1988

by Andrew McGahan

  ‘That’s that then,’ I said.

  Vince shrugged. ‘Cyclones do turn around y’know. Everyone thought Tracy was gone, then it just came back.’

  It was true, I knew, but it didn’t seem likely. It was Melville Island’s worry now. Wayne and I went back to our house. I inspected the damage on the back verandah. The new hole in the roof was down the far end, where the floor was already missing. It wouldn’t affect us. I looked out. The sea was still grey and tumbled, and the horizon black, but somehow, in the pale morning light, it was not impressive.

  It was over, I decided. I yawned, turned for bed.

  NINETEEN

  The cyclone didn’t return. It sailed on westwards and expired in the Indian Ocean. At Cape Don the rain stopped, the winds vanished and the sky cleared. The Bureau took Wayne and I off our emergency footing. It was back to the routine.

  Over the next week or so the weather remained hot and dry. There were no more thunderstorms or showers. The humidity dropped steadily. We knew what it meant. The monsoon had changed. The wet season was over, we were into the dry. For the next five months we’d have meteorological stability. No rain, no clouds, no wild variations in temperature or air pressure. Just endless blue skies and warm, still nights.

  And dull times for weather observers. The observations still had to be done, of course, but whatever challenge that job might’ve ever had, it was gone. The reports were the same every day. There was only one thing new. In the mornings we’d all be thrown out of bed by a series of sharp, booming explosions, followed by a dwindling roar. It was the RAAF and their F-111s. Now that the weather was fine, their training runs took them out over Cape Don. For amusement they liked to drop down low and go supersonic or subsonic just over the lighthouse.

  The tourist season.

  Wayne started on a painting. I looked in from time to time, examined the canvas. I didn’t know what to make of it. Art was a mystery. I saw dark colours, blacks and browns and ochrous reds. Abstract human figures. Swirls. It was ugly and beautiful, but I had no idea what his motivations were, what he was saying. I played it cool. Said nothing.

  But it was a sign. It was time to get started myself. I sat down at the mirror and thought about writing. I already had the ideas. I’d had them for months. Still, knowing where to begin was the problem. I tried planning chapters, narrative. I gave up. Planning was an odious thing. I was a writer, not an economist. I went with the spirit, leapt into it. Things got confused. I didn’t know what I was doing. After two or three days I stopped.

  I wasn’t concerned. There was plenty of time. Instead I started writing letters. Leo. Madelaine. Other old friends. I described the lighthouse and the compound at length. I described Vince. Russel and Eve. The Scrabble games Wayne and I were playing. The letters ran twenty, thirty, forty pages. They were good stuff, I still had it. Writing letters was no problem at all.

  Otherwise I read books, sat on the back verandah, drank, and watched the world. Cape Don was familiar enough now, the compound and the bush and the distant ocean. It was slow and quiet. Vince was in his house, Eve and Russel were in theirs, and Wayne and I were in ours. We were all only a hundred yards apart, but no one went visiting much.

  Vince and Russel did stray into view from time to time, working around the place. Neither of them seemed very busy. They mowed the grass. They fiddled around under the hood of the second four-wheel drive, or with the generators. Minor things. I couldn’t see any ranger work being done. There were no patrols. The outboard motor hadn’t been fixed, and they were still waiting for the cruiser to come back from Darwin.

  I wondered a little about Russel. I hadn’t spoken to him since the cyclone. All I knew about him was that he’d been at Cape Don far longer than Vince. Years. His whole life, in fact. It was his land, after all. Cape Don, the whole Peninsula. Vince told me that the Commission had a scheme to get the traditional owners active as rangers to help run the park. To date, Russel was the only one who’d joined.

  And Kevin didn’t like him. I noticed that whenever Russel went near Vince’s house, the dog went beserk. Barking, yapping, snarling. Even in the middle of the day, when normally Kevin couldn’t be roused to do anything. Russel didn’t seem to care. He laughed at the dog, kicked it, ignored it. I mentioned it all to Vince one afternoon, in the generator shed.

