by Lily Malone
‘Since the Pope was Catholic.’
We both laugh. When one of your best friends goes by the nickname of Pope, you get a lot of mileage out of the Vatican.
We’re nearing the Busselton outskirts now and Brayden slows to seventy.
‘So the sellers obviously liked you. I hope this Carl guy was impressed.’
‘I think so. He got the listing. They signed the authority on the spot.’
‘With your resume you could go to any real estate agent and offer your services.’ The wheel slips through Brayden’s fingers as we turn hard left off the highway.
It’s the second time he’s mentioned me looking for work. I’m flattered he thinks I could do it, but I’m getting the impression he thinks I intend to live off welfare the rest of my life. I’m on holiday, aren’t I? It is the weekend.
‘There’s no point me looking for anything more, Brayden. I’m not staying. Today was just a favour for Nathan Blain.’
He turns another left at the beach road and I don’t think it’s my imagination — I’m sure he wrenches the wheel harder than he needs to. Just before we turn into the beach house driveway he says, ‘You’ve got options, Jenn. There’s no need to rush back… to Perth.’
‘Do you mean rush back… to Perth? Or do you mean rush back… to Jack?’
‘Any way you want to look at it, just don’t rush back.’
A handful of snappy retorts leap to my tongue, but when I open my mouth, they have nowhere to go. He’s right. If I rush into a decision now, I could regret it forever.
The next decision I make has to be the best one for Seb.
We bump to the rear of the beach house, where Brayden parks. In the backseat, Sebby’s blonde curls wisp across his forehead. His head slants sideways, tilted into the side of his car seat. Cake crumbs dot his shorts and the dinosaur is clutched in his hands as tightly as ever.
‘Do we wake him up?’ Brayden asks, just above a whisper.
‘Never wake a sleeping child. It’s one of the rules.’
‘There are rules?’
‘You bet. Like, don’t buy them everything they ask for. Where did he get that dinosaur?’
‘There was a lady selling them at a market in the park. He wanted one.’
‘Oh. And the cake?’
He smiles. ‘Same market. Different lady.’
‘Gee, he’s got you pegged.’ I get out of the car, open the back door, and unclip Seb’s harness. Carefully, I pull his arms through the straps.
‘Won’t you wake him up if you move him?’
‘Don’t think so,’ I say. ‘Can you bring those bags from the front? They probably weigh more than he does.’
‘Sure.’
I shimmy my hands under Seb’s shoulders and scoop him out until I can hold him against my chest. He’s sweaty from the ride and he grizzles before he snuggles into my shoulder. At the top of the stairs Brayden opens the door and stands back to let me through. Turning into our bedroom, I lay Seb in the cot. He flips on his stomach.
I stare at him for a few seconds — at the minor miracle he is — then leave the room.
***
Seb usually sleeps for a couple of hours during the day, so I tell Brayden I’ll make a start on writing up the Commonage Road property for Carl.
Brayden says he’ll go for a run.
He changes into exercise shorts, joggers and an RM Williams T-shirt, slaps sunglasses on his face and a cap over his hair. The old shack vibrates to his steps and seems to sigh when he’s gone.
Or maybe that’s me.
I take a few minutes to unpack the bags of produce the Stewarts gave me. The smell of fresh basil and bruised mint fills the kitchen.
It’s so quiet with only the humming fridge to keep me company. I’m tempted to close my eyes for a nanna-nap myself, but the opportunity to write while the house is quiet is too good to refuse.
I want to write something that will knock Carl Barron’s socks off. Call it professional pride.
Sneaking in to the bedroom to get my laptop and wi-fi, I peel my corporate off — and put my casual on. The laptop cord spills loose as I tug the computer from its case and bangs the cot near Seb’s ear. He flinches, throws his fist against the mesh fabric and I freeze, scarcely daring to breathe. Then the damn woodpecker hammer-drill bird starts his Duk Duk Duk Duk Duk call.
That bird is definitely turning me anti-wildlife.
Quiet as I can, I ghost from the room, set my laptop on the table and boot it up.
Behind the motor’s whine there’s a noise, a chirpy chat.
