do you know how many buses are running now?’ Garth opened his mouth to answer.

  ‘Fuck all, that’s how many!’

  Garth had never seen Mike angry. Dee Dee stepped in calmly.

  ‘Maybe we should close for a while, until things get back to normal,’ she said. Cara nodded tentatively.

&
nbsp; Garth turned on her, feeling the blood rush to his head. ‘Close?’ he shouted. ‘Close? With Bedlow ready for the drawing board? With the biggest job of our lives in front of us? You have got to be joking, all of you.’ He glared at each of them in turn. ‘How easy do you think it is to find jobs in this industry right now?’ There was a long silence.

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Dee Dee. ‘We’re here now, we may as well do something.’

  ‘Right.’ He was calmer now, more composed. He flicked through the folios on the desk and pulled out some pages. ‘Here, Cara. Photocopy these so we’ve all got copies.’

  She took them from him wordlessly.

  ‘Now,’ he said, addressing Dee Dee and Mike, ‘I’ve spent a considerable amount of time on this over the weekend, and you would have too, Dee Dee, seeing you’ve already heard some of the ideas Bedlow has.’ She nodded. ‘We’ll go through these with you, Mike … What?’ Cara was at his elbow, her hands full of papers.

  ‘It’s not working,’ she said.

  ‘What’s not working?’ Garth said irritably.

  ‘The photocopier. Look.’ She held out a photocopied page. ‘It’s all blurry.’

  He grabbed it from her. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘The paper’s wet.’

  ‘It must be the dampness,’ said Dee Dee. ‘The humidity …’

  Garth strode to the cupboard where the stationery was kept and pulled out a ream of paper. He ripped open the cover. ‘Jesus, it’s all like that. Christ—doesn’t anything work around here?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Dee Dee, taking it from him. ‘I’ll get it dry, don’t worry …’

  ‘Well, bloody hurry up!’ Garth walked over to the window and stared at the rain, his hands in his pockets. The street was empty. Only a crowd of seagulls moved through the downpour, scavenging among masses of vegetation that seemed to be choking the gutters and spilling across the road and footpaths. He wondered with annoyance why the Council wasn’t clearing it away.

  ‘Where’s my shirt, the one with the navy stripe?’ Garth called, rifling through the clothes hanging in his wardrobe. The light in the bedroom seemed dimmer than usual and the rain still drummed incessantly on the roof.

  ‘You wore it the other day,’ said Lauren shortly, bending to smooth sheets over the bed.

  He turned to face her. ‘Well, why isn’t it washed?’ he said.

  ‘There’ve been electricity cuts—haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Of course I’ve bloody noticed. The Mac keeps crashing, we’re losing Bedlow’s files all the time. We have to keep saving every few seconds. Don’t talk to me about electricity cuts. Anyway, what’s that got to do with my shirts?’

  Lauren straightened and looked at him. ‘The washing machine, the drier, the iron—they all need electricity, remember? I can only do so much when it’s on, and no, I haven’t been able to manage the shirt with navy stripes yet!’ Her voice quivered.

  ‘All right, all right.’ He plucked another shirt from a hanger. ‘I just want to look good, in case Bedlow drops in. He could, any time …’

  ‘Bedlow, Bedlow, Bedlow. That’s all I hear about. In the middle of a crisis like this!’

  ‘Crisis?’ Garth shrugged his shirt on and buttoned it. ‘Oh, you mean the rain.’

  ‘The rain? The rain?’ Her voice rose. ‘Yes, I mean the bloody rain.’

  ‘There’s no need to get hysterical,’ he said with exasperation. He opened the door to see Melisah and Emilyjane coming out of the bathroom together, still in their pyjamas. The apricot walls looked grey in the gloom. Then the lights flickered and came back stronger, and he could see they were grey, a layer of mildew had settled on them. He decided not to mention this to Lauren, not in her current mood.

  ‘Breakfast ready?’ he said.

  ‘What there is of it,’ Lauren muttered behind him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘I mean most of the stores are shut.’ Lauren followed him down the hallway. ‘And the ones still open have bugger-all supplies.’

  ‘Lauren!’ he said, surprised. The girls giggled and sat down at the table in the dim dining room.

  Garth pulled his chair out. ‘Why aren’t you two dressed for school yet?’

  ‘The schools are closed,’ said Lauren. ‘That is, the ones that aren’t completely under water. I told you it was a crisis.’

  Garth shook his head and picked up a piece of bread with a smear of butter on it. He looked at it with distaste. ‘I must be the only person in Brisbane still working,’ he said.

  Lauren looked at him. ‘Probably,’ she agreed.

  On the way to the Saab through the grey curtain of rain, Garth noticed the garden was a mess. The lawn was destroyed, ragged clods of grass criss-crossed with small ravines and gullies that trickled water. Weeds had engulfed the roses, and the few native plants ran rampant, tangled with large-leaved vines and grasses. He’d have to tell Lauren to get that gardener chap in, to clean it up. What if Bedlow visited?

