The Break

by Deb Fitzpatrick

  She tried not to think about her folks, their silent disappointment when she told them. It would just undermine her, get to her, if she let it in. Sometimes you have to be hard, uncaring, or you’ll never be free. But what if that’s not you, she thought, hardness? Then you’re twice caught: being something you’re not just to have the freedom to be who you are.

  One of the barbecues still had a few warm coals under it, ticking and whispering away as the night grew thick. Rosie looked over at the orange-striped caravan they’d rented, where Cray was sleeping, where they could wake up and potter around, come back to after walks, and where they could read over mugs of tea in the afternoons and cook pasta to keep their bellies warm and full. That van was it. They had no other stuff to busy themselves with. It was so simple.

  2

  Cray was embracing the opportunity to sleep in. Rosie grinned, thinking she might have to check his pulse soon. She wanted him to wake up but didn’t want to disturb him, so she put the kettle on in the hope that the rising noise of it would wake him.

  He began to shift in the bed, then made a few grunts, which became slightly frenzied, until he made a loud uh!, which alarmed her, and woke him.

  ‘Jeez! Are you okay?’ Rosie was sitting beside him on the bed.

  Cray closed his eyes against the light and smiled at the sound of coming tea. ‘Oh, a dream about Shitslinger — I was … sharing my thoughts with him. Anyway, god, I want to forget it.’ He opened an eye. ‘Man, it’s warming up in here! What’s it like outside?’

  ‘Beautiful. That sound of gravel under people’s thongs and kids’ bikes — summer holiday stuff. You slept for ages. Talk about sleep debt — do you know what time it is? Past eleven! I thought you might be dead in there!’ She carefully wound the teabag string around the teaspoon. Clean air cooled across the curtains, across Rosie’s hands.

  Cray put the paper down. Unemployment and corporate fraud. The sound of TV came babbling in through the window. TV. The van next to theirs was decked out to the max, a couple in their sixties doing the round-Australia thing in style. All they needed was a satellite dish and they’d have a brick-and-tile on wheels.

  ‘Birth, school, work, death.’

  ‘What?’ Rosie turned around.

  ‘Birth, school, work, death. It’s hypnotising, just saying it,’ he said, looking outside at the old biddy with a suitcase of toiletries heading off towards the shower block. ‘Life according to our parents’ generation.’

  3

  Sam was gunna be late for the bus, and he still had another wet-sponge Weetbix to get through. He looked up to see if Mum or Dad were watching him, but they were talking about something in the kitchen. Sam scraped the sloppy remains onto the cartoons page of the paper, right on Modesty Blaise, who, as usual, was flashing her boobs at a crook. He squashed her up into a little package, pushing it into the bin on his way through the kitchen.

  ‘Okay, bye! See you this arvo, Mum.’

  ‘Have a good day, Sam.’

  ‘Sam —’ Ferg looked at Liza, he hadn’t had a chance to ask her yet. ‘We thought it might be nice to have a picnic down by the river this evening. Do you want to ask Jarrad?’

  ‘Unreal! Can we take the handlines?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll fix ’em up today, after I’ve been out to the trees. We’ve got enough reels, haven’t we, Liza?’

  ‘For sure.’ His mum looked surprised. ‘Of course, you know that women are better than blokes at fishing. More sensitive to what’s going on under the surface.’ She raised her eyebrows in challenge.

  Sam and Ferg looked at each other.

  ‘They are not,’ Ferg puffed.

  ‘More sensitive? What, like the last time we went to Denmark — you only caught buff bream, Mum!’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many of those fantasy novels, Lize.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see, won’t we?’

  The cat pushed its head further into Liza’s hand as she scratched and stroked it, and when she stopped, it opened its mustard eyes to see what other, more important thing she could possibly be doing.

  She had the bright red and yellow plastic reels out, and the smelly, sandy tackle box. Puss snuffled around, shoving its nose into the fishiest compartments. Liza loved to fish, to catch just enough to eat, to cook over a fire, to eat the soft flesh. That’s why she loved camping. The basics were genuinely basic. They went off in the truck when they could, but it wasn’t often enough. They used to go overseas, but it was too expensive for them now. Anyway, all that travelling, Liza thought, all that soul-searching. You could do it in your back garden under the Hills Hoist, find the most serene place in the world next to the agapanthus.