I check my watch. It can’t be Seb. He’s only been asleep twenty minutes. I sit quieter than a mouse, not even typing.
After three minutes of silence, I creep across to the bedroom door, open it the barest crack, and realise there’s no point being quiet.
My son is sitting in the portacot playing with his dinosaur. He’s about as close to falling asleep as I am to scoring a hole in one — and I don’t even own clubs anymore.
I push the door wider. ‘What’s the big idea, buddy? You should be asleep.’
He smiles his most cheeky smile and throws the dinosaur at my head.
***
Seb gets mashed banana and avocado for lunch, and I make a chicken sandwich using sweet garden-ripe tomatoes, spinach leaves, cheese and basil. We eat on the porch and after he’s finished, Seb waddles to the front lawn and picks up yesterday’s plastic pot.
He starts choosing rocks to throw in the pot, leaving his dinosaur propped in the weeds near the steps.
I’m leaning over the guardrail with my elbows on the weathered timbers, watching as the dinosaur gets added to the rock collection and the whole thing gets shaken up.
The sun is warm on my back and the click clack of pebbles in the pot is hypnotic, like rain pattering plastic. All this, and last night’s lousy sleep, makes my eyelids heavy.
I almost miss the glint of glass, but once I see it, I’m wide awake.
There’s a man with a camera on the opposite side of the road and I think he’s been there a while. His camera’s not pointed at us but that doesn’t reassure me. Every hair on the nape of my neck prickles.
It’s all peppermint trees in the bush there. The better shots are further up, where the walking path cuts through the dunes to the beach — where Brayden and I walked yesterday.
What is he photographing in there?
Sometimes people stop to take snaps of the beach house, and I can understand that — old shacks like this one are rare — but he’d better not try taking a photo of the beach house with Seb and I in centre stage. I don’t want to be in some stranger’s holiday photo album or on his Facebook page.
I watch the man like a hawk, but when he does nothing more alarming than pick bitumen from the tread of his boot, I decide it must have been the patch of bright orange gazanias that caught his interest.
Half a minute later, Brayden pounds past the neighbour’s verge and crosses our lawn. Sweat forms a wet “V” in his tank top and any skin I can see glistens.
Checking the timer on his watch, he slows to a stop a few metres from the steps, puts his head down and grips his thighs, breathing hard.
‘I’m buggered if I’m ever taking up running,’ I say.
‘I feel great.’ His flanks heave as he straightens.
‘You look half dead.’
Even his bark of laughter looks painful.
Over Brayden’s shoulder the photographer drifts up the road to my right. The breeze blows the scent of the sea into my face. Or is that salt tang I smell, Brayden’s sweat?
His eyes flick to Seb. ‘So what happened to his two-hour sleep? Change of plan?’
‘Change of plan. I don’t know why I bother having a plan sometimes.’
‘If you want to get some work done this arvo, I could take Seb to the beach for you,’ Brayden offers.
My hand almost slips off the rail. ‘Thanks, but you don’t have to do that. You’ve already looked after him for me once
today.’
Jack never offered to take Seb out of the house so I could work. He says I should write at night, when Seb’s in bed. Nine times out of ten, the only thing I have energy for after 7.30 p.m. is putting my feet up and watching The Voice.
Brayden puts his foot on the lowest step and stretches against it. ‘I don’t mind, Jenn, or I wouldn’t have offered.’
I could get used to this and it scares me, because this isn’t real, can’t be real. This is holiday time out of mind. Monday, he returns to Perth, or Newman for his work, and I’m back where I started. I’m a single mum on a piddling income and after I wear out my welcome in Emmy’s spare room, what then? I have nowhere to go, except…
No. I curl my fingers around the rail.
‘Jenn?’
‘I don’t want to go back to Jack.’ The words scatter from my stiff lips.
‘O-kay,’ Brayden stretches the syllable. ‘I didn’t say anything about Jack. I just said I’d look after Seb for a while this arvo if you want.’
