Born Into This

by Adam Thompson

  James scooped the rollies into an empty White Ox packet and stuffed them in his top pocket. ‘Going next door to see what’s up with these birds,’ he said. He snatched a brown bottle from the driftwood shelf above the oven, where there was still a full crate of whisky, and kicked open the flyscreen door.

  ~

  From the bunkhouse window, Henry watched his father walk up the track. It took at least fifteen minutes to reach the next shed around the point. The bunkhouse he shared with his father was cosy. It had a long window made of a car windscreen built into the wall. Green light filtered through the vine-covered glass. The wall with the window was clad in corrugated iron, so during the day the room was warm and dry. The other walls were lined with rough-sawn timber and plastered with yellowing newspaper.

  Henry lay down on his bed and lowered his trousers. He could count on one hand the number of times he had been left at the shed by himself, over his entire life. Usually, his mother was there and – before the accident – his little sister, Lucy, was always at his heels.

  Henry slid his hand into his undies and took hold of himself. Stuck on the wall next to his head was a Kmart lingerie advertisement featuring a woman posing in vintage underwear. Henry had grown up with her, but over the last few years he’d come to like the way she stared at him. That knowing look. It wasn’t Henry’s routine to jerk off with his eyes open, but every time he shut them, the scene from the previous afternoon was before him: pinned down by the boat, the dizzying sensation as he ran out of breath. The blackness. He took a long time to finish, and was so exhausted when he did that he fell asleep with his pants still down.

  It was late afternoon when Henry woke. And it was quiet, which meant his father had still not returned. He refuelled the generator and, on the beach, he cleaned the two birds they’d caught earlier. He stewed the birds with some potatoes and onions and seasoned the stew with whatever he could find in the metal cupboard by the sink. The cupboard was full of rusty cans with no labels – ‘surprise bags’, his father called them.

  Henry checked the internet on his phone and was pleased to find he had a few bars of reception. He googled ‘muttonbirds’ and scrolled through the results, searching for an article he had found before the season, about dead muttonbirds washing up on a beach near Sydney. The scientists had predicted a poor breeding season and blamed climate change. They said the birds’ food was scarce due to rising ocean temperatures. Climate change. Henry didn’t show it to James when he finally returned. His father didn’t believe in climate change – or the internet.

  ~

  The next morning James sat at the fold-up table with his rough head in his rough hands, staring at the plate in front of him. Henry had cracked open a ‘surprise bag’ for breakfast, which turned out to be spaghetti. He fried it in a pan with slices of devon.

  James eventually lifted his head and poked at his food with a shaking hand. ‘The Watsons are packing up. Going home.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No birds.’

  Henry had a strong urge to tell his dad about the muttonbird article but decided against it. He mustered the courage to ask the question that had been waiting in his mouth. ‘What are we going to do then?’

  James shrugged and squinted at the shelf holding all the alcohol. His tongue dapped at the corner of his thin, dry lips.

  ~

  ‘I’ll give you two hundred for it,’ said Old Man Bligh, still sitting on his tractor out the front of the Beetons’ shed. The Fergie 35 burbled away without missing a beat. Henry had often wondered what sort of strange power the older white men of the islands wielded to keep such ancient gear running. Old Man Bligh had a lease on the far side of the island – one that existed before the island was returned to Aboriginal ownership.

  ‘That’s over seven hundred bucks’ worth of diesel there,’ said James. He rapped on the top of each drum to prove they were full.

  ‘Maybe, but I’m offering two hundred.’

  There was a gap in the conversation while they eyed each other off.

  ‘Listen,’ said James, shoving his hands in his pockets and exhaling slowly. ‘You know there’s no birds. I just need to get me and the boy home. Just a bit more … please.’

  From his place high up on the tractor, Old Man Bligh looked across at Henry, who was leaning against the shed. He gave a gap-toothed smile and crossed his arms over his huge, sweating belly.

  ‘Two hundred,’ he repeated.

  ‘Fuck off, then,’ yelled James, holding up a shaking fist, index finger extended. The cords in his neck were straining.

