Falling Away

by Allie Little

  They turn to me, nodding slowly in unison. Gemma’s eyes hold indifference in the verdant green. An irritation set deep beneath her polished skeletal exterior. She turns back to Emily, “Well, maybe we should head into Newcastle. There’s not much to do in Nelson Bay, is there?”

  At their patent lack of interest I remove myself, pulling open the oven to salvage a bubbling lasagne singed with spots of brown. Blast-heat from the oven hits me full in the face, torrid and stifling, kind of like the atmosphere right here in the kitchen.

  Surfacing from his crab-hole, George scuttles into the kitchen with a look of displeasure plastered across his face. Even his eyes have narrowed beneath his furrowed brow. And he looks really pissed off.

  “I can’t get another chef. Riley’s really left us in the lurch. And there’s nothing I can bloody do about it.” He pauses briefly, an idea dawning. “Sam, you’re going to have to cook today. Can you manage? It was Riley’s suggestion, but I wasn’t so sure. He believes you’re up to the task.”

  “I, uh ... suppose so.” My apprehensive mind races over the menu, wondering if it’s even possible.

  “Just keep it simple, Sam. Pare it down. You’ll manage. Worst case scenario, if we’re busy, I’ll chip in to help.”

  “You? You never cook!” Gemma shrieks, her incredulous laughter filling the room completely. George’s scathing expression plugs a stopper in her mouth. She looks at him with derision and flounces from the kitchen.

  George slides his gaze back my way, dramatically rolling his eyes. “Just see how you go. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  I run through the menu in my head. The lasagne’s done. And If I limit the amount of hot food, I might just cope, if it’s not too busy. Pasta sauces are sitting ready in the cool room, and fresh cakes are chilling in the fridge. The spanakopita is all ready to go. So I guess I’ll just have to wing it.

  The weather’s like a furnace and by twelve thirty the café fills quickly. Emily and Gem flit like fireflies in and out of the kitchen, apologising for the number of orders swelling on the shelves. At least five are in the line-up at any given time, sort of like a busy day in the surf. George barks instructions, spitting them at us. Realising pretty quickly I can only manage one thing at a time, I thrash myself to fill orders. Customers are queued at the door, so George reluctantly calls in his brother Joe to help out. Joe used to chef at Café Blue with Riley, but things apparently didn’t work out so well with the brothers in close quarters full-time. Or so I’ve heard.

  Once Joe arrives things thankfully ease up. Being head chef doesn’t come easily to me, especially as I’ve never been thrown into it before. And Joe’s so much better at this. Knows exactly what he’s doing.

  By three there’s a break and I remember I haven’t called Jack. Grabbing my phone I slink out the back, hoping for a brief moment of privacy. Something sadly lacking around here.

  Thumbing through several missed calls, I find Jack’s number and dial. I hold the phone tight against my ear, my heart beating nervously in my chest. There’s an audible click when the line jumps to voicemail, his voice like summer on the other end. Even in recorded form he’s at ease. I hesitate, considering whether to hang up, but dig deep and drag something from my subterranean core.

  Hey Jack, it’s Sam. Sorry I missed your call this morning. I’m at work so couldn’t get my car over to your friend. I do have the day off tomorrow though, so I could take it over then, or another day if that suits? But thanks for organising it. And I wanted to say again how sorry I am. I know you said not to apologise any more, but I just feel really bad. So I um ... I guess I’ll speak to you later.

  I click off the phone. The sunshine’s bright in the narrow stretch of alley, beating upon the tar and levelling heat where I stand. Even the soles of my shoes feel like they’re melting. Heading back inside, I find no reprieve there either.

  Gemma charges around like a skinny madwoman. She’s clearly frazzled, making the darkness beneath her eyes more pronounced and hollow. She only drinks water now. She never eats, not even salad. The coffee queue grows and she revisits the machine, but her light flirtiness is remote, as if the results aren’t worth the effort anymore.

  After copious bowls of hot chips have been served and neon rays reflect across the bay, the customers finally dwindle. George wipes at a sweaty forehead with his sleeve and lets out a long, low whistle.

