The guys in the pit looked fine to him, spread out and settled, and no one was picking their nose, as far as he could see. Cray had a chat with the foreman, he was a decent bloke, and asked if the super had been hovering in his absence. The foreman confirmed it, said Dicknose had been ‘hanging around like a bad smell’. Cray knew what that was about, knew Shitslinger was gunning for him.
Cray stood next to the truck for a few moments, head tilted right back, trying to make sense of the blue. Where on earth did it begin? He closed his eyes, attempting to get the parts of his life to match up, before driving back to the office.
‘It’s just a new management approach, it isn’t a reflection on you, or your work, Ray — we’re more than happy with that. It’s about getting new blood into the place, you know, liven things up a bit.’
Yeah, I know. He managed a nod.
‘That’s why we want to offer you a position that better uses your abilities with the guys, Ray. You’re well liked around here.’
Cray was listening. Just.
‘Look, we understand that Don isn’t … the best with people. We want you to do his liaising for him, so manage things with the people on site, rather than spending all your time on the technical stuff. It’ll mean working with Don more, rather than under him.’ He paused. ‘And of course there’ll be some remuneration we can agree on. How does that sound?’
Working even more closely with Shitslinger? How did that sound? He summoned up a voice. Sort of. It came out as a choked gargle before forming into anything recognisable.
‘Neil, it’s not what I’d hoped.’ Gargle, gargle. ‘It was more that I was looking for … for a change in the on-site–off-site routine, you know? It gets tiring after a while, the to-ing and fro-ing, it’s tough.’
‘Yes, it is. It’s hard on families.’ Neil nodded as if he cared.
Cray thought, Rosie is never gunna go for this, this isn’t better, it’s worse, even if he pays me double, it’s a shit sandwich. And managing people with Shitslinger breathing down his neck was hardly going to make the work more palatable.
Neil lifted his head. ‘I don’t think we could change the fly-in fly-out break-up for you, Ray, not this year, anyway. Perhaps once a system has been set up between the managers, maybe then, but not now.’
Not this year? Cray found politeness from a source he didn’t know existed. ‘You understand — I’ll have to think about it, speak to Rosie — my …’ Partner? He hated that bloody new-age, politically correct expression. Girlfriend? Hardly. That sounded insulting, somehow.
Neil nodded. ‘Of course, of course, Ray. Talk to your …’ He nodded. ‘Give me a ring tomorrow.’
13
Seagulls sprayed into sudden low flight like bowling pins going down on impact. Rosie hardly recognised Fremantle on a weekday. Every now and then the warm salty air blew around her, around the people carrying bags and pushing prams, around the men reading papers in the mall near the two-dollar shops and the ageing buskers, around druggies making calls at the phone boxes while their kids scrapped in shopping trolleys behind them.
Walking along, she looked up to the top of an old white building that housed a newsagent and tobacconist at street level, and saw paint peeling from the walls, windows with tatty verticals drawn, and window ledges moving grey with pigeons, cooing and bustling, and she wondered who, if anyone, lived up there. Or if anyone lived above the pale green undertakers, someone-or-other and sons. I’m going to be a funeral director when I grow up, she imagined a small voice saying in front of a class of hopeful astronauts and nurses and firemen.
The buildings were mediterranean against the strong blue sky and were crossed by the white darts of seagulls.
She broke out into the open part of the terrace. Here, Italian cafes lined the street, providing pause for retirees flicking through the Fin Review and mums with babies, groups of uni students and artists, and old men who talked around small tables with tiny cups and tight black shoes.
After buying olive bread for her lunch, Rosie detoured around the scene and turned down past Timezone, where bored teenagers loitered and young couples tried to shoot hoops for prizes. She decided to drop into Elizabeth’s, have a browse. She hadn’t been there since she was a student, when she would roam the shelves for particular titles that would save her a few dollars’ precious rent money.
Coming out of there, slipping the old book into her bag, Rosie felt the inherent pleasure in reusing something, in ditching the need for a brand-new thing, the perfect, white-paged, twenty-dollar version. How freeing it was. Somehow, she had an excuse for shabbiness now, whether it was the book, or her clothes, or the fact that none of their plates or bowls matched, and just having to make do. Making do felt better than wanting things, so much simpler. She’d almost forgotten, she thought. Of how things could be, how the day could be. The midmorning blue of Fremantle’s sky; the strange mix of daytime shoppers. The musty smell of a second-hand book.
When she got home, the light on their answering machine was flashing with messages from Nat, who’d heard the news about her job, wanted the details, and one from Emily, who wanted to know if she was okay. And there was a message from Cray, trying hard to sound alright, but his voice defeated with news about his meeting with Neil. Something in Rosie dropped when she heard him say that there wasn’t going to be a change to his work routine, that there wasn’t a promotion in the offing, just a move sideways.
Things must be bleak out there, a thousand kays away.
‘I don’t know what I’m going to do,’ he’d said. ‘Call me when you get in.’
Rosie sank into the sofa, wanted to think before she rang him back. She pressed on the TV for the company of background noise. This was a habit Cray disliked with a passion. He would mute the volume but leave the vision on. Rosie loathed that.