  A ball of thick, soot-filled smoke cannoned from the tractor’s exhaust as Old Man Bligh put his foot down and ground the 35 into gear.

  ‘Maggot. Got no right to be here, anyway!’

  Old Man Bligh took off up the track, bouncing as he hit the tussock butts at speed. Henry knew better than to get in his father’s way and stood back as James ran to the corner of the shed, where a broken aluminium cooking pot lay, strangled by kikuyu grass. He ripped the pot free, took a short run-up and threw it after the tractor. It tumbled through the air awkwardly but somehow found its mark. When the pot hit the back of Old Man Bligh’s bald head, it resounded like a gong, and the tractor lurched forward. James stared after the tractor, waiting for the driver to fall, but it kept going, disappearing round the bends of Old Snakey.

  ‘Rogue,’ said James, then rested his hands on his knees and leaned forward to breathe deeply.

  ‘Dong!’ said Henry, mimicking the sound of the pot.

  James fell onto his back, face contorted. Alarmed, Henry leaped to his side. When he realised his father was laughing, Henry started too. And they lay on the edge of the track until their laughter died, and watched the adult birds come whistling in from the sea, bringing the night-time with them.

  ~

  Henry didn’t hear his dad leave the following morning. There was a note on the table. Important business. Back later. Start packing up.

  The shelf where his father kept his grog was bare. Henry knew this meant he would be drinking somewhere at one of the other sheds and wouldn’t be home until dark – if at all. He made a mental note to be in bed early. Taking a cup of tea back with him to bed, Henry almost slipped on a motorcycle magazine on the floor. His dream of getting the road bike he wanted, the freedom he yearned for, was now gone. Why were there no birds? He kicked the magazine across the room. It fanned out and knocked a white candle, set into an abalone shell, from the small table next to his father’s bed. Henry quickly reattached the candle with melted wax.

  His dad’s suede shaving bag was also on his bedside table. Henry had a strong urge to look inside. It smelled of mint and bar soap. James used a straight razor. It had a bone handle and reminded Henry of the old-fashioned butter knives he’d found in the drawers of his grandfather’s garage – lying amongst vintage spark-plug tins full of assorted screws, bobbins of copper wire and dirty knobs of wax. He unfolded the razor. The blade was dull and scratched, showing its age. But he knew it would be extremely sharp – his father wasn’t the sort of man to keep a blunt razor. He placed the sharp edge against the pale, almost translucent part of his wrist and drew it upwards, slowly, like they did in the movies.

  The small hairs from the inside of his arm floated silently to the floor.

  Next to the razor was a white pill bottle. His father’s name was on the newly printed sticker, alongside Valium, 5 mg. Henry had started noticing the pill bottles the year before. His mother, too, had her own stash: one in her bedside drawer at home, and another in her handbag. Henry could tell from a shake that it was full. He applied pressure to the cap and twisted. With his sweet tea he swallowed two pills. He had been meaning to try the drug that had waltzed his parents through the dark ballroom after his little sister’s death. Now seemed the perfect time.

  ~

  The processing shed didn’t need sc
rubbing as it hadn’t even been used. Henry packed all the birding equipment – fish bins, stools, the gas ring-burner for the scalding pot, hessian bags, opening knives and more – into the cool room, where it would store for another year. The Valium calmed Henry. It did a much better job than warm milk ever could. He got on with his work with a clear head, no longer concerned about his father – how drunk he would be later, how he was going to get them home. He even put aside his grief about the road bike and the deposit he would lose. The thoughts were still there of course, but the Valium smoothed them over somehow.

  With the bulk of the work done, Henry went back to their quarters. Without really thinking about it, he took his father’s pills and his block of chocolate and went walking. This was the first time he had left their lease since he had been on the island this season. He went north on Old Snakey. The pot that had hit Old Man Bligh still lay off to the side of the track amongst a bunch of paper daisies. He used to walk a lot with his mother and Lucy, especially of a Sunday, when they had the day off. Nobody worked on a Sunday. They were good times – even with his father around. When Lucy was small and couldn’t see above the tussocks, Henry would describe the surroundings to her, like you would to a blind person. Sometimes he would describe things that weren’t there, fanciful things, and she would amble along behind, eyes half closed. Tell me again, Henry, she would say. Again. And Henry would, many times over.

