Clancy of the Undertow

by Christopher Currie

  Fantastic. I knew Angus couldn’t remain normal the entire time.

  ‘That…cubbyhouse thing,’ says Sasha. ‘He actually stays there?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s super weird.’

  She’s rubbing her arms again. ‘It’s so claustrophobic. I couldn’t stand it. I’m cold, are you cold?’ She reaches out to touch my arm. ‘It’s cold, right?’ She rubs my arm slightly and I’m suddenly so far from being cold. My brain’s going: do something! Throwing words at me like alone and forest and cold and body and heat.

  ‘It’s nice though,’ I say. ‘Sometimes, being just…here.’ What the hell did that mean? ‘We should, um. Sometime…’ We should build a cabin and lie in front of an open fire and never leave.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘The air’s nice. Like…newer than in town.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ I look at the goosebumps on her arms, white skin against her black T-shirt.

  ‘I’d like to spend time here,’ she says. ‘Not, like, here, but somewhere out of town. Get away from it all or something, you know?’

  My heart tears me up, punching my ribs like a cartoon boxer. ‘We should…hang out or something,’ I say. ‘Some time.’ And then I actually flinch, like she’s going to attack me.

  ‘Yeah, cool,’ she says.

  My brain is so set up for rejection, my body so honed to receive disappointment, that I’m already formulating a lame apologetic response to Sasha saying no. It takes me a moment before I go, ‘What?’

  ‘I said that’d be cool.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. We could hang next week. Get a feed or whatever.’

  ‘Oh, sure, yeah. That sounds good.’ I’m trying so hard to act like this isn’t the single greatest piece of news I’ve ever received.

  ‘Get some Macca’s maybe.’ Sasha’s talking so matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll give you a call or whatever.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ I say, and somehow my voice isn’t Disney princess and it doesn’t sound desperate. This is the best thing in the history of the world and my heart blooms and not even the sight of Angus returning with a garbage bag in one hand and tent pegs in the other can dampen my spirits. I’d juggle a hundred pig’s heads right now. It’s a date, I think. It’s a date.

  33

  Someone’s hammering on my door and I jolt awake, my heart already pounding by the time I’ve sat up in bed.

  ‘Get up!’ says Mum. ‘Time to get up!’

  ‘Okay!’ I look at the clock and it’s already ten. ‘Okay.’

  I hear her pounding on Angus’s door and then Titch’s, and she’s shouting, ‘Is no one in this family awake?’ For real, though, she spends half her life lying in bed ignoring us and then razzes us when we sleep in during school holidays.

  I get up and run a brush through my hair and—like every morning—my hair refuses the offer. I strike a pose in front of the mirror, which I still haven’t re-covered. I mouth get the Barwen look, pouting my lips into two botoxed creatures. I push my boobs together but there’s no miraculous emergence of cleavage. Still a treefrog in singlet and boxers.

  Sasha saw something in me, though. This is the thought that kept me in a good mood all of yesterday. I helped Angus set up his video camera again without complaint, listened to Titch tell me about the new skating film he wanted to buy, made dinner while Mum and Dad were God knows where. None of it mattered, because I had a date. I keep telling myself not to get too excited, to keep cool. It’s not a date date, and anyway, why should I care what it is? She’s hanging out with me, which I still can’t believe.

  My work pants are by the door so I throw them on and slip into a comfy jumper and pad down the stairs. Titch is just ahead of me, swaying on his feet, still sleep-drunk, and I pretend to fall on him from behind, grabbing his shoulders so he squeals. We get downstairs and Mum and Dad and Angus are already there, sitting around the dining table, which has been cleared of its usual layer of junkmail. In fact, the whole kitchen is cleaner. Mum’s put out coasters and placemats and there’s a pot of tea and plunger coffee and a fresh thing of orange juice as well as a heap of toast.

  All I can say is, ‘Whoa.’

  ‘Sit down,’ says Mum. She’s got her fake smile on, but her voice is lighter than usual, like she’s really trying.

  Dad’s wearing a new polo shirt, still with shop creases. ‘Hi kids,’ he says.

  I glance at Angus, who just shrugs at me.

  I take a seat. We haven’t had a breakfast like this in ages, not since Titch’s birthday. Usually, everyone just races to eat a bowl of cereal before the milk runs out.

