At the Lake

by Jill Harris

  A man stood on the gravel road. He must have come out from behind the houses. At his side, on a leash, was the biggest dog Simon had ever seen. The dog’s black fur stood up along his back and he was growling quietly. The man stood with his small head thrust forward, his eyes slits. His arms hung down like a gorilla’s, fingers flexed, ready for action.

  Simon knew straightaway he was dangerous: the man’s thick-set body emanated menace. Simon’s heart began to hammer.

  ‘Whodya think you are?’ the man grated. ‘Whadya think y’ doin’ here?’

  Simon swallowed hard. His voice wouldn’t work properly. ‘Simon,’ he croaked.

  ‘Simon who?’

  ‘Simon Gibb.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Barney Butler’s my grandfather. I’m here for the holidays. I … I was just biking past and I decided—’

  ‘Can’t y’ read? What’s the notice say?’

  Simon’s tongue stuck in his dry mouth.

  ‘Go on! Read it!’ The man stepped towards Simon. Simon stepped backwards.

  ‘I said read it!’

  Simon took another step backwards. His foot nudged the dog chain by the kennel. The dog growled more loudly.

  ‘Shuddup! Lie down!’ snapped the man, and the dog lay down at his feet.

  ‘Well, what does it say?’

  Simon looked sideways at the notice. ‘No entry without permission.’ His voice was squeaky with fear.

  ‘Eg-zack-ly.’ The man dropped the leash beside the dog and moved up to Simon. Simon backed up against the edge of the deck. Where could he go if the dog attacked him? Or the man?

  ‘Y’ trespassing,’ said the man. ‘There are penalties for that. Not that I’d bother the police. Me and the dog, we’re good on … “penalties”. And you wouldn’t like them, not at all. Now you just listen to me. I won’t teach you a lesson this time, but if I catch you in here again, you’ll be in big trouble. Got it?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘You get on y’ bike and be on y’ way. Don’t come here again. I’m warning you.’ He turned to the dog. ‘See ’im off!’

  The dog sprang to his feet and walked over to Simon, trailing his leash. Simon went stiff with fear. The dog was nearly up to his waist. The animal had stopped growling but his upper lip was drawn back, revealing his teeth. He nudged Simon’s leg, leaving a smudge of slobber. Simon moved towards the gate, the dog continuing to nudge him on. They reached the gate.

  ‘Come back!’ commanded the man, and the dog padded back to his side. Simon squeezed through the gate and wheeled his bike shakily onto the road. A last, frightened glance showed the short, powerful figure standing next to the office, staring after him.

  The man moved to the gate and watched until Simon disappeared around the bend; then he closed the gate. Butler’s grandson, he thought — unfortunate, but nothing he couldn’t handle. If the kid came back he would turn up the heat. He might have to sleep in the office for a few nights. There was no way he could have kids wandering round the yard, not with what was going to be happening. Absolutely no way! Whatever it took, he would stop it. Whatever it took.

  3

  Yep, it was cold! Always was

  Barney was dishing up dinner when Simon got back. This particular dinner was part of the start of the holiday: roast chicken, kumara and potatoes, plus a bowl of green beans which had been in the garden an hour earlier, with butter melting on top and black pepper. As Simon ate forkfuls of meat, bread-and-herb stuffing, crisp potatoes, kumara and beans, he began to relax, although the fear he had felt in the house-yard was still lurking just beneath the surface.

  As he listened to Jem and Barney talking, Simon realized, with a flare of annoyance, that Jem had beaten him to the boat.

  ‘That’ll be Rosie and Tommy,’ said Barney. ‘Lewis,’ he added. ‘Alice — their mum — helps the Masons with the garden, and the kids come too. You’ll meet them tomorrow when Alice comes here to tidy up.’

  ‘Is it their dad who’s the caretaker at the house-yard?’ asked Jem.

  Simon’s heart gave a loud thump.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old are they? What are they like?’

  ‘What’s it matter?’ said Simon, tightly. ‘We don’t want anything to do with them.’

  ‘I expect they feel the same way about you,’ said their grandfather mildly. ‘Except they live here and you’re just visiting.’

  Simon jerked his head up. ‘But this is our place. We’ve been coming here for — well, for always. They can keep out of my way!’

  ‘Well, I might like to see them,’ said Jem. ‘They’re probably much friendlier than you are, Simon — you said you didn’t want me hanging around.’

  ‘I won’t have that kind of talk, Simon,’ said Barney. ‘You two will be doing a lot together, and I expect you to watch out for Jem. I can’t be with you all the time, and I’ll be relying on you to be the older brother.’