  Henry found himself taking the track that led to Rileys Point. He unwrapped the chocolate and ate it in large, satisfying mouthfuls until it was finished. The track was long and straight but dipped down at the end, where it reached the coast. It was just off this point that the accident had happened, and Henry hadn’t been back since. The sea was choppy that day – there was not a large swell. Any other day, the wave that swamped the boat would have barely been a bump. But the tinnie was so overloaded with people and gear that the bow couldn’t even rise. A rope had dragged Lucy down with the boat as it sank, life jacket and all. She had just learned to swim but didn’t get the chance to test her skills in the water with Henry and her parents.

  As he approached the end of the track, Henry tipped all the pills into his hand. Where the bank met the sea, there was a craggy basalt cave. Creeper vine hung down over the entrance of the cave, and the surrounding foreshore was carpeted in kunikung. Henry and Lucy used to play here, in their secret grotto. On crisp mornings at the end of the birding season, they would lie here while the young birds – the lucky ones that didn’t end up as part of the harvest – would waddle around them on their journey to the shore. Here, their instincts would kick in, and they’d flap and squawk and blink into the new day’s light, as if urging each other on. As the chicks reached the water, Henry would shield Lucy’s eyes and sing into her ear as the mollyhawks and the crows swooped on the weaker ones and pecked out their eyes.

  Coming to the end of the track, and with his face wet with tears, Henry brought the handful of pills up to his mouth. But something wasn’t right – someone was here. Henry stopped and stood, motionless, until he realised who it was. His dad stood in front of a large wooden cross and was carving something into it. Henry flung the pills into the rookery and wiped his eyes and face with his sleeve. He approached the cross. Some of his father’s tools were scattered on the ground and an empty bag of pre-mixed cement was weighed down by a rock. James didn’t seem surprised to see his son.

  ‘R.I.P. Lucy Beeton,’ read Henry, out loud.

  His father turned to him. The pride seemed to have returned to his face, his jaw once again set in defiance. ‘We’re going home tomorrow, boy,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ replied Henry. ‘Sold the diesel?’

  His father didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Henry couldn’t see the box of whisky anywhere. And his dad, when he accompanied Henry back up the track, was steady on his feet.

  KITE

  The kite, dangling from the ceiling of my kombi, caught my eye for the second time that afternoon. I studied it with guilt. The kite was unused, barely even thought about. A Christmas gift from my nephew, Connor, who the family just call ‘Boy’.

  My sister sent Boy to a Steiner school, much to the annoyance of our Nanna, who was convinced it would put him at a disadvantage.

  ‘No grandson of mine will be living in the long grass,’ she said, when my sister told her about the school. ‘Put him in the state school, so he can piss next to the rich kids.’

  But the Steiner school worked out well for Boy, who had always been a hands-on kid. A month earlier, at Christmas dinner at Nanna’s, he’d presented me with the flat, diamond-shaped object, wrapped in newspaper. I could tell it was something homemade, even before I opened it. And the way he tucked his long fringe behind his ear, concealing his smile through a closed mouth – all of that showed that the gift was something he was proud of.

  Before I’d removed the last of the wrapping, he started on the explanation.

  ‘It’s practically unbreakable,’ he said, taking it away from me. He tapped at the wooden struts of the kite with his fingernails. ‘My own design, Unc. I found the straightest blackwood branches I could and spent days scraping them with a rock and hardening them in the fire – like how we hone a spear, you know? Listen, they’re like steel.’ He tapped again at the wood and it did, indeed, sound dense and hard.

  I admired the kite, although I felt it was a strange gift for an adult. It was well constructed, the fabric stretched taut across the frame, and it was in the colours of the Aboriginal flag, with the sun at its centre.

  ‘The centre pole sticks out further than normal kites. That’s the unique design. The other kites I made all snapped when they hit the ground. But this one is strong.’