He must be so disappointed. What could she say to him? Do a job you hate, just for the time being, until we sort something out; we need the money? After what she’d done? She’d rather go back and work for The Messenger than let him battle on with Shitslinger.
God, things were messy now. This had all gone wrong; this wasn’t how their lives were meant to be, they were young, for god’s sake, they had no kids, no dramas, life should be fun!
She wondered, briefly, if Cray could remember the smell of a second-hand book.
Leighton Beach was on the TV. The newsreader’s pat voice.
‘… The nineteen-year-old man died last night after being escorted down the Leighton tower by paramedics in a similar attempt last week. The death has angered the man’s family, who say he was suicidal but that the psychiatric unit of Southern Districts Hospital discharged him on the weekend, describing him as “low risk”. Hospital staff refused to comment today. An inquest will be held.’
The curtains shifted in the breeze. The newsreader placed the page at the back of the pile, looked up to camera, and began the next story.
That things survive — indeed, sometimes thrive — on these dry, smoothed yellows of the sand dunes is remarkable. Arms of succulent groundcover reach and grip. Eventually, waxy magenta flowers open into sandy gusts; insects hide in the calm of the plants’ tiny places.
Out here you either resist or succumb to the rushing sand.
A woman in a sarong stands in the fuzzy distance on the beach. She leans lightly into the wind, her weight perfectly balanced, as if the wind were a waiting cocoon, as if she might fall into it and never get up.
14
Ferg pushed through the bush, bending branches out of the way, hearing them flick back behind him. Much easier being here on your own, he reckoned. Having to hold branches wide for people behind you, hanging on to their tips as long as possible before letting go, being careful of where they snapped back — all that was a distraction from things he was looking out for, listening for. He pushed through where the trail dipped away under lower scrub, away from the house, down towards the olive river.
He hadn’t been here for ages, berated himself fo
r it when he reached the first rocks where he could see the water, hear the trickling where it broke the surface, reached the banks, found a mossy rock. It sounded like china beads rolled about in the palm of a hand, it was so gentle, so light. How could a sound, he thought, be so kind? He sat, listened, breathed.
Fergus thought about Liza, about himself, about Mike and Sam and Pip. Families. He tried to be objective but knew there wasn’t much chance of that. Things had changed over the years. What he’d said the other night was right: Liza was bored. That was why she gave him heaps, he reckoned, in bed some nights when the others were asleep. He hoped that was all it was. He understood — Christ, life was boring, generally — but he didn’t know how to fix it for her. The mundaneness, the everyday, every day. Maybe it got her down more than she realised. She’d get bogged down in little things, things that didn’t matter. There was often tension before they fell asleep. They rarely had sex anymore. It had just petered out, really. They’d talked about it a couple of times, and that was excruciating. They knew they both needed to try harder to keep it all together.
But he was bored too, if he was honest. Underwhelmed. Still on the farm, following his old man’s dream. He tried to think. Had it ever become his own dream?
They all seemed to be in a sort of slumber — all of them except Sam — shuffling through the days, not doing much, not caring for much, not caring for each other much, well, not enough, anyway. He didn’t want Sam to think it was okay, all this. They had to snap out of it, sort their shit out — but it was so hard to change some things. He wearied. Thinking only created something he then had to try to sort out.
Down below, wind rippled across the skin of the river. Something leapt out of the water, twisting and flapping, then re-entered the water. Silent.
The fish powers through the water, past strands of weed and smaller fish. It darts away from streaks of light that waver with every movement; light siamese to the water’s every shudder. Down, down towards slimy rocks and silt, a sprint to elude the thing slipstreaming its tail — and then up, breaking through into the harsh light, fighting its way through the long, weighty moment until the curve returns it, softly, smoothly, into the murky world of the river.
The man looks up, surprised at the sound of the breaking water, catches the limey silver lines of freedom, and fear.
15
It was just before closing time when Mike reached the chemist on the highway. He’d stuck with the place because he liked Annemarie, the pharmacist, and because it was reasonably far from where he lived.
He walked towards the counter at the back. There were a couple of other people in there, mums buying Panadol, tampons, cough mixture, Combantrin.
‘Come through, Mike,’ Annemarie called, ushering him towards the office, where she let him take his daily dose, rather than making him stand in front of everyone in the shop, swilling the stuff down like a naughty kid.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘Yeah, busy. The usual.’ She smiled.
He’d asked her out, once — she was so vibrant and gorgeous, and they always had a bit of a chat when he went in — but she’d said she was married. ‘Yeah, so am I,’ he’d replied, amused but not exactly laughing. Married, still. Even though he hadn’t seen his wife for years. She’d never come back from overseas. He didn’t blame her, either.
He’d had to wonder: was Annemarie married, or was that just an excuse to bring the conversation to a rapid close? Really, what kind of intelligent, well-adjusted woman would ever want to go out with a junkie?
