Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Where’s the sun gone?’

  ‘Behind a big cloud.’ (Deano.)

  ‘How can you live in this dump without a McDonald’s?’

  ‘Sucks, doesn’t it?’ (Pickles.)

  ‘Why do you guys always wear footy shorts?’

  ‘Dunno.’ (Mark Arks.)

  But it didn’t really matter what she said, or what she did – it was perfect. She was perfect, absolute perfection. By the end of that week I was more smitten than ever, smitten to the power of two. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. It was like some alien had colonised my body and was controlling my thought processes. Stop thinking about her, I’d tell myself. And of course, I thought about her even more.

  Was I miserable, or what?

  24

  Old Darcy was in his usual possie, at the end of the jetty, sitting on his bait box, his rod leaning against his leg.

  ‘Gidday, young’un,’ he said.

  ‘Gidday, Darcy. How’s the fishing?’ I said.

  I sat down next to him, my legs dangling over the side.

  ‘Nothing doing early. But the tide just turned and that stirred ’em up. Just caught me a couple o’ good size tommies.’

  He tilted the bucket towards me so I could see them. They were opening and closing their mouths. I wonder what it feels like, I thought, drowning in air.

  ‘One more for a feed, eh?’ I said.

  I don’t know why but you needed at least three fish before you could say, ‘I got me a feed of tommies.’

  ‘What bait you using?’

  ‘Been doing a bit of experimenting,’ said Darcy, handing me the jar.

  ‘I started this lot off on the meat, nice bucket of pig guts I got offa Porky Fraser. Let the blowies strike that. Then when they got a bit of size to ’em, I put ’em on the fruit to fatten ’em up.’

  Maggots weren’t exactly my cup of tea, but I couldn’t help but admire Darcy. He was always thinking, devising new strategies in his quest for the perfect gent.

  ‘How they going?’

  ‘Well, young’un, this is the first time I used ’em …’

  He was interrupted by the whirr of the ratchet. He leaned back a little, and started winding the line in, the tip of the rod bending right over. A flash of silver, and Darcy had himself a feed of tommies.

  ‘And as you can see they’re not doing too badly.’

  ‘Did you know Pickles is selling gents? He got them from a dead roo on the side of the road.’

  I felt a bit like a traitor, because the night before I’d played eight-ball with money from Skippy the dead kangaroo’s gents.

  ‘Is that so? I had a notion that’s where they were coming from. Don’t worry, young’un. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. But let me tell you something.’

  His voice dropped, just like when he was reciting ‘Kaiser Bill’.

  ‘Nothing’ll bite on filth like that. Nothing.’

  We sat there for a while not saying anything. The waves lapping against the pylons.

  ‘Darcy,’ I said. ‘Were you ever married?’

  I didn’t know much about Darcy’s past, except that he’d been in the air force. He didn’t have any kids, or if he did he never mentioned them, and they never visited him.

  ‘Many years ago, young’un. Many years ago.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Didn’t work out. Nobody’s fault, young’un. Just didn’t work out. And I never got ’round to it again.’

  ‘Do you wish you did?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, young’un, I don’t. I got nothing against sheilas, but I never understood them too well. Spent too much time by myself, I reckon. Got used to my own company.’

  The ratchet whirred again. Darcy pulled in another one. Now he had a good feed.

  ‘But I have got one piece of advice for you, young’un,’ said Darcy as he cast again. A gentle flick of his wrist and the line went coiling through the air. ‘As I can see you’re in a bit of a state, and I know you’re a shy sort of lad.’

  Was I a shy sort of lad? Yeah, Darcy was right, I probably was.

  ‘They’re not mind-readers, you know. No use moping around with a long face. That’s not telling her anything. If you like a girl then you gotta let her know. Maybe you’ll make a fool of yourself. So what?’

  Darcy turned his head so that he was looking me in the eye.

  ‘Because I tell you something, young’un. You’re a long time dead, a bloody long time dead.’

