Something Fishy

by Shane Maloney

  ‘Is that where her mother got that…?’ I ran my finger from my earlobe to my collarbone.

  ‘You’ve been checking her out, haven’t you, Dad?’

  ‘You should talk,’ I said. ‘You’re the one planning to get her daughter into your tent.’

  He shook his head, exasperated. ‘Matt’ll be there the whole time. They’re hardly out of each other’s sight.’

  ‘That’s reassuring.’ I pulled into a spot at the Moggs Creek end of the beach, body-board territory.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Red, figuring maybe he’d found an angle he could use to his advantage. ‘Anyway, in case you’re wondering, Jodie says she’s not involved with anyone at the moment. Her mother, that is. She lived with a guy called Dennis for a few years, but they broke up. He’s married to someone else now, got his own kids. Matt was pretty cut up about it, apparently. So, like I said, she’s up for grabs. I reckon you should go for it.’

  ‘You’re a sick puppy, you know,’ I said. ‘Trying to line me up with your girlfriend’s mother.’

  ‘This thing with Jodie,’ he said. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure about it. She’s nice, but she can get a bit clingy. Reckon I should play the field a bit before I commit. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I should have you spayed while it’s still legal.’

  ‘No, really.’ He went serious on me, man-to-man. ‘If you’re interested in her mother, don’t let me stand in your way.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you, son.’ I mirrored his tone, meaning it.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he said. ‘You need it more than I do. Last chance before the retirement home.’

  ‘Get fucked,’ I said. ‘Any other words of wisdom from the master of romance?’

  ‘Just one,’ he said. ‘If you’re fast enough, there’s an empty parking spot next to that yellow station wagon up ahead.’

  We hit the water and Red soon found his feet, the sharp-nosed thruster an easier plank to walk than my first board, a malibu. Or so it seemed, watching from the shore. When I finally managed to wangle a turn, it wasn’t quite as manoeuvrable as it looked. We surfed up a hefty appetite, bought pies for lunch and drove back to Lorne through a squall that put coin spots on the Magna’s dusty windscreen.

  I spent the rest of the day lounging around the house. Intermittent showers, cricket on the radio, a book within reach, a nap. The lads were elsewhere, watching videos with better-resourced cronies, they claimed. Pressing their suits with the objects of their desire, I didn’t wonder.

  By seven-thirty, the cool front had passed, the streets were dry and the sky was clearing. Red and Tark were back, heads in the refrigerator, talking about having some friends over, kicking on. I dug out the address for Ken Sproule’s place, changed into clean chinos and a polo shirt, forked over enough cash for a delivery of pizza, made a show of counting the beer, stuck a bottle of wine under my arm, then left the younger generation to its own devices and started for Aireys Inlet.

  Sunset was still more than an hour away, but the ranges had already cast their long shadow across the Great Ocean Road. The beach at Fairhaven was murky and spray-shrouded, deserted by all but the most dedicated wax-heads. At the lifesaving club, I turned off the highway, climbed into the sunlight and followed the spine of the ridge that ran parallel to the coast.

  Ten years back, a bushfire had descended from the hills and incinerated many of the houses along this section of road. New growth soon sprouted and new houses were built, but the inferno had left its mark. Charred trunks jutted from the greenery and many of the new dwellings had been constructed with an eye to the harsher realities.

  Ken and Sandra’s place was such a house. Low-slung and well clear of surrounding trees, it was recessed into a fold in the earth, the front cantilevered, the rear facing the road with a packed-gravel parking apron. Solar panels. External sprinklers. Slatted timber pergolas shading the north and west aspects. Slightly Spanish feel. Costa Monza.

  The door was open. I gave it a passing rap and followed a short hallway into an open-plan space that was filled with convivial chatter and the smell of fresh paint. The furniture was sparse and modular. Ikea, I guessed. The feel was stylish but comfortable, tending to homey. Stray pieces of Lego littered the floor and cartoon noises leaked from behind a closed door. Pushing fifty, Ken was a come-again father.

  About a dozen adults, none of whom I knew, were drinking wine and batting the breeze at a beechwood dining table. Past them, on a jutting deck, Ken was tending a Weber, aided by two blokes in fashionably lairish shirts, cans of beer in hand. He spotted me hovering uncertainly and beckoned with his barbecue tongs.