He swallowed the sweetened-up syrup. Annemarie always mixed it with a little cordial for him; it was too much, otherwise. Even after all this time, he couldn’t stand the taste. He tried not to let it touch his teeth, the stuff rotted them away, dried up your saliva. Terrible, that he was here, how he got here. But he was luckier than some, he was on his way down, his doctor reckoned he could be off the methadone in a year. He’d been detoxing for a year already, but you had to take it slow, the stuff was more addictive than the smack. Nice and slow. No stuff-ups. He knew some who were on it for life, couldn’t even reduce their doses by a milligram without getting the full-on sweats and runs. The thought of never being free of it. No, he had to keep going well for the doc to let him go down south. He wanted to try to patch things up with Ferg, if he could, do a bit around the farm. They were the ones who’d always saved his arse, Ferg and Liza, and they were kind about it, despite what he’d done, the stress he’d brought to the family. Ferg still brewed on it, Mike knew that, but what could he do? You can’t actually change the past. Lord, how he wanted to! He’d hated Ferg and Liza at times — despised them — for how good their lives were.
Yeah, he wanted to prove to Ferg that he could be okay too, live well, be … responsible. He’d never found the time to show the old man, but while his mum was still around, well, he ought to spend time with her. He sure as hell hadn’t bothered before.
16
They lay together, trying to summon up something positive. It was Wednesday. Cray should have been at the mine, but things had gone awry. He wouldn’t be going back. When he’d arrived yesterday he had rings greyly circling his eyes. Rosie felt sick, tried not to show it, made him a cup of tea after hugging him for as long and as strongly as she could.
She nearly said, This all means something, has a reason, but shook her head at the ceiling, remembering a friend once saying to her: ‘Those people who say it was meant to be, that’s just bullshit. These things happen. You just have to try to go on, look ahead.’
Charcoal thunderclouds blocked the sun from their window.
Cray said, ‘I can’t move, I can’t think.’
Rosie felt scared. She pushed it back, diverted it. She made toast, spread vegemite on her piece, marmalade on his, took it back to bed.
He looked clearer after the food, propped himself up against a few cushions, looked around the room.
She turned to him. ‘Let’s leave — go down south.’
He stared at her.
‘I mean, you’re there every chance you get. Every long weekend, summer. You could go anywhere on your salary but it’s always down to Margies.’
‘I know. You mean live there?’
‘Yeah.’
The woman next door was clattering about in her garden, shushing the dog when it barked.
‘Well …’ He struggled to get it into his head. ‘Why would we do that, exactly?’
This. That guy at Leighton.
Cray rolled on to his side to face her, searching.
‘To be our own people,’ she eventually managed, in a whisper.
‘Instead of …’ And he was quiet for a moment. ‘Being other people’s people,’ he said finally.
Rosie let the tears come. ‘God, let’s do our own thing, live the way we want to live, grow vegies and things. Pick grapes for a job. Whatever! Do something that’s meaningful to us. I mean, I feel like everyone’s waiting for us to sort ourselves out and settle down, but I couldn’t care less about any of that. And I don’t care what they think about us.’
Cray’s fingers traced the shape of his receding hairline, and Rosie was reminded of the eight years between them. ‘But we do care, Rosie. That’s the problem.’
‘It’s too late now, isn’t it?’ Rosie said glumly. ‘It’s too late to do it our own way.’
She got off the bed, moved around the room. ‘We’ve formed habits, we’ve already begun to fill the oldies’ expectations — our bosses’, even! And it’s people our age, too — you remember Zoe and Al? I bumped into her today. They’ve bought a house, Cray, and they’re getting married at the end of the year. She’s got a rock on her finger!’ Panic came in shifts. ‘We’re stupid, we should never have started with any of it!’
She looked at Cray pleadingly, wanting him to disagree, say it wasn’t true.
He didn’t say a thing. Not for a while. And then he nodded.
‘Let’s go anyway. Let’s go there. M
argies.’
1
The fridge grumbled into the night. Peppermints swished over the roof of the van. Rosie decided to get up rather than struggle with sleep.
All the caravans were in darkness, little curtains drawn on miniature homes. The toilet block was lit up like a late-night diner, and hundreds of insects batted themselves without reward against the white light of fluoros. Rosie ran over in her t-shirt and Cray’s boardies, barefoot, avoiding the crippling gravel as much as possible. She chose the cubicle with the best light, read the holiday graffiti — Sarah R 4 DS, together forever, that sort of thing — and then relaxed.
The last couple of days had been full-on, packing, storing furniture, cleaning out their place in Freo — a total sweatathon thanks to a cyclone up north. To see the house empty of their things, to let it go. But a relief, too. Shedding stuff. Then not to have another place to go to. The drive down south, knowing that it was one-way, that they wouldn’t be coming back after the weekend. They were driving into something, and it felt full, like they’d have to carve a space for themselves, rather than just sliding into a waiting spot like they always had in Freo.
They’d decided to relax and look around for the first few days, go for walks in the relative southern cool, and Cray of course wanted to surf. The boards had taken up most of the room in the car on the way down: extra passengers, the rubber-tipped noses pressing into the dash, tails against the back windscreen. Rosie’d had her arm over Cray’s favourite board, the rhino chaser, for much of the long, sweeping drive, and had to reach over it awkwardly to touch Cray.
The Break Page 4