I suck a steadying breath, feel it whistle cold between my teeth. ‘It’s not fair if I let Seb get attached to you. You’re not his dad — ’
‘I’m not trying to be his dad — ’
‘I mean you’re not staying in his life.’ My life. ‘After this weekend, you’ll head home, or to Newman to work, or… wherever, and I — ’
Brayden puts his weight on the bottom step, treading carefully, approaching me like I’m a wild bird about to fly. Two feet from me, his arms open. He takes another step, and they enfold me.
At first, I stand like a plank — but he’s damp, strong, and sweaty — and ignoring Brayden Culhane is like asking a diver to ignore oxygen. I don’t know how.
A sob hitches in my throat and my shoulders crumple. ‘I thought I was being so brave. I told Jack it was over… I was so angry…’
Soothing sounds rumble from Brayden’s chest. He rocks me where we stand and my arms close around him, hard, as if I can steal the strength from his hips, the power from those shoulders.
‘…coming down here, like I was on some sort of Thelma & Louise road trip, then you being here.’
My mouth opens against damp fabric and his hammering heart. ‘I’m such an idiot.’
‘You’re not an idiot,’ he says, near my ear, ‘you’re just a bit messed up right now. Give yourself a break, Jenn.’
I try to smile through the tears. ‘As if you haven’t got enough on your plate without me turning all soap opera. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have to be sorry. That’s what friends are for.’
On tiptoe, I lean up to brush a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘You don’t have to thank me, either,’ he murmurs huskily, brushing my shoulder and the top of my arm with his hand, lingering there until my skin tingles. ‘And you don’t have to decide anything yet. You have all day tomorrow, and Monday. Hell, you can stay here for a week if you want to. Let go of the world. Give it some time. You’ll sort it out.’
A jarring clatter spins me out of his arms.
Jerking around, I see the plastic pot cartwheeling, stones skipping across the deck, and Seb’s dinosaur sky-diving through the branches of the daisy bush.
Seb lets out a frustrated scream. His eyes beg me to find Dino.
I get off the porch and dig the toy from beneath the scraggly bush, getting a hayfever tickle in my nose, already stuffy from the pollen. ‘Here you go, Seb. Don’t cry. Here’s Dino.’
Sebby curls his fingers around the dinosaur’s head.
‘Natural order restored,’ Brayden says.
God, I wish. Stress churns through my stomach and as I stare in the direction of an ocean I can’t see, my legs feel like rubber.
Then Seb throws the dinosaur back in the bush, and looks at me hopefully.
I sigh. When I look up at Brayden, his eyes are laughing.
With a toddler, everything is a game.
Chapter 10
After that, I don’t feel like writing.
While Brayden showers, I change Seb’s nappy and start thinking about what we should do for the afternoon. Beach? Playground? Should I suggest a drive somewhere so Seb might catch up on a few hours of missed sleep?
Then there’s dinner to think about.
Food must be on Brayden’s mind too, because it’s the first thing he mentions when he emerges from the tiny pink bathroom, hair dewy from the shower, smelling of rainwater and shampoo.
‘What do you want to do for dinner, Jenn?’
He’s pulled on denim jeans but his chest is bare. A towel covers one shoulder. The other has a collection of water droplets milling in his collarbone.
‘Anyone would think you didn’t have lunch.’ I try not to stare at the collarbone posse, or the smooth curve of muscle beneath it, or the firm ridge of abdominals beneath that.
‘I didn’t have lunch,’ he points out.
My mouth is bone dry and I have to swallow to get some moisture to my lips. ‘You ruined your appetite on custard eclairs.’
‘Ouch. Sorry Mum.’ Brayden pushes the screen door open and bounces down the steps toward the clothesline to peg out his towel. Seb and I follow — I need to dump the nappy — and while I’m surrounded by fishing gear and fishy records in the shed, inspiration strikes.
‘I know what I feel like for dinner, Brayden,’ I say, emerging from the shade.
‘Yeah? What’s that?’ His muscles ripple as he pegs up one side of the towel.
‘Squid.’
He pauses, squints at me. ‘Squid?’
‘There are all those squid jigs hanging up in the shed, and fishing rods. I thought we could go squidding off the jetty this afternoon… take a couple of beers — ’
‘You want to go squidding?’