  He introduced me to his friends, a Steve and a Boyd, ageing yuppies, then carved a wide circle in the air with his meat-grippers. ‘Not bad, eh?’

  It certainly wasn’t. Undulating, scrub-covered hills extended from the deck, capped in the distance by the jade of the ocean. A froth of tangerine clouds rose from the horizon. Here and there, houses dotted the landscape and solitary trees emerged from the undergrowth, twisted into picturesque shapes by the sea winds. The building and the view were all of a piece, made for each other.

  I whistled appreciatively, meaning it.

  ‘We’ll get built out eventually, of course,’ said Ken. ‘Lose the view. But not the capital gain.’

  Sandra appeared, thrust a flute of bubbly into my hand, steered me inside and introduced me to her other guests. Couples, mainly. A few years younger, mostly. Media types and film people.

  In keeping with the unspoken code of the beachside holiday, jobs were not mentioned nor shop talked. The topic was plans for New Year’s Eve. Having none, I sipped and listened.

  Ken, Sandra and some of the others had managed to get a table at Gusto, no mean achievement, apparently. ‘We’ve got an in,’ confided Sandra. ‘The architect who designed this place also did Gusto. She had a word with Jake Martyn, fixed it up for us to join her party. We’ve become quite matey with her. Matter of fact, she said she might drop around tonight, see how the place works with people in it.’

  What are the chances? I wondered.

  My answer arrived twenty minutes later, a raw cotton skirt swishing at her ankles as she came down the hall. She hesitated for a moment before entering the room, examining the set-up. Unnoticed, possibly, except by me. She was buffed and moisturised, post-beach. Her ash-blonde hair was cut in an Annie Lennox crop and she wore a green coral necklace that might have matched her eyes. Hard to tell at the distance.

  Sandra saw her and darted forward, smoocheroonie. The two women conferred, then waltzed around the room for a series of effusive introductions. In due course, it was my turn.

  ‘Murray,’ Sandra started. ‘You really must meet…’

  ‘Barbara Prentice,’ I said. ‘Jodie’s mother.’

  The architect raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘My son is a friend of your daughter,’ I explained. ‘Red Whelan. I’m Murray.’

  ‘Ah,’ she exhaled, putting it together. ‘You’re the polly, right?’ Something in her tone conveyed the impression that my occupation wasn’t the only thing she knew about me.

  We held each other’s gaze for slightly longer than was dictated by the requirements of common courtesy. Her eyes were grey.

  ‘Quick,’ called Ken from the deck, a rare enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Showtime.’

  A flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos had come flapping out of the hills, white plumage vivid against the darkening sky. There must have been a hundred of them, screeching and wheeling, then settling in the branches of a fire-blackened stringybark, the nearest tree to the house. We crowded the deck, all oohs and aahs, captivated by the wild splendour of the sight, children pressing to the front, television forgotten.

  ‘Are they on the payroll?’ somebody quipped. ‘Ambience consultants?’

  ‘All part of the design,’ Barbara laughed.

  The cockatoos worked on the tree for a while, their beaks shredding the foliage. Then they rose again, a r
estless whirlwind, and flapped away to feed elsewhere, screeching and carping. I thought of my ex-wife, Wendy.

  Candles were lit and Ken’s burnt sacrifice transferred to the dining table. As the other guests found their seats, I lingered on the deck, watching night settle over the lavender hills, and sea merge with sky. After a while, Barbara Prentice was standing there too.

  ‘Nice house,’ I said. ‘It has such an open, welcoming feel. Wonderfully site-specific, too.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re out of practice,’ she said.

  ‘Badly,’ I admitted.

  ‘Your son, on the other hand, does not appear to be backward in coming forward.’

  ‘I heard it was the other way around.’

  She gave a derisive snort. ‘Wishful thinking.’

  ‘Well, that’s no crime,’ I said. ‘Is it?’

  Even in the waning light, the faint scar under her ear was clearly visible. A different haircut would have made it less evident, possibly hidden it completely. But she seemed to wear it almost as a badge of honour, the mark of a survivor. There was something a bit dangerous about the woman. Smart dangerous, not whacko dangerous. Something challenging and, well, sexy.