  25

  I walk along the jetty, with a spring in my step, towel slung over my shoulder, whistling a happy tune.

  The gang are in their usual positions.

  ‘Good morning, Mark. Pickles. Dazza. Deano. Morning Maccas,’ I say, the words leaping from my mouth like super-heroes. ‘A wonderful day is it not?’

  ‘Sure is, Blacky,’ they reply in unison.

  ‘Morning, Cathy,’ I say. ‘Your tan’s coming along great. Mind if I put my towel here?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she says.

  I put my towel down, close to hers. Then I peel off my t-shirt and lie down.

  Cathy turns to face me. I’m looking right into her sparky brown eyes.

  ‘It took you long enough,’ she says.

  ‘It did, didn’t it?’

  She smiles, her teeth flashing white, leans over, and kisses me on the cheek.

  That’s how I’d envisaged it, anyway. I’d written my very own M&B, in my head. I called it Love Story (catchy title, eh?). I’d gone through it I don’t know how many times since that talk with Darcy. The details varied, but the plot was always the same – up the jetty, me putting my towel next to hers, the smile, the kiss.

  And today, I’d decided, was the day. Fiction was going to become fact. Love Story would become my story. There was no use moping about with a long face. Darcy was right about that. And my face was definitely getting longer. I’d been checking it out in the mirror. Every day longer and longer. I had to put a stop to it. Darcy was right about something else as well – you’re a long time dead. The best time to put my towel down next to Cathy’s was today, while I was still alive and kicking.

  ‘Wanna go spearing today?’ asked Team-man at breakfast.

  I didn’t reply. Love Story was playing in my head.

  ‘Hey you,’ he said, clicking his fingers in front of my face, ‘I said do you wanna come spear fishing?’

  ‘Spear fishing?’

  ‘That’s right, spear fishing. You know, with a spear. One of those long pointy things. We used to do it all the time, remember? You used to like it, remember?’

  ‘No, no I don’t think so. Not today.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got something on.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just something, okay.’

  ‘It’s that camper, isn’t it?’

  ‘What camper?’

  ‘What’s-her-name. The stuck-up one.’

  ‘It’s not her, and she’s not stuck-up.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ said Team-man. ‘By the way, have you seen my thongs?’

  ‘What thongs?’

  ‘You know, my black ones.’

  ‘No, haven’t see ’em.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. I said so, didn’t I? What would I do with your stinking thongs anyway?’

  ‘Okay, just asking.’

  I scoffed the last of my Weetbix. It was time to get ready.

  Usually I didn’t care what I wore, especially up the jetty; I just threw on whatever was around. But not today, today was different.

  I got Team-man’s thongs out from where I’d hidden them. They were too small for me, but they were black. Black thongs were hard to find, they were a definite fashion statement. And after a good scrub with Dettol the smell had pretty much gone.

  Then I put on footy shorts. I’d thought about not wearing them, because Cathy had made a couple of snide comments about us locals wearing footy shorts all the time. Bu
t these were my lucky shorts; they were the ones I wore during the grand final. Besides, I was a local, and locals wore footy shorts swimming. Yet another fact of life. There was no getting away from it.

  I had three t-shirts to choose from. The black, I decided, made me look too much like a hoon. I liked the white because it had squid ink all over it and I thought the stains made interesting patterns. I wasn’t sure if Cathy would, though. So in the end I wore the blue.

  I looked in the mirror. Not too bad, not too bad at all. I smiled. The severe occipital occlusion was still there, but everything else was looking good. I was ready.

  Up the jetty I went. Past Mrs Matt, waist-deep in water, that big straw hat on her head.

  ‘Heads right under, blow those bubbles,’ she was saying.

  Straight past the shed, the spring still in my step. The gang was there, in the usual spot.

  I cleared my throat.

  Are you ready, words? Are you ready to leap out and perform heroic acts?

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, but that was it, the rest of the words refused to budge. And even those two were pretty puny, like Superman after he’d been kryptonited.

  Mark Arks grunted. There were no other replies.