  ‘Coffee,’ I say, grabbing a mug. ‘The old java. Pappa Joe’s Roast. Cuppa char.’

  ‘Just a sec,’ says Mum, putting her hand on mine. ‘I need to just say something before we start.’ She straightens her fork, which already seems straight enough. ‘You all know it hasn’t been easy this past week, with all that’s happened.’ She reaches over and squeezes Dad’s hand. ‘But there’s certain things we need to face, to work out together.’

  Dad goes, ‘I know we haven’t all been…the closest recently, but we’re still a family. I feel like we’ve been drifting away from each other lately, and I don’t want that to keep happening. There are some things you have to do alone, and some things are better when everyone’s together.’ He gestures at the table like you can all start now.

  All us kids put toast on our plates without saying anything. It feels like Mum and Dad are about to tell us they’re getting a divorce or one of them’s only got a month to live and they’re going to say it’s not our fault and that they still love us and we’ll always have memories to cherish and they’re dulling the hurt and years of future therapy with some fried morning food. Nobody even says anything when Titch pours himself a coffee.

  ‘I was involved in an accident recently,’ Dad says. ‘I tried to deal with it myself. I thought why would I trouble my family with this? This just made me sad and it made me angry with myself.’ He looks at me. ‘I’ve realised recently how important it is to be there for one other.’

  Mum dabs at her eye with a tissue, part of the inexhaustible supply that lives in her sleeve, ready to be pulled out like a magician’s scarf.

  Dad laces his fingers in front of him. I picture him in a courtroom, in the witness stand.

  ‘I was—for God’s sake, have some food before it gets cold—I was out on traffic duty. A Wednesday night. Well, a Thursday morning, really. Out on the highway. They’re upgrading the lanes, a long stretch, so only one was open.’

  He looks over at Titch, who for once seems to be listening.

  ‘It’s my responsibility to direct traffic flow coming from town, to tell it when to stop and when to go. It’s nearly two in the morning and there’s been no cars for an hour. My back’s nearly locked up from standing so long.

  ‘I’m…I’m looking up at the sky cause they’ve moved all the equipment down the road, around the bend, so there’s no lights around and the stars…’ Dad looks down at his plate. ‘I wasn’t paying attention. This car comes screaming out of nowhere, it’s on me in an instant. But still, I think it’s going to slow down. I wave the signal sign at them, like hey, what are you doing? but they don’t see it or maybe my sign’s around the wrong way. I don’t know. I don’t remember. And then the car’s past me and I hear this…bang!’ Dad slaps his hands together, making us all jump. ‘The worst sound. Out there in the middle of nothing and it’s like all the thunderclaps you’ve ever heard, saved up just for this.’

  Dad takes Mum’s hand again. ‘These two kids. Just older than Clance. Just children. The boy, Charlie, he’s had his licence for three days. He runs the car straight into the back of a grader. That’s a big truck, Titch. Like a really big truck.’

  Titch nods. Four slices of toast lie untouched on his plate.

  ‘I tried to help them,’ Dad says. ‘They’d clipped the grader right on the corner and gone down the embankment. I run over and it’s like I can’t run fast enough.
My back’s seizing up as I’m running and then I’m climbing down the slope, trying to get to the drivers side door.’

  Dad puts his hands over his face and lets out a big sigh. ‘I just want you all to know the story. I want you all to know I did everything I could.’

  Angus, next to me, nods his head. ‘That’s rough, Dad,’ he says. ‘That’s bloody rough.’

  Dad goes, ‘So people have already said stuff about me. People who don’t know anything about what happened have already made up their minds. Some have made their feelings more than clear. I don’t want you to listen to any of that. It’s bullshit.’

  I think about the collection of pink-stained scourers I had to pile into the wheelie bin, the stench of paint thinner coming off them like a cloud.

  ‘I’ve talked to the police,’ says Dad. ‘I’ve told them the truth about everything they’ve asked.’ He rubs his head. ‘I will most likely have to go to court.’

  ‘Behind bars?’ says Titch, his forehead creased with worry.

  ‘Not behind bars, little man. I just have to tell a judge what happened. I was a witness to the accident. So everyone can know what happened. It’s important for my work to know, and the families of the kids. The Jenkes and the Lamaires.’