  ‘You comfortable about Jodie going to this Falls festival thing?’ I said.

  ‘Something I should be worried about?’

  ‘Not Red,’ I said. ‘If that’s what you mean. Born gentlemen, the Whelan boys.’

  She gave me a sideways look that suggested both doubt and a degree of disappointment.

  We’re flirting, I thought. We’re definitely flirting.

  She waggled a hand, signifying ambivalence. ‘The way I see it, Jodie will probably be a lot safer at the festival than hanging around in Lorne. It can get pretty ugly in town, all the boozing and brawling on the foreshore, yobbos coming from miles around. And her brother Matt will be there to keep an eye on her. He can be a bit of a tearaway at times, but he looks after his little sister.’

  ‘So I understand,’ I said. ‘Not that…’ I let the sentence fade away. Like she said, I was out of practice.

  We leaned on the railing, saying nothing, watching the purple light seep away across the scrub.

  ‘Murray,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed.

  ‘Did you bring your Frisbee?’

  I didn’t want to jump this woman, not straight off. I wanted to stand close behind her, put my arm around her waist, feel the fit. Just stand like that, looking out over the world.

  ‘Get it while you can,’ called Ken, summoning us to dinner.

  Inside, Sandra was bustling with the seating arrangements, intent on placing us next to each other. But I wasn’t about to have my match made. And neither, I could tell, was Barbara. We dithered, evading Sandra’s attempts at shoehorning, and finished up at opposite ends of the table. Soon after dinner, Barbara made her goodbyes and left.

  Later, as I was helping Ken and his mate Boyd with the washing-up, Sandra floated into the kitchen, pleasantly pickled, and sidled up to the sink. ‘Spoke to Barbara about New Year’s Eve,’ she slurred into my ear as I scrubbed a sauce-smeared plate. ‘Asked her if maybe we couldn’t squeeze you onto our table at Gusto. You know what she said? Said you could always turn up and’—she glanced around conspiratorially—‘try your luck.’

  ‘Luck?’ I said.

  There’d been bugger all of that lately.

  ‘Mummy,’ squeaked a voice near the floor. ‘Damon stuck a piece of bread in the video player.’

  As soon as Sandra turned her back, I handed the dishmop to Ken, thanked him for a splendid housewarming, and slipped away.

  With five or six drinks under my belt, I was close to the limit. So I pushed Barbara Prentice and all she represented to the back of my mind and concentrated on the twists and turns of the road, my headlights sweeping empty air like the wandering beam of a lighthouse. Perhaps it was more than six.

  Back in Lorne, I found a boat trailer blocking the driveway, a neighbour loading fishing equipment. He signalled his willingness to shift, but I wasn’t fussed and parked a little further along the street.

  Although the lights were lit, there was no sign of movement in the house. As I sauntered up the driveway, I was met by sounds from the backyard. The low strumming of a guitar and a girl’s voice, singing off-key. Mopey, strangulated vocals of the Tracey Chapman variety, subset of the Joni Mitchell whine. Along with the music came the background burble of youthful conversation. And, as I drew closer, the unmistakable smell of something burning.

  Ah shit, I thought.

  Shit, pot, hemp, grass, weed, ganja, mull.

  Marijuana.

  In certain situations, discretion is the better part of parenting. I went back to the car, waited until the driveway was clear, then returned anew, advertising my arrival with engine noises, headlights and a banged door.

  As I climbed the front steps, a camel-train of teenagers came loping down the side of the house, half-obscured in the shadows. Three boys and a girl.

  The point man was Matt Prentice, sister Jodie in his wake. The other two boys were unfamiliar, generic tagalongs.

  A year older than Red, Matt was taller and more confident. Nothing of his mother or sister in his features, not that I could immediately discern. He communicated an attitude, though. A cockiness that didn’t necessarily have much to do with self-assurance. Something chippish in the shoulder region.

  ‘I’m Jodie’s brother,’ he said with minimal courtesy. ‘Picking her up.’

  The two other boys nodded, confirming his claim. Jodie gave me a little hello-goodbye wave. And then they were gone, flowing down the hill.