  ‘It’s not just Russel Kevin hates,’ Vince said, ‘It’s anyone black.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Russel reckons he was trained that way. You know, put in a bag, beat up, then shown someone who’s Aboriginal. That sort of shit.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  ‘But isn’t he owned by the ranger who was here before you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  I thought about that. I said, ‘Would a ranger train a dog that way?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Do you know this guy?’

  Vince glanced up from the generators. ‘Look, I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never met him. All they told me was that he went crazy and left.’

  I didn’t press it. Vince seemed to have his own burdens. Boredom mainly. There was never more than an hour or so’s employment for him each day, otherwise he just sat in his living room. And drank. A visit would almost invariably find him drinking. He’d be perched on his stool, typing or just staring at the page, classical music blaring, a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray. Lights would be on in his house till two, three, four in the morning.

  Every fourth night or so the generators would fail. I’d be woken by the sudden silence. Without the ceiling fan it was too hot to sleep. I’d wander outside with the torch and stand by the generator shed, waiting for Vince. The generators were his special curse. Sometimes he wouldn’t arrive, so I’d go over and hammer and yell at his door. Eventually he’d come stumbling out, red-eyed and half-wild, redolent of alcohol.

  But no matter what happened, there remained a polite distance between us all. No one ever entered anyone else’s house without knocking first, and waiting to be asked in. Even Russel and Vince, though they worked together and seemed on perfectly friendly terms. I’d watch Vince go over to Russel’s house, knock on the door, then wait at the bottom of the steps for Russel to come out. Russel himself had nothing to do with Wayne and me. And Eve hardly ever left their house. I came across her only once out in the open. I said ‘Hello Eve.’ She gave me a sharp look and hurried off. I felt like I’d said something obscene.

  Maybe I had. Maybe that was the way of small communities. There was a strict etiquette to be observed. Privacy. Finally Russel and Eve packed up their gear and headed back to Araru. A boat came over for them. Why they had stayed so long at the lighthouse wasn’t clear. Why they were going back to Araru wasn’t clear either. It was down to the three of us again.

  Vince stayed in his house and drank. Wayne and I drank too. Friday nights were the heavy sessions, after the supply plane dropped off fresh supplies. Saturday night as well. There was a certain amount of danger to it, being drunk out on the back verandah. Wayne fell through one of the holes. He was striding about, stoned, drink in hand. There was a crack and he vanished. I got up, looked down. He was sprawled in the bushes, looking around, a little stunned.

  ‘You fell through,’ I said.

  ‘Shit. Is that what it was.’

  Our weekly order was three cartons of beer, a bottle of bourbon and two four-litre casks of wine. We’d try to stretch it over the week, but usually by Wednesday we were down to the dregs. Thursday nights were dry. We began ordering VB instead of Fourex. They tasted about the same, but VB was the Territory drink. The green can seemed appropriate in the tropics in a way that the golden Fourex can just didn’t.

  The days passed. Wayne missed another 3 a.m. observation, and then a 6 a.m. We squabbled about it, but got nowhere. Wayne had no concern for the job at all anymore. Nor could I think of any serious reason why he should. He had the painting now. And I still had the writing. I stared into the mirror on my desk. I started chapte
rs, threw them away.

  Mail started arriving from Brisbane. Life there seemed much the same as ever. People were forming relationships, breaking-up, getting bored. Still, excitement was in the air. The town was gearing up for the opening day of Expo. Everyone knew it would be the biggest party the planet had ever seen. Brisbane finally exploding onto the international stage, eclipsing Melbourne, eclipsing Sydney. Taking its place among the great cities of the world. New York, London, Paris.

  Back at Cape Don, the radio operator had begun calling Wayne and I by our first names.

  TWENTY

  One morning Vince came over and announced that Cape Don would be receiving visitors. A group of the Conservation Commission hierarchy was making a tour of the park, and would be overnighting at the lighthouse. Our friend Terry Gallagher, the Commission boss, would be among them. So Vince wanted his chairs back.