  “So how did we do today, George?” I ask, untying the apron from behind my back.

  “We made a motza,” he says, counting out notes from the register with a self-satisfied smile. Fixing the notes so they’re aligned, he ties them in bundles and pops them into the cash register. The register spits out an earnings printout which he scours and folds neatly, inserting it with the bundles of tallied notes.

  Emily and Gemma sprawl on lounges tucked in by the windows, complaining of sore feet and aching backs. It’s always the same at the end of a really busy shift, when bedlam morphs gently into calm.

  I finish promptly at seven, leaving Joe in the kitchen for what hopefully will be a quiet dinner shift. “Thanks for today,” I say. “It would’ve been completely disastrous if George hadn’t called you in.”

  He smiles, hearing my gratitude. “It was a pleasure, Samantha. You will need a good rest after all your hard work today. It was far from easy.” His heavy Greek accent has kindness woven through the words. He’s similar to George, but softer.

  George chimes in, overhearing us. “Yes Sam, you proved yourself today. Well and truly. We’ll have to talk about taking you off casual and making you permanent.”

  My heart sinks. I realise I’m supposed to jump at this opportunity, but the flexibility of being casual is what I like. No permanence is what I need, because I hold the power to escape. To move on at a moment’s notice. And this is my year for unbridled freedom. For working and surfing and feeling alive.

  I offer a wan smile, grabbing my handbag from the locker. “Thanks George. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The sand is cold and I’m running, fast beside waves sucking lacy nets of foam into frisky peaks. It’s the first day of autumn and a chill is settling in the air. The light seems milky and weak, softer than summertime. With my head stuffed full of useless rubbish, I need to clear the nagging thoughts pressing hard against my skull. After running for an hour they release, dancing through the sky like opaque clouds.

  My board lies camouflaged in the dune when I reach it. Dingo tracks pepper the sand, tracing a line from the dune to the sea. I pull on my wettie and grab my board, running to meet the ocean. It nips cheekily at my toes, the rolling roar a companion to the pounding in my ears. Fixing the leg-rope to my ankle I wade into grey.

  Dark solidity looms from the sky. All grey and building, casting shadows over the sea. Warmth is sucked from the surface as the light grows dim, leaving me shivering. The ocean is a deep silvery-grey, cloudy like the sky, and without a clear view through the water I’m full of unease, bobbing like a turtle on the shadowy waves.

  “Hey! Hey Sam!” The voice is distant and shallow, barely recognisable over the launch and slap of the sea. I turn at the sound.

  Jack stands on the sand with a rod in his hand and the red bucket at his feet. I give him a wave, paddling hard for the next grey roller to carry me in. From somewhere amongst the messy slop a wave curls neatly, peeling to the right before closing in. I ride whitewash to the beach, relieved to have sand once more beneath my feet.

  “I got your message,” he calls out. “Matt said it’s fine to drop your car off today.”

  I push wet clumpy hair out of my face with an apprehensive smile, realising I closely resemble a drowned rat. “Oh, that’s great. Thanks, Jack.”

  He looks at the sea. “Surf’s not great, is it?”

  “Not at all. I really shouldn’t have bothered,” I say, attempting to fix my pathetic appearance.

  He looks right at me, his gaze locking firmly onto mine. “So how are you?”
>
  “Very pleased to have the day off.”

  He laughs. “Too right, mate.” Pausing, he looks up at the sky which is undoubtedly lower than five minutes ago. “Hoping the weather clears up though. Don’t much fancy fishing in the rain.”

  Fat raindrops spot from the sky, dotting the sand with mini moon-craters. I’ve always loved the smell of first rain, kind of fresh and earthy. Like you know it’s coming before it hits the ground.

  “So can you drop your car off today?”

  I give him a nod. “Yeah, I can actually. And sorry about yesterday. I was at work, and it was super busy.”

  “No problem.” He thinks momentarily. “Hey, um, I was thinking ... if you need a lift back I could give you one. If you want? I’ve got Dad’s car.”

  It dawns on me I hadn’t thought about getting back home. “Sure, that’d be awesome,” I say, wondering at the offer. “So, where do I drop it off?”