  From her bed, Pip saw Liza walk down the corridor with a pile of Sam’s t-shirts. On her way back, Liza knocked lightly on her door. ‘Pip, we’re going to have a picnic by the river tonight, are you up to coming?’

  Pip looked up from her book. ‘Oh, that sounds lovely.’

  ‘Sam’s going to ask Jarrad. I’ll get a cooked chook, and make a salad. We’d love you to come, Pip. And it’s going to be a beautiful day. Twenty-six.’

  Pip definitely wanted to go. She was sick of lying on her bed reading, not that she’d admit it. And she could get Fergus to take her to Jack’s … well, she could visit him, anyway. But she had to be careful about giving those two their space. After all, it’s enough just living here, she thought. Poor things, having to live with a craggly old woman. She’d noticed the two of them talking in the kitchen this morning. Fergus’d said something about nourishing everyone, themselves — that was all she caught, her hearing wasn’t too good these days — and then he’d held Liza’s hand, while Sam sat at the table eating his breakfast.

  She looked at Liza now. What would Jack have done? Damn, she missed that man.

  ‘I’d love to. Give me a shout when you’re ready. Oh, Liza? Would you like me to make some bread?’

  Liza looked up and said, ‘Yes — please. If it’s no trouble.’

  Pip tried to turn her thoughts away from the memories, as blurry as they were. Everything was blurry these days, that in itself was something to think about, how everything had dulled.

  The memories came back, though, as they always did — like a bad dream comes back after you’ve woken and gone back to sleep again. They weren’t even bad memories, not at all, they were of happy times, times with Jack and the kids, but the act of thinking about those days was painful. Then. It was so different from now, her life now with Fergus and Liza and Sam, and no, she wasn’t unhappy in this life either, but the distance between those two worlds — the one with Jack in it and the one without him — was vast. A veritable ocean. A world. She hardly felt real without him.

  Aargh, these thoughts, these thoughts, they do you no good. Pip pushed herself up off the bed and slowly propelled herself towards the kitchen. She could go faster, but what was the point? She’d always raced around as a young thing, lost no time getting into the orchard in the mornings, picking, trimming, clearing new patches for the next seedlings — Jack had often told her to relax, to slow down, there’s no rush, he’d say. Now she knew what he meant. There was space, too much space, in her day. There was no rush. Except for the others, if they needed something. Then she’d feel the warmth of blood in her, the warmth of her life.

  Pip went to the larder. Flour, salt, sunflower and pumpkin seeds. Yeast and water. She set about making the bread.

  4

  ‘I would have liked the gold plating to be a bit stronger. Don’t you agree, Fergus? A bit stronger. It’s a little thin, or pale, somehow, for a man’s name.’

  ‘But Mum, it’s out here in the bush, it’s not like —’

  ‘I know, I know, Fergus, but the gold, it’s not strong, is it?’

  Ferg looked around to see if Sam or Jarrad had followed, or found them. The breeze soon delivered him a kid’s shout that told him otherwise. He turned back to the stone. ‘Well, I s’pose it could have been … stronger, as you say, Mum. But I really don�
�t think it matters, you know, the good thing is that we have him here, to come and visit, and he’s in a place he really loved.’ He leaned down and pushed aside fat spears of wild grass, brushed the words and dates with the back of his fingers to shine them up a bit.

  Pip smiled, relieved, and rested her hand on her son’s. ‘I do so miss him.’ She paused. ‘But now there’s you, and Liza and Sam. And that’s the way life goes.’

  Ferg helped her away over uneven ground. Birds heckled and fought in the trees and insects began the small noises that marked the end of the day.

  ‘And it does go,’ she said, squeezing his hand.

  The sounds of the kids playing reached them.

  ‘Jarrad, Jarrad, don’t worry about those, Ferg’ll do them when he comes back.’

  Jarrad was one of those slightly awkward but really keen-to-help kids, and Liza could see him spending the entire evening trying to rig up the handlines. She didn’t think she could stand it, watching him. Patience was never one of your gifts, she reminded herself. Unfortunately. It was probably the best one to have.