  ‘And you might wanna clean this place up a little,’ he said, ‘In case anyone looks in.’

  We thought about it. He was right, the house was a mess. The dining room was slowly filling up with a clutter of empty grocery boxes, beer cartons, stubbies, magazines, overflowing ashtrays. We stacked some of it into corners. I left the kitchen to Wayne. Serious washing-up was done only once every three or four days, and it was his turn.

  The dignitaries arrived the next day. A large twin-engine plane did the circuit of the lighthouse and Vince went off to greet it. He was cleanly shaven. He was also wearing a complete ranger uniform, washed and ironed. Shoes. It was unnerving. After he’d gone Wayne and I sat on the front steps to wait. Something about Vince’s tone the day before had suggested a hope that we might stay decently out of sight while his guests were around. We were determined to at least be visible.

  The Toyota returned, parked outside Vince’s house and discharged five visitors. Three men, one of them a pilot, and two women. None of them were in ranger uniform. I recognised Terry Gallagher but the others were strangers—middle-aged, office types. It was close to lunch time, and Vince had set-up a table and chairs for a barbecue under a tree next to his house. He and the women went over and sat down.

  The three men made straight for the lighthouse, disappeared inside. They emerged on the very top balcony, yelling and laughing, boys on top of the biggest phallic symbol for miles around. They called down to the women. The women ignored them. They were relaxing in the shade, beers in their hands. Vince sat with them, stiff on the edge of his chair, not drinking. He looked uncomfortable and very sober.

  When the men came down Terry broke away and walked over to Wayne and me. We exchanged greetings, discussed how the job was going, commented upon the cyclone. Had it been rough? No, we answered, not so rough. Then Terry asked if he could see some of Wayne’s paintings. There were still, he said, those portraits to be discussed.

  We all went into the studio. It was familiar enough now to both Wayne and me. We’d forgotten that half the room was stacked with chemicals. And that Wayne had splattered paint all over the floor and walls. Vince had said this was no problem, as the house would be demolished sooner or later anyway, but it didn’t look good.

  Then there were the paintings themselves. Whatever was going on in Wayne’s mind, it was getting blacker. He’d cast huge dark slashes across the painted canvases—purples, greys, deep browns, black. Bits of paper and torn out text were stuck here and there. Photos from People. It was ugly and chaotic and I was quite impressed. Terry wasn’t.

  ‘What happened to the portraits?’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘I only do portraits by commission.’

  ‘Mmmm. Well this isn’t really what I had in mind.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I was thinking of things I could hang in the office.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You can sell this stuff?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  We all stood there, nodding to ourselves for a while. Then Terry excused himself. He had to get back to the barbecue. There was no more mention of portrait painting. Wayne watched him go.

  ‘Looks like I got out of that one.’

  Later that afternoon I was sitting in the dining room when a man appeared. It was one of the guests. He hadn’t knocked or announced himself. He nodded at me, carried on. He had a clipboard and was looking around the house, noting down information. He looked in the bathroom, the back verandah, the bedrooms. He spent some time in the kitchen. Wayne hadn’t cleaned-up yet. The man came out, scribbling on the clipboard, went off down the hall. I forgot about him.

  Later still, Vince dropped over with important news. He’d been asked to accompany the other guests on the rest of the tour of the Peninsula. There was to be a general meeting over at Black Point for Commission staff. He’d be gone for three or four days. That meant Wayne and I would be in charge. Vince was a little dubious about this, but there wasn’t any choice, seeing Russel was away.

  ‘It’s the generators I’m worried about,’ he said, ‘You guys know anything about engines?’

  ‘Gordon’s the farm boy,’ Wayne said.

  Vince looked at me. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well yes, I was raised on a farm, but I don’t know anything about engines.’

  ‘You’ll do.’