  Keep going, I told myself. And I did. Past Mark Arks. Pickles. Dazza. Past the Maccas. Until I was standing next to Cathy.

  She was lying on her stomach, her back glistening in the sun. And her hair, in a plait, curled around her neck.

  I could hear Darcy’s croaky voice, ‘You’re a long time dead young’un. A bloody long time dead.’

  All I had to do was put my towel down. I’d rehearsed it a thousand times in my mind.

  Go on, Blacky!

  I slid the towel from around my neck. Just then the sun went behind a cloud, the only cloud in the sky that day.

  Cathy stirred. ‘Where’s the sun gone?’ she asked.

  I panicked. I don’t know why, but I did. I spun around and started walking, past the Maccas, past the others.

  ‘Where you going, Blacky?’ said Pickles.

  ‘Forgot something,’ I said over my shoulder.

  Past the shed. All the campers. Mrs Matt and Learn To Swim. By the time I got to the start of the jetty I was running. Faster and faster. Black thongs flapping, my heels scrubbing on the road. All the way home. Into my bedroom and up onto my bunk. I buried my head in my pillow.

  The old man’s right, I said to myself, I’m gutless. A gutless fucking wonder. Tears were sliding down my face. They were salty, like the sea.

  26

  The next day I stayed away from the jetty. I went snorkelling with the siblings down at Bum Rock instead.

  Floating about on the surface, the warm sun above, the cool sea below, watching the fish darting in and out of the weedy rocks, I realised I’d been a total idiot. Team-man was right. Cathy was stuck-up, of course she was, a typical stuck-up college girl. As phoney as those Maccas, if not phonier. And Pickles was right too, she wasn’t even good looking. What a lucky escape, I thought to myself – I’d almost put my towel down next to hers. Imagine being stuck with her all summer, when there were so many other girls around. Girls who weren’t stuck-up or phoney. Girls who didn’t go to college.

  As Pickles always said, ‘Mate, it’s a smorgasbord out there.’

  Late that afternoon the weather changed. I could see it on the news, a big low rolling across the Nullarbor. The temperature dropped, the sky clouded over and the sea became choppy.

  ‘Seen a couple of squid up the jetty this arvo,’ said Darcy over the fence. ‘You wanna get up there tomorrow with your jig.’

  ‘Thanks, Darcy,’ I said.

  Go squidding. What a great idea! It was perfect squidding weather.

  But I didn’t want to go by myself. I had two choices – I could go with Pickles or Dazza. Dazza didn’t fart all the time. He didn’t spend all day scratching his filthy munga. He didn’t have a hyperactive sexual imagination. Dazza was good company.

  I dialled the number.

  ‘Pickles, you wanna come squidding tomorrow?

  But Dazza wasn’t the best squidder in town. Pickles was. By a mile. He could do things with squid that would send a shiver up your spine.

  ‘Wouldn’t mind. Me gents have gone slack.’

  So word had got out. I thought it would. Those campers were always talking to each other in the shower block. And what they were saying was – ‘Just quietly, stick with the Darcy gent.’

  ‘Let’s go squidding then.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll meet you at the shed at seven.’

  I woke early, before anybody else, and made myself breakfast.

  Mum walked into the kitchen. She still had her dressing-gown on.

  ‘You’re up early, dear,’ she said.

  ‘I’m going squiddin’.’

  She walked around the table so she could get a better look at me.

  ‘Not in those clothes you’re not,’ she said.

  ‘But they’re old,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t care if they’re old, they’re not covered in squid ink.’

  Squid ink is real strong stuff. In the old days they used it for writing. Dipped their quills in it and away they went. If you got it on your clothes it didn’t come off. Whenever one of those ads came on the telly about OMO or Drive or any other of those soap powders that were guaranteed to remove any stain (no matter how stubborn), my mum would say, ‘They don’t mention squid ink, do they? No, they don’t, and I can tell you why; nothing gets squid ink out of clothes. Nothing.’ She was right, too.