  The tennis ball caught her eye.

  ‘Come on, guys, how hard can you throw the ball? How hard can you catch it?’

  ‘To you, Mrs Crowe?’

  ‘To me, to anyone, Jarrad. Just think of me as the teacher you most dislike at school — try Mr Ridley — and chuck it!’

  Jarrad looked at Sam, and Sam nodded his permission.

  ‘Well, let me start with Sam,’ he said nervously, ‘to practise.’

  By the time Ferg and Pip came back the three of them were slamming it at each other, laughing and gasping, in between running to find the ones that were too fast, too hard to catch, and the occasional massaging of reddened skin. Liza caught one from a giggling Sam, and held on to it as the others walked over.

  Pip sat down into a fold-out chair and and neatened flyaway hair, smoothing it back. Liza threw the ball to Sam, underarm, and caught up with Ferg as he headed towards the picnic blanket.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Yep. Good to take Mum there. Poor thing. Can’t believe it sometimes, standing there, next to Dad’s ashes. How must she feel, looking down at the ground?’ He picked up the handlines, fingered them. ‘Cleaned it up a bit. She was fussing about the gold plating, Lize …’

  Liza didn’t say anything, reached over and crooked her thumb through his belt hook.

  ‘Wish bloody Mike would make the effort sometime. He’s never even been there. Never been to where his old man’s buried!’ He shook his head. ‘I know, I know. He’s had his own problems. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Self-inflicted bloody problems. It just shits me, that’s all. And Mum doesn’t say a word about it, never complains to him about the gold plating. It makes it worse.’

  ‘She’s loyal, Ferg, to you both. C’mon, now, good thoughts, good thoughts. Nourish, remember?’ She grinned at him. ‘Pip’s made fresh bread.’

  ‘Hey.’ Jarrad jabbed at the water. ‘Hey!’

  Sam looked over to see Jarrad all over the place, like he was trying to tame a wild pig, and checked his own line. A little tug. That was just the current, an even tugging, he knew that.

  Jarrad yanked away like a crane.

  We never catch anything when we come down here, Sam thought. What’s he got? Dad reckoned the fish here were too smart. Sam got worried one time, thought all the fish, the river, was dead when they didn’t even get a nibble, even when they used a bit of the chicken as bait. His mum was cross at first — raiding the picnic basket — then called them hopeless and went to find her secret spot, to show them. She disappeared for about twenty minutes and came back with a bream. A good sized one, too. Sam chuckled, remembering. Dad accused her of going down to the shop, asked her where she’d put the butcher’s paper. He was spewing, didn’t go home until after dark, kept casting out in hope, but he didn’t catch a thing. Not a sausage.

  Jarrad was reeling in now, the line taut but not really pulling. Weed or something, Sam thought.

  Plop! The water broke and they saw a marron on the line. Jarrad started whooping and jumping up and down. His dad came over.

  ‘What is it, what is it!?’ Jarrad squawked.

  ‘A little marron,’ Dad said. ‘You’ve jagged him. Shame. And it’s just out of season.’

  Jarrad’s face fell. ‘What, can’t I keep it?’

  ‘Sorry, mate. There’s not enough of these little buggers in season, as it is.’

  ‘But it’s only one.’

  ‘Yeah, but if we put him back, there’ll be heaps more next summer, enough for everyone, then. Otherwise they’ll die out.’

  Sam turned back to his own line, relieved. It wouldn’t look good. Jarrad didn’t even know how to fish. He felt a bit guilty.

  ‘Here. Use my line. I’ll wait for Dad to bait this one up again.’ Then he said a little louder, ‘Maybe we need some barbecued chook for this one, Dad, what do you reckon?’

  ‘Oh-ho, Sam. You’re asking for it.’

  His mum rolled her eyes. ‘Having a little trouble there are you, boys?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about here, Mum,’ Sam chirped. He turned, grinning. The sun was going down in streaks, making her stripey like a zebra. Nanna Pip was surrounded by gold powder as she watched them from her chair. The jarrahs reached up either side of the river, and Sam felt their grand presence, saw how the trees mapped the direction of the water across the land as it moved out towards the ocean, where it mixed warm and yellow at the rivermouth.