  He got into the car and closed the umbrella, shaking it before closing the door. Through the fogged windscreen he could see oceans of potholes, the jagged edges of their coastlines scarring the bitumen. He winced at the thought of driving the Saab over them, and felt another surge of anger at the Council for allowing it to happen. It was anger tinged with desperation. Why was all this happening now?

  He put the Saab into first gear and inched his way forward, towards the Valley.

  The phone rang. The voice beyond the rain was scratchy and distant, Cara’s. ‘I can’t get in, Mr Lorgan,’ she said. ‘I just can’t.’

  Garth clenched his fist around the receiver, studying the wall in front of him, the one with the Dali prints on it. The electricity was working and the lights were on, highlighting the coating of mildew that painted a surrealistic mural that swept across the cornice to become a huge dark cloud across the ceiling, pressing down on him.

  He put his hand over the receiver. ‘Dee Dee,’ he said. She looked up from her desk. She wore jeans and boots, and no make-up. Her hair was pulled back in a careless pony-tail. He frowned.

  ‘Dee Dee, get in touch with building maintenance and get a cleaner in. This place has just got to be cleaned up.’ She shrugged, and looked back down at her work.

  He cleared his throat and spoke into the phone. ‘Cara, I need you in here. The work is piling up, particularly with the computer down most of the time. I’ve even got hold of a manual typewriter for you.’ He looked across at the clumsy black Remington sitting on Cara’s desk, its bulky keys on their thin metal arms startlingly anachronistic among the computers and screens. ‘This job has to go through.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear “but”, Cara.’ Dee Dee paused and looked up at him again. He turned his back on her. ‘Walk, if you have to, swim, I don’t care. Just get your arse in here quick-smart, or I’ll make sure it’s not just this industry you don’t work in, but any fucking industry at all! Now!’

  He slammed the receiver down, breathing hard.

  ‘You’re an idiot.’ Dee Dee’s voice was politely conversational.

  ‘What?’ He swung round. She was tapping her pen on a thumbnail.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. Garth gaped at her, but her head was bent again, and he wondered if he’d misheard. The phone rang. He snatched at it.

  ‘What?’ he yelled.

  There was silence for a moment. Then an uncertain ‘Garth?’ It was Mike.

  ‘Yes, yes. It’s me,’ said Garth. ‘What is it? Why aren’t you here?’

  ‘I won’t be in again, Garth. I’m finishing.’

  ‘Finishing?’ Garth stared at the screensaver on a monitor. Dull colours twisted hypnotically on it, mirroring the rolling rain-clouds beyond the window.

  ‘That’s right. I’m leaving.’ Mike’s tone was final, with just a touch of fear.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Garth flatly.

  ‘Sorry. Goodbye.’

  Garth put the receiver down carefully and pus
hed his hair back from his sticky forehead. He looked around. Dee Dee’s head was bent even lower, and he wasn’t sure from the motion of her shoulders if she was laughing or not.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, straightening his shoulders. ‘We just work harder. We don’t let this slip away just because of the weather. Right?’

  ‘Sure, boss.’ Dee Dee’s voice was muffled.

  Garth walked over to Mike’s desktop, grimacing. He looked down at the carpet. Its deep purple was almost black beneath layers of piled grit.

  ‘Don’t forget that cleaner,’ he said.

  He was still at Mike’s work-station when Cara came in. He stared at her. She was soaked, her hair plastered to her face in dull brown strands. Her bare legs and feet were muddy. Water trickled the wrinkled length of her tight, bright green dress and mixed with the mud to settle on the floor around her in a viscous black pool, as if she was dissolving in front of them.

  ‘Jesus, Cara!’ Garth wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘For God’s sake, you can’t work like that! Clean yourself up.’

  Her mottled face reddened and he realised she’d already been crying. Dee Dee got up from her desk and went to her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll help.’ She took Cara’s hand to lead her towards the bathroom.

  As they turned away, Garth saw something bloated, black and shiny hanging from the back of her thigh, just below the hem of her ridiculously short skirt. It swayed as she moved.

  He stared aghast. It was a leech.

  The Saab ran out of fuel at the bottom of the last hill before the house. Sighing, Garth switched off the engine and got out. He locked the doors and set off through the rain.

  A series of shouts and squeals mingled with hysterical barks sounded from the back yard of the house as he drew closer. He trudged through the slush that had been the lawn to the gate that led to the back, wondering tiredly what new crisis Lauren had involved herself in. The wood of the gate felt soft and rotten, crumbling a little under his hand. He pushed it open and stopped.

  Melisah and Emilyjane were running along the back fence, each with one of his golf clubs in her hand. They were wearing bikinis, and the rain dashed down on them, wetness shining their golden skins and highlighting the movement of their young muscles as they ran. A bedraggled Conan yapped at their heels excitedly.