  Jesus, I think. What if one of us had died?

  ‘Are you up on, you know, any charges?’ says Angus.

  Mum gives him a look, but he says, ‘What? I want to know.’

  ‘Well, your dad and I talked to a lawyer yesterday,’ says Mum. ‘She said it will all depend on the families. It’s been delayed because of the Jenckes’…beliefs.’

  ‘What beliefs?’ says Angus.

  Mum goes, ‘They’re Christian Scientists.’

  Normally, this would be where I roll my eyes. Scarfies, we call them, because all the women always tie their hair up with little scarfs. The same white blouses and long skirts. To be honest, though, I was always a bit envious of not having to pick out an outfit every day.

  ‘They have to do certain…examinations before all the details can be worked out,’ Mum says. ‘So we’re not really sure.’

  The autopsy, I think. The Jenckes probably didn’t want their son’s body looked at by doctors. Was that the same religion?

  ‘Anyway,’ Mum says brightly. ‘We’ve got Clancy’s friends coming for lunch in a little bit, which will be really lovely.’

  Angus gives me a look like you have friends? and I mentally credit him a middle finger.

  ‘But I’ve got to get my Shield Achievement,’ says Titch, as if any of us has the first idea what this means.

  ‘We’re getting through this as a family,’ says Mum. ‘And that means doing things together. This lunch will be a lovely chance to meet some new people. That’s why I—that’s why your dad and I—wanted to get everyone together now. To have a chat.’

  ‘To make sure you were all bloody awake,’ says Dad.

  ‘Who’s coming?’ says Angus.

  ‘Clancy’s friend Nancy, her mother Carla and Reeve Lewis, Clancy’s friend from work. Is Reeve bringing someone, Clancy?’

  ‘I, uh, don’t know.’ A tiny sense of dread tickles my stomach. I’d actually forgotten about the lunch. My brain has an annoying habit of removing useful information from its reserves and replacing it with, usually, quotes from Futurama. The lunch. Would Nancy and Reeve even get along? Would Reeve bring someone? Why hadn’t I thought about all this?

  Angus mimes a blowjob and I kick him under the table, hard; things returning—briefly—to normal.

  ‘Anyway,’ goes Dad, ‘this food’s getting cold.’ He gives a sort of half-grin like we’ve still gotta eat, and we all agree.

  34

  I see Nancy’s mum’s car turn into our driveway at eleven-thirty, which seems a little early, but Mum doesn’t seem worried.

  ‘That’s the time we agreed on,’ she says. ‘Carla and I.’

  We’ve finished breakfast in usual Underhill formula-one-pitstop time and I’m helping Mum wash up. Angus and Titch have miraculously disappeared in the manner of immediate repulsion that oil and water share with boys and domestic responsibility. Through the kitchen window we both watch the car—which is so clean the sun flashes off it—roll towards us.

  ‘She’s bringing an Italian casserole,’ says Mum. ‘Can’t remember the name of it, but she was making it when I talked to her this morning.’

  ‘You talked to her this morning?’

  ‘Yes. That okay?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  I dry my hands. I don’t know why it bothers me that the two mums have talked before me and Nancy have.

  Mum rushes out to the porch to meet them, but I hang back in the doorway. Nancy’s mum has a big pot under each arm, lids encased in tinfoil. Nancy sees me and waves, a bunch of red bangles falling to her elbow.

  Soon, we’re all inside, in the lounge room, which Mum has apparently cleaned as well. She’s put cushions over the most obvious stains and draped a throw rug over the side of the chair our old cat scratched to ribbons. We’re sitting—mother and daughter—on opposite sides of the room and it’s as formal as hell and I already know the Underhills have blown it again. Especially when Dad comes into the room nearly dragging my brothers.

  ‘Hi,’ says Dad, trying not to appear like he’s literally kneeing Titch in the back to get him through the doorway. ‘You must be Nancy, and Nancy’s mother?’

  Nancy’s mum half gets up from her seat. ‘Carla,’ she says. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard so much about…’ her face shows an instant of social horror. ‘All of you. It’s great to finally meet you.’ Despite an expert recovery, I suddenly like Carla a whole lot more. She has just experienced the tip of the socially awkward iceberg I crash into every day of my life.