  “Just in Karuah, mate. Tarean Rd. It’s in off the highway. Just tell me what time you plan to get there and I’ll meet you there.” He scrapes a hand through his hair and yawns widely. Casually, like he hasn’t been awake too long.

  I shrug indecisively. “Well, the surf’s crap so there’s no point hanging around here,” I say, looking up at him. “So, ten-thirty?”

  “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you over there. If you have any trouble, just give me a call.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Jack.” I give him an appreciative smile, tucking my board under my arm to make my way to the car. The sudden heavy downpour makes no difference to my already dishevelled appearance. Rain-clouds scud so swiftly across the sky it’ll probably pass soon, anyhow.

  ***

  Home is silent and empty and just how I like it. Scattered clothes litter my shambolic room and I step over them like a prancing pony to get to the ensuite. I run the shower, letting the scalding water course over my skin. I wash the salt from my hair and scrub my face till it’s raw, then wrap myself tightly in a towel from the rail.

  Somehow I manage to find something half decent to wear. I drag on a pair of Lee Licks and an old black t-shirt and I’m good to go. Running my fingers through tangled wet hair I give a quick glance to my face in the mirror. It’ll just have to do.

  ***

  The road to the highway is wet. When I steer through Death Bend I see four white crosses nailed tight to a tree. I glimpse at them every time. I can’t help it. A stark reminder of the impermanence of life. Sadness creeps eerily from that corner. It’s dark where the slope drops sharply into trees.

  I turn left at the T-intersection junctioning the highway. Being mid-week the traffic’s fairly light. A duo of red Linfox trucks burn past, going faster than a hundred. They’re noisy and spit water from their wheels, spraying it over my windscreen. I flick the wipers to intermittent and sweep it away.

  Fifteen minutes later the old bridge to Karuah takes me into the town. I find Tarean Rd and see a sign for Matt’s Smash Repairs in black and neon orange, with an arrow pointing south along the street. I’m early but Jack’s already leaning against a tree, James Dean-style, chatting to his mate. The guy just oozes blasé.

  I pull into the driveway, feeling self-conscious. Not only did I cause the accident, but my smash-victim is standing right here, offering to escort me home. He turns when he hears the car pull in and shoots me a grin. I turn off the ignition and push out of the car.

  “Sam, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Jack hesitates, glancing across at his friend. “This is Matt.”

  “Hey Matt, how are you?”

  “Lovely to meet you, Sam.” He shakes my hand warmly and holds his gaze in my eyes. And he’s not what I expected. I thought he’d be older, perhaps covered in tatts. But he seems so, well, normal.

  “So let’s see the damage,” he says, running a hand along the rear of my car.

  Jack watches him closely. “So what d’ya reckon?”

  “Not too bad. Less than a thousand I’d say.” Lifting his sunglasses for a closer inspection, he drops lower to peer underneath.

  One thousand dollars? I gulp at the price, attempting to keep a straight face. How am I going to come up with that kind of money?

  Matt looks up from beneath the car. “How about I do it for five? Seeing as you’re a friend of Jack’s.” He winks, letting me know he’s in on a secret. I’d sure love to know what that secret is too.

  “Gosh, thanks. I would really appreciate that. Thanks Matt,” I say, grateful for the discount. “So uh … Jack’s car. What will that cost? I want to pay for it, because ... well, the accident was my fault.”

  Jack and Matt share a glance. “Don’t worry about it, Sam. Matt owes me a favour. Don’t you, buddy?” Jack says, raising his eyebrows at him.

  Matt laughs. “Yeah mate, I’ll do yours for free.”

  “Really? That’s so nice of you. Thanks.” I won’t argue with a gift horse, but it seems too good to be true.

  “So, leave me the key and I’ll call you when it’s done,” Matt says, holding out an expectant hand.

  I twist the key from the ring, placing it firmly in the palm of his calloused, grease-ridden hand.

  “So, what’s your number?” he asks, pulling a notepad from the top pocket of his overalls. He scribbles it down, smearing dark fingerprints over the lily-white paper. “Well, it should be a couple of days, maybe a week.”