  We went over to the shed and talked about the generators and what I might expect from them. There were still only two in working order. I noticed that they were Perkins diesels. My father’s tractors ran on Perkins diesels, and I had, in fact, done a little work on them. Vince was impressed. I was qualified after all. We talked about life on the farm. Then he showed me the four o’clock changeover routine. It was simple enough—five minutes of servicing and fuelling and playing around with the mains switches. Anyone could’ve done it.

  We went outside. The generators were covered. Otherwise all Wayne and I had to do was meet the supply plane when it arrived, and make sure Kevin got fed. So much for the duties of a park ranger.

  Vince said, ‘Have you noticed the guy walking around with the clipboard?’

  ‘Yeah. Who is he?’

  ‘He’s inspecting all the equipment and accommodation around the place. He showed me his notes. About you two. Among other things, he reckons that you’ve effectively vandalised your house, and that your domestic habits are disgusting.’

  ‘Really?’

  Vince nodded, rolling a cigarette. There was a certain ease between us now. We were two men of the Territory, and we’d shared a discussion on machinery.

  ‘He thinks I should do something about it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh I might’ve.’ He sniffed. ‘If the guy wasn’t such a prize dickhead.’

  Next morning I drove them all out to the airstrip. The plane was still there. They all piled in. Vince hung back.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘Don’t fuck-up while I’m gone.’

  ‘We won’t.’

  ‘We? I mean you. You’re in charge.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Vince got in the plane. I waited until they were airborne. Then I drove back to the lighthouse. Wayne and I were alone.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Cape Don, population two men and a dog. It made no real difference. Wayne spent the afternoon painting in his studio. I wrote letters in my bedroom. Kevin slept in the shade of our verandah. At four I changed the generators over. There were no problems.

  In the evening we gathered for dinner and Scrabble. We played Scrabble most nights now, at least one game. After my initial loss the tally was 17 to 1 in my favour. Wayne didn’t seem to be grasping the more advanced tactics and strategies. Myself, I was clocking-up at least one seven-letter word per game, and averaging around 250 to 300 points. There was, I felt, still some way to go. What did a Scrabble champion average? What was the record for one seven-letter word? What was the highest overall score ever? I was keen to learn.

  But we had no alcohol and the night was slow. The next day was a Friday, grocery day. Around midday I was sitting on the verandah, waiting for the plane. Wayne came out.

  ‘I’m g
oing exploring,’ he said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Eve and Russel’s. I wanna see what sort of stuff they’ve got.’

  ‘You’re going in their house?’

  ‘They’re not here. They won’t know.’

  ‘But you can’t just go in.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Wayne, you just can’t.’

  ‘You coming?’

  ‘No.’

  I watched him go. He went up the front steps of their house and disappeared inside. I waited. The man was a fool. It was indecent. Going into Russel and Eve’s uninvited was like breaking and entering. They’d shown no desire to have us in there, no desire to have anyone in there. I thought about Russel suddenly arriving and finding Wayne. I thought about accusations, violence. Allan Price being informed. Banishment.

  Even worse, I was curious. What was in that house? It wasn’t something I normally concerned myself with, other people’s possessions. But there wasn’t much to think about or see around the lighthouse. The interior of Russel and Eve’s house was the only place strictly off-limits, the only mystery. Time passed. Wayne didn’t emerge. I had the midday observation. I went off, did it, came back. Still no Wayne. Fuck him then. I went to my room. It was another two hours before I heard him clump up our front steps. He went into his studio.

  I lay there on the bed. Now I was genuinely angry. Bad enough he’d broken an unwritten law, he could at least have told me what he’d found. I debated with myself for a few minutes. I shouldn’t care. The information was soiled, obtained by foul means. It was no use. I got up, went to the studio. Wayne looked up at me, all innocent.

  ‘Well?’ I said.

  ‘They’ve got a TV.’

  ‘Shit.’

  This changed everything. A television.

  I said, ‘I thought you couldn’t pick anything up around here.’