‘We used to do it all the time.’
He tweaks the second clothes peg in place. ‘We used to do it all the time — me and Pope. If we ever caught one you girls kicked up such a fuss we had to throw it back. When they squirted their ink, it freaked you out. Remember?’
‘Did not.’
‘Did too.’ He’s laughing now, swooping to pick up Seb to save me carrying him up the stairs.
I don’t remember any of that — the throwing squid back. I remember leaning on the salt-weathered rails with Emmy, holding my hat to my head with one hand and a beer in the other, Pope’s blue-lidded cooler making a table between us as the boys cast their lines in the water.
‘Did not,’ I mutter.
He turns at the top of the stairs, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘If you’re so keen to go squidding, far be it from me to spoil your fun.’
‘Great. I’ll get Seb ready.’
‘Better get in your oldest clothes, Angel Cakes. Squid ink is nasty shit.’
‘Batter up, Buttercup. Bring it on.’
***
For a while we argue logistics. He doesn’t want to take the pram because it takes up too much room, but I say it’s a must.
‘I can’t take Seb on a jetty if he’s not strapped in the pram. I never had to worry about having a toddler out there before.’ I imagine if I lost concentration for a second… Seb leaning over the railing, slipping; hurtling into the sea… God. My spine crawls.
‘Okay, we’ll take the pram.’
Beer is a priority. As is a fishing rod, a selection of jigs and a bucket for all the squid.
‘Make it two buckets. One to scoop them, one to hold them,’ I say.
Brayden fossicks in the shed, comes out with a white four-litre icecream container to add to the yellow bucket he used to wash the car yesterday.
Forty minutes after I suggested the idea we’ve got everything we need, and we’re packed and off.
Seb almost falls asleep in the fifteen minutes it takes us to drive to the famous jetty and find a parking space. When I strap him in the pram, I give him a bottle of milk.
It’s quite a walk to the admission booth, where a grey-haired lady in a pink knitted cardigan takes six dollars from each of
us. ‘The pram is free, love,’ she beams, handing me our printed tickets.
‘Thanks.’
We push through the turnstile.
To our left, the beach front is netted to keep the stingers at bay. It’s teeming with toddlers and parents. There’s a boardwalk built around the swimming area. Older kids dot the edge, dangling their legs in the water. Every now and then there’s a squeal or a shout as someone gets shoved in.
Gradually, we put space between us and the shore. The water changes colour. Gone is the aqua-marine, now it’s a steely, cold, kelp-bottomed brown-blue, patched with white where bare sand shines through.
‘Crap. I almost forgot.’ Delving in the bottom of the storage compartment under the pram, I come up with the belt I use to attach the pram to my wrist.
Brayden strolls ahead, bucket and rod held comfortably in his right hand, cooler-pack with beers in his left. He’s pulled a moth-eaten flannelette shirt from his father’s wardrobe at the shack — brown with a beige stripe — over the top of his T-shirt.
It’s not fair that he manages to look gorgeous in it. Unlike me.
The old shirt he found for me is bright orange. I could be a pumpkin. Three times I’ve rolled the sleeves and still they fall over my wrists.
At least if I sink, I won’t be hard to find.
There’s an approaching rumble from far in front of us — the tourist train returning from the café and museum at the end of the jetty. The driver waves his finger at us as he goes past, and most of the passengers smile.
We’re not the only fishermen. When my eyes scour ahead, I see enough buckets to kit out a small fire brigade.
The first skids of black tar slick the jetty’s slabs. Ahead, Brayden stops. He’s waiting for me.
‘Did you see the ink marks?’ I ask.
‘Sure did.’ He peers into the pram. ‘Seb’s asleep, Jenn.’
‘Good. He has a bit to catch up on.’
Brayden gestures over his shoulder. ‘A bit further up was always a good spot.’
We’re almost a third of the way out when he stops again and plants the cooler on a concrete pad not far from a stone tourist marker. It has photographs of the aftermath of Cyclone Alby — the storm that wrecked most of the jetty in 1978. We’re fishing on a restoration project that’s been under way for decades and is ongoing.