  I clattered through the front door and made a general presence of myself in the house. There was no smell of smoking but there were empty beer cans in the kitchen bin. Not a lot, not mine, not an issue. A half-dozen mid-teens were hunkered down in the backyard near the tent, propped on the rental’s assortment of chairs, their outlines familiar to some degree or another. A boy I knew as Max, one of the many Maxes of his age, was noodling on the guitar, displaying an unsuspected talent.

  Red wandered upstairs. ‘Home already?’ he said. ‘No good?’

  ‘It was okay,’ I said. ‘Jodie’s mother was there.’

  He tilted his head. ‘And?’

  ‘And various other people,’ I said. ‘So what’s been happening here?’

  ‘Nothing much,’ he shrugged. If he was stoned he was hiding it well. ‘Starting to drift away.’

  ‘I passed Jodie on my way in. Big brother strikes again?’

  ‘Matt’s cool,’ he allowed. ‘Hung for a while, him and a couple of mates, Year Elevens. Came around to pick up Jodie, get her home before curfew.’

  ‘Good idea,’ I said, yawning and having a late-night scratch. ‘Same goes for you and Tarquin. I’m going to hit the sack. Keep it down, will you, and don’t leave the premises, okay?’

  He shrugged, not fussed. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Cool.’

  I tossed and turned, just catching the low murmur of boytalk from the backyard and the faint sighing of the waves, somewhere out there at the furthest reaches of my hearing.

  And as I awaited oblivion, I thought of Lyndal. And of a night like this, two summers back, when we lay entwined, the sea in our ears, moonlight seeping through a chink in the curtains, and conceived a child.

  Then I tried to remember how many days had passed since Lyndal had last come unbidden into my mind. And what, if anything, the answer to that question might mean. It meant, I decided, that time is an active verb. And pondering in turn the meaning of that observation, I drifted into sleep, sure of only one thing. That I was sleeping alone and I wished I wasn’t.

  The morning dawned hot. By ten, it had muscled thirty aside. I nailed the boys at breakfast, got them with their snouts in the Nutrigrain. ‘Order in the House,’ I declared, gavelling the kitchen benchtop with the back of a spoon and firming the knot in my sarong. ‘The Honourable Murray Whelan has the floor.’

  The lads regard
ed me languidly, cereal-laden implements poised in mid-shovel.

  ‘Regarding the smoking of dope,’ I began. ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to point out that the possession and use of cannabis is illegal in this state. A bust could get you kicked out of school. Furthermore, some authorities believe that marijuana can trigger adolescent-onset schizophrenia.’

  Tark and Red gave each other the sideways eyeball, brows furrowing.

  ‘Not if you don’t inhale,’ said Tarquin.

  ‘According to the President of the United States,’ added Red, helpfully.

  ‘I’m not going to be hypocritical and pretend that I’ve never smoked the stuff myself,’ I said. ‘I know it’s out there and you’ll probably have a lash at some stage. Just let’s not pretend it isn’t happening.’

  They twigged, realising why I had chosen that particular morning to raise the issue.

  ‘Wasn’t us,’ said Red.

  I raised my palms. ‘No names, no pack drill. Just play safe, that’s all I’m asking. And you might consider waiting until you’re a bit older. That way, you can combine it with alcohol and cars, get more bang for your buck.’

  ‘Chill, Dad,’ said Red. ‘We’re cool.’

  ‘I’m glad we had this little talk,’ I said. ‘Pass the sugar.’

  ‘Now there’s something can really kill you,’ said Tarquin.

  ‘Depends how hard you get hit with the bowl,’ I said.

  After breakfast, we went squinting into the heat and drove down the hill, looking to get wet. Mountjoy Parade was thick with traffic as party animals poured into town for the evening’s revels on the foreshore, horns honking, car stereos cranked to maximum doof. On the sward of couch grass between the esplanade and the beach a concert stage was taking shape, roadies swarming over the rigging like a pirate crew.

  We headed for Wye River, fifteen kilometres further west, a sandy beach at the mouth of a trickling creek. The water was wet but the tide was out, the surf was nowhere and the heat was so wilting that our swims wore off almost before we left the water. Within an hour, we’d had enough.