  ‘Likewise,’ says Dad. I can’t pick what’s different about him until I realise he’s wearing long pants. ‘These are the boys,’ he says, finally manoeuvering Angus and Titch into the room. The three of them standing side by side is like one of those evolutionary flowcharts.

  ‘Hi,’ says Nancy. ‘How’s it going?’

  Angus grunts and Titch sniffs. Better than I’d hoped, really.

  We make excruciating small talk for a few minutes. This is not how it was supposed to go. Only a few days ago I couldn’t wait to see Nancy and talk to her some more, but now it’s like everything has been reset. Thanks, Mum. Let’s force two families together just because you want a friend. Just because you want people on your side. When I hear a knock at the door I bolt to get it.

  It’s weird to see Reeve out of his security uniform. He’s wearing a T-shirt and I realise I’ve never seen his arms uncovered.

  ‘Point me to the keg,’ he says. ‘Let’s get this party started.’ He bobs his head behind the flyscreen, his face flickering with the sun behind him.

  I open the door. ‘Welcome to my humble abode,’ I say. ‘Don’t take any silverware. Not that we have any. It’s just, you know, good advice.’

  ‘Duly noted.’ Reeve steps inside. ‘Who else is here?’

  ‘Just a friend of mine from Nature Club. And her mum.’

  ‘Really?’ Reeve has rescued me from conversations with Glenn multiple times at the shopping centre.

  ‘No, she’s new. Nancy. You’ll like her.’

  ‘Nancy. And Clancy. How fancy.’ I make a pained face and he bows. ‘Come on, then.’

  I have no idea what makes Reeve so confident. He was in the same class as Angus at school before he dropped out. He never talked about why, but according to Angus both his parents were deadbeats on compo and Reeve had to work to support them. Everyone always assumes they know what sort of person he is because he didn’t finish school, but once you knew him, you wouldn’t underestimate his intelligence or ambition.

  He goes, ‘So, Eloise says to say hi.’

  ‘Oh, cool.’ I feel like I should have called Eloise, or visited her, but every time I thought about it, I just remembered Raylene McCarthy’s face. Eloise doesn’t need me hangi
ng around, making things worse.

  ‘She would have come, I’m sure,’ says Reeve, who has somehow read my mind, ‘but she’s gotta work, you know.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Reeve pretends to examine every wall closely. ‘Makes sense,’ he keeps saying, or ‘Just as I thought.’ I laugh, but I do actually feel a bit embarrassed that this is the first time he’s been to my house.

  We go into the living room and I do all the introductions. Mum gets up and gives Reeve a kiss on the cheek, which feels like more affection than she’s shown to any of her own children in years. I realise then that today is all about Mum proving how normal our family is, pretending that we act like normal people all the time, that we’re not a family of dropkicks and weirdos and murderers. She’s campaigning for us, trying to win over one person at a time. This is sort of horrifying, but also sort of endearing.

  Once I notice this, I see she’s running through a basic phrasebook: It’s been too long. You will give our best to your family, won’t you? We should all catch up soon.

  Reeve smiles and nods through the social waltz, but I can tell all his confidence has dried up. He shakes my dad’s hand hesitantly and I realise that people probably don’t see my dad anymore, they see someone who might have killed some kids.

  ‘Have you got your gun on you, Reeve?’ says Titch.

  ‘I don’t have a gun, mate.’

  ‘But you’re security, right?’ Titch mimes a machine gun, shooting it one-handed from his hip. I often worry for the future of humanity, there being a small possibility that tiny psychos like my brother will one day be responsible for not only themselves but also others.

  ‘Not that exciting, I’m afraid,’ Reeve says. ‘Mostly I walk around and check locks.’ He smiles at Carla. He still hasn’t sat down, and is playing nervously with his hands.

  ‘You hear about Dan Cryer?’ says Angus. ‘Locked himself in that raffle car?’

  ‘I was the one who had to get him out.’

  ‘Classic. I heard he pissed his pants.’

  ‘Well!’ Mum stands up. ‘I should probably get started on a bit of lunch prep. Can you give me a hand, Carla? I don’t want to ruin that wonderful casserole.’