  So the first thing you learnt about squidding was how to land the squid so the ink didn’t end up all over you. (And the second thing you learnt was how to land the squid so the ink ended up all over somebody else, preferably a camper.)

  I changed into my squiddy white t-shirt and some squiddy shorts. Then I got my lines, slocks, we called them, and a bag of tommy ruffs from the freezer for bait, and set off for the jetty.

  Actually I was feeling pretty good. I was off squidding. And I was no longer smitten. That was all in the past.

  Pickles was the only person on the jetty. He was sitting in the shed, sucking on a family-sized bottle of Coke.

  ‘Brekkie,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  We put the slocks out, one at each pylon, all the way along the jetty. Then we sat down in the shed. Pickles started carving his name into the seat with his knife.

  ‘BOONGS PISS OFF’ was still there. Seeing it reminded me of the night of the grand final Do. I hadn’t seen Clarence since then. Dumby either. I was having second thoughts about my retirement. What would I do if I didn’t play footy? There wasn’t anything to do in winter. And maybe I’d been wrong about the McRae Medal. Mark Arks had played really well. And that pass of Dumby’s was lunacy.

  Then Pickles farted. You can’t imagine how bad a Pickles fart was. Take the worst fart you’ve ever experienced. Multiply it by ten thousand. Now you’re getting close.

  ‘Geez, Pickles, did you have to?’ I said, holding my nose.

  ‘Actually I did.’

  I suppose he was right. It was his nature. You couldn’t tell Pickles not to fart, it would be like telling a vampire not to suck blood.

  ‘I’m going to check the slocks,’ I said.

  All the floats were bobbing high on the waves. Except for the one right at the end of the jetty. It was under the water. There was a squid on it.

  I started pulling the line in. The float popped up. The squid had let go. I released the line. The float went under again.

  Then I heard soft footsteps behind me.

  A typical Pickles trick, he’d sneak up behind you, then drop his guts.

  ‘I know you’re there, you little piece of shit. Fair dinkum, if you fart, I’m gunna shove the first squid we catch fair up your arse.’

  ‘My farts aren’t that bad. Honest.’

  Oh my God!

  I turned around. It was her, Cathy. In jeans and a woolly white jumper. I’d neve
r been so embarrassed. My face, I’m sure, was redder than Arks’s had ever been.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I thought you was you. I mean, I didn’t thought … I didn’t think you was you … you were you. I thought you were Pickles.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘What are you doing up here, anyway?’ I said.

  ‘Early morning walk,’ she said. ‘Get out of the house.’

  ‘Without the Maccas?’

  ‘I am allowed out without them, you know,’ she said. ‘What are you doing – catching fish?’

  ‘No, catching squid.’

  ‘Really, catching squids.’

  ‘Catching squid actually, because squid are like sheep, you know.’

  ‘Squid are like sheep?’

  ‘Because you don’t have sheeps, do you? Same with squid. One sheep. Two sheep. One squid. Two squid and so on.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cathy.

  I don’t think she did actually and I couldn’t blame her, my tongue was as tangled as those fishing lines on the old man’s boat.

  ‘Have you got one on?’ she said, stepping closer to the edge, and looking over into the water.

  ‘I have actually, but it’s really touchy.’

  ‘Touchy? What’s that?’

  I had to think about it for a while.

  ‘It’s suspicious. It doesn’t trust me. Every time I start pulling the line it lets go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno, it knows something fishy’s going on.’

  Cathy laughed.

  Was she laughing at me? My squiddy clothes? My tangled tongue? My severe occipital occlusion?

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You made a joke – something fishy going on.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I did too.’

  ‘So how do you catch a touchy squid then?’

  ‘You’ve got to go slow, real slow.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then it starts to trust you.’

  ‘Can I have a go?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I handed her the line.

  She held it for a while, moving it slightly, feeling the weight on it.

  ‘It’s like flying a kite,’ she said.

  ‘Haven’t you ever been squidding before?’