  5

  The woman looked Rosie and Cray up and down, raised her eyebrows and said, ‘Yes?’ as they stood in the small office waiting for someone to acknowledge their presence.

  Rosie suddenly wished she’d worn her work clothes rather than shirt and jeans; the woman wore shoulder pads like a weapon, despite the eighties being long gone. The office was quiet, and a secretary hid behind a computer monitor.

  With Cray standing beside her, Rosie gathered herself, raised her own eyebrows in return and said, firmly but politely, ‘We’re looking for a place to rent. Long-term. Under one-fifty a week.’

  ‘Under one-fifty …’

  Rosie shifted her feet on the slate floor. Yes, under. ‘It doesn’t have to be in the middle of town, we’re not worried about that.’

  ‘Are you working?’

  Rosie’s heart sank. Her eyes faltered, but she held the woman’s look. She couldn’t think of the right thing to say to that.

  Cray’s voice came into the silence. ‘We’re not, yet. But if it gives you any peace of mind, we have plenty of savings and good references from our last place.’ Cray passed her an envelope containing a glowing reference from their Freo landlords, and gave her a moment to peruse it.

  ‘Do you have anything you can show us?’ he said.

  The woman shuffled through a few folders on her desk, pulled out a couple.

  ‘Yes, yes, I do. The car’s out the back. Come through.’

  Rosie and Cray shared a look as they let her take the lead. The first place they drew up to was a Tuscan-style townhouse, complete with black metal balcony; one of three. Salmon pink, Rosie thought. It’s an abomination. The one next door was peach. She couldn’t hide her disappointment, a quiet ‘oh’ coming out as they parked next to the meticulously patterned brick driveway.

  Twenty metres further up the road, at the end of the culde-sac, was the edge of the forest, with its camouflage greens and hidden sounds. Deep in there, the forest wrapped itself around the river. You could walk straight into it from the end of the road, there wasn’t a fence or a sign, just the tip of a brown path.

  ‘A lovely place, really smart inside, very presentable. It’s brand new.’

  Rosie didn’t want to go in, knew they weren’t interested, but before they could say anything, the woman was walking towards the front door, almost singing: ‘Perfect for a young couple.’

  They went in, their voices echoing in the spartan, over-white interior. ‘Right, right,’ they murmured as they were shown around.

>   ‘Could we see the other places?’ Rosie finally said. ‘Just to get an idea of what choice there is before we make any decisions.’

  Ms Shoulder Pads took them to a fibro house on a nearby street, with an overgrown front garden, three wonky wooden steps leading up to the front door and a fireplace in the lounge. Inside it was freezing and smelt of wood smoke.

  ‘How much is this?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Well, it’s one-forty. It’s had awful tenants in the past. Of course, it really isn’t as nice as the villa,’ she said, eyeing them.

  Isn’t it? Rosie thought. It’s much, much nicer. She could imagine people living in it. The street was lined with places just like it, fibro and weatherboard cottages painted light pink, pale green, pale blue.

  ‘Well, it’s got a bit of character, and a garden. I prefer it, actually. It’s a bit dark and cold, though …’

  Shoulder Pads seemed disappointed that they liked it. ‘I’ll show you the other one, but it’s not in town, it’s a few kilometres out, at Greys Bay — do you know it?’

  Cray’s pupils dilated. Greys Bay, did he know it? He surfed it every time they came down this way, discovered the town with Marty when they were teenagers, when they came down with a few mates one summer, years ago. Edge Point, Surge Point, Hut’s, Lefthander’s. The place was idyllic, tiny, with a beautiful bay curving into the coast.

  ‘May as well just have a look,’ he said.

  They swung around the road, past the general store where surfers warmed themselves in the sun like geckoes and topped up on energy with pies and choc-milk. The car headed up the steep hill where the people of Greys Bay perched like birds on a cliff, their nests weatherboard shacks sheltering them from the elements. At the highest road — one of only four or five carved into the hill like rice terraces — they turned, houses down to their left, ocean an endless spectrum of blues at the bottom, and to their right land, sprawling wildly away. The hill was a patchwork of coastal greens, yellow, grey, and, where it could, the scrub working its way between the houses. Cray couldn’t believe it.