  “Thanks, mate. We’ll keep in touch,” says Jack.

  Matt nods an agreement, backing into the workshop. “No worries, mate.”

  “Hey, do you want catch up for a beer and burger one night?” Jack calls.

  “Well mate, seeing as you’re carless we’ll have to meet at the pub,” smirks Matt. “Technically carless,” he adds, watching us climb into Bobby’s four-wheel drive.

  “Any excuse, eh? Sounds like a plan.” Jack gives him the thumbs up before driving away.

  ***

  The drive from Karuah to Tea Gardens is awkward, at least for me. As usual, attempting to make small talk is like scraping fingernails down a blackboard.

  “So,” I say after a while, going out on a limb. “There’s something I’ve noticed about you.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s that?” He looks across, interested, then turns back to study the road.

  I hesitate, glancing sideways. “Well, you don’t surf. I’ve never seen you on the break. Not even once.”

  His face clouds over. And it’s deep cloud. Dark, like you don’t want to go there. “Nah, you’re right. I don’t surf,” he says, his eyes never leaving the road. We speed past fields and swampy wetlands where black swans once huddled in rushes. The emptiness is obvious.

  “Why not? I mean, you fish, skipper boats ...”

  “Just not my thing.”

  “Which seems odd, you know. Seeing how you love the water.”

  “It’s not that odd.” His voice is clipped, but I assume I’ve read too much into the tone.

  I wonder if there’s a story, because it sure seems as if there is. His face loses warmth, turning grey in the gloomy day. The wipers swing evenly over the windscreen, the swish and clunk audible in the loud silence.

  Jack exhales loudly. “My brother died a few years back. In the ocean.”

  I sit here stunned. Because the revelation is completely left field. I really wasn’t expecting this. Or anything of the sort. “What?” I say stupidly. “God, Jack, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like.” An image of Ben flashes through my mind, dark and painful. I would never recover.

  “He drowned, surfing. Lost his board on the rocks, you know? It was way too rough for surfing that day, but the waves were awesome. He was chasing the thrill.”

  I shudder. “God, your parents. And you, Jack. How awful.”

  He nods grimly. “He was knocked out on the rocks. No-one saw. He just drowned. All alone, with his board smashed to pieces, caught in the rip channelling deep below the sea. And I should have been there, you know? To save him. If I’d been there I would’ve
seen. He asked me to go. Wanted me to surf with him. But the waves were so huge. Too huge for me. So I left him there. Walked home with my board beneath my arm. And every single day I wish it was different. That I’d stayed. Because he’d still be here, Sam. And I have to live with that. Every single day. So no, it wasn’t an easy time. But we managed to get through it. Somehow.”

  “Jack, you can’t blame yourself. It was an accident. A horrific, hideous accident.” I feel absolutely dreadful, wishing I’d never mentioned his lack of surfing. Frankly I’d like the floor of the car to open up and drop me onto the concrete road below. “I’m really sorry for pressing you about the surfing. I had no idea.”

  He shrugs, a look of gloom overcoming him completely. “Yeah, it’s okay. No-one does. We don’t talk about it that much. I mean, we talk about him, just not so much about what happened. But there’s no need to apologise. I’m okay, you know? It’s been 3 years now.”

  I wait a while. “So is that why you moved? From Sydney, I mean.”

  “I guess so. Partly. Mum and Dad needed a change. I s’pose I did too. There were too many memories. I could’ve stayed. But we’re close, so I wanted to come with them. I thought they needed that. For now, at least. They already lost one son.”

  Even though I’m mortified, part of me is pleased. Not that his brother died of course, just that we’re talking. About something so unbelievably significant. Vital in fact, to knowing who Jack is. That he trusts me enough to tell me. That he wants to tell me.

  “What was his name?”

  “Charlie. But his surfing mates called him Chief. As in, boss of the sea.” His face lights up at the memory. “He was three years older than me and I always wanted to be just like him. Ever since I was little I used to surf with him pretty much every day. Before school, after school. Any chance we got. But since he died ... not once. Haven’t been in.”