  I didn’t doubt him for a second. The middle stick protruded a handspan beyond the top of the kite and was sharpened to a point.

  ‘We should give her a run,’ I said, mostly for his sake. I couldn’t deny, though, that the prospect of reliving my childhood – if only fleetingly – was attractive.

  ‘No wind, Unc,’ he said, looking out the window. ‘But I’ve already given her a razz, and phew’ – he made a whistling sound and his face opened into a grin, full of straight, white teeth – ‘she’s deadly.’

  ~

  The van had been my home for the last seven months. It was meant to be a sabbatical, from time served in a job that had sculpted frown lines in my forehead deep enough to make Michelangelo proud. I’d hoped a minimalist adventure would be the new botox. But the rear-view mirror didn’t show much of a change – perhaps it was just too early to tell.

  I swirled the dregs of coffee around my tin mug and flung it out the door of the van. It blew back in, speckling my shorts and my shirt. A wind had picked up. My nephew’s kite twisted and jigged against the ceiling with sudden life. It reminded me of that early Frankenstein film, when the inanimate body jolts with electricity and spasms into being.

  I’d lazed in the van all day and my bones were getting sore. And now a steady wind was blowing across the bluff. It made sense to try out the kite. If for no other reason than to avoid a lie, next time I spoke to Boy about his gift. He’d be asking, no doubt about it.

  ~

  There was something different about this day, setting it apart from every other day in the van. It was a public holiday.

  Australia Day.

  The car park overlooking the bluff was packed. There were at least six parked vehicles parading small plastic Australian flags either side of their front windscreens, like they belonged to the Prime Minister’s motorcade. I took the treated pine boardwalk that dissected the boobialla foreshore and made my way onto the beach. The wind almost snatched the kite from my hand.

  Taking in the view, I observed two seas: a bright-green one with foamy waves and hovering seagulls; and one of red, white and blue. Now, I’m not a political person. I don’t care much about what our mob call ‘Invasion Day’. But I’ll admit, I was
intimidated.

  If it wasn’t for the wind tugging at Boy’s kite – the beckoning thrum of energy flowing through the short length of string I had unwound – I might have turned back. Returned to the van and found something else to do.

  Perhaps I should have. There were people everywhere.

  I looked behind me. There were groups scattered across the open grassed area above the beach. Most were on picnic blankets, some with umbrellas. Others had flimsy Kmart pop-up tents. Small kids were riding small bikes with orange flags attached on tall, whippy stems. They were learning that riding on the grass is hard as hell. Under art-deco barbecue awnings, extended families sprawled in the shade. Their faces were smug and their movements languid, indicating to the scouting newcomers like me that they wouldn’t be moving on anytime soon. They had Australian flag–decorated Eskys and held stubby coolers in tattooed hands.

  Now, as I walked onto the beach, it was faces that wore the colours. The sale of coloured zinc cream must be a goldmine for the local shops and pharmacies over this weekend. It was everywhere – smeared across countenances like white people’s ochre.

  I’ve always felt the beach was a neutral place: a demilitarised zone. A place where it is acceptable to smile at fellow revellers, kick a ball back to its owner, or run crazy and childlike into the sea. A place devoid of judgement. We are drawn to the beach, it seems, to that fuzzy boundary at the edge of our world. We’re just like the tide, in that way. And I often wonder what force it is that pulls us. My family say it’s because we’re saltwater people, but I’m almost certain that most humans feel it.

  ~

  The distance between the foreshore and the water – a long way out, this afternoon – felt like a walk of shame. Me with my rustic kite of black, yellow and red, standing out against the backdrop of Aussie patriotism.

  I was keenly aware that every eye was on me and I caught unfavourable comments about my presence on snatches of breeze. The mood was heightened because an Aboriginal guy burned the Australian flag at a ‘Change The Date’ rally earlier in the day in Hobart. It was all over the news. He martyred himself, this guy, and now he was loved and hated alike. Already, on the radio, a local politician was calling for changes to the law, making them retrospective, so that the guy who burned the flag could be heavily fined or imprisoned. I was trying not to think about it too much – thoughts like that are no good for the frown.