  Simon scowled. ‘He slows me down, he gets in the way. I have to explain everything to him. He’s a pain.’

  ‘It wasn’t so long ago that I was explaining everything to you — I still am, in fact. And I like doing it. It’s what we do when you’re here for the holidays.’ Barney looked at Simon steadily. ‘Look, Si, you’ll get plenty of time on your own — I’ll see to that — but when Jem is with you, do the decent thing and try to get along. I don’t want a repeat of last holidays.’

  They ate in silence for a moment, but Jem was never quiet for long.

  ‘They kind of looked a bit scared,’ he said. ‘They didn’t wave or anything — they just turned round and walked up the beach. I was going to call out hello, but I didn’t think they’d answer. And their clothes were pretty old,’ he added.

  Barney looked thoughtful.

  As they finished their strawberries, he leant back in his chair.

  ‘Those kids have a hard time,’ he said quietly. ‘And their mum.’ He paused. ‘You don’t have to be great mates, but I expect you to be friendly if you do bump into each other.’

  Jem helped his grandfather with the dishes. ‘Your turn tomorrow night,’ said Barney to Simon as he headed out the door.

  Simon made for the jetty. He was sure Jem wouldn’t have tied up the boat properly, but he found it was quite secure. Huh, what a fluke. The wood of the jetty was still warm under his bare feet. He lay on his stomach at the shallow end and reached through the water for the lake bed. The cold edge of the water moved reluctantly across his hand to his wrist and up his arm as he investigated the depth. You could never be sure, because the level of the lake was always changing and the water was so clear. Before the water reached his elbow, his fingers touched the sand and brushed across the grainy, ribbed surface.

  He forced himself to think through what had happened in the house-yard. He really wanted to push it away but he knew it wouldn’t stay away. He’d never before experienced that kind of — he didn’t know quite what word he wanted. Aggro? Hostility? No. Violence. The man was violent, even when he did and said nothing. It came off him like a smell. And the dog was an extension of it. Simon acknowledged he had been deeply frightened. He would have to stay away from the yard. And Jem would, too — he needed to warn him straightaway.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side, sliding into the water. Yep, it was cold! Always was. He had never had a warm swim in the lake. Too deep to warm up, Barney said. He shivered slightly as he visualized diving off the rock into those depths and swimming further out. They were never allowed to swim there on their own.

  Simon stood in the cold water, thinking. Would the man at the yard — it must have been Squint Lewis — spoil the holiday? He felt his very presence contaminated the lake and the people who lived there. If you lived at the lake you didn’t behave like that. Indignation began to push out fear. Sure, he shouldn’t have … trespassed. But even that word didn’t fit in here. He couldn’t think of a single other property he wasn’t welcome to go on.

  His legs were aching, so he waded
out until the water reached the bottom of his shorts. The sand compressed beneath his feet and released tiny bubbles. In the dusk he could just make out the trout rings and, closer in, the ducks and scaups, their wake catching the last of the light like silver in the dark water. He heard their rapid cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck as they settled down for the night, and the twitterings of the birds behind him on the lake edge. The light ebbed finally from the sky and the black silhouette of the hills faded. He walked back alongside the jetty until he reached the bank, then clambered out. He looked across the lawn at the lighted windows of the house. The holiday stretched before him: four weeks of doing the things he liked best, in his favourite place, with one of the people he loved most.

  Except that Squint Lewis had moved in.

  He walked across the lawn and in through the back door. The warmth folded itself around him.

  ‘Trout still inviting us to catch them?’ inquired Barney when Simon appeared. He had put up the old card table with its faded green surface and tipped out a jigsaw puzzle. Jem was helping him turn the pieces face up, and they were placing the edge pieces along the sides of the table.

  ‘It’s only 250 pieces,’ said Barney. ‘We can get our hand in on this before we do one of the bigger ones.’

  ‘But you and I did a 500-piece one last time,’ protested Simon. ‘This is just so Jem can do it, too. Well, I’m not doing kids’ stuff!’ He marched into the sun porch with hunched shoulders.

  Jem picked at a scab on his knee. Was Simon going to be like this all the time? He could keep out of his way at home, but it was different here — no Drongo, no computer, no friends, no shops, no texting to keep Simon busy. Mum had said that Barney didn’t like cellphones and texting and Simon would have to leave his phone at home.

  Barney continued to turn over the pieces. After a few disconsolate seconds, Jem joined in again.

  ‘OK, Jemmy,’ said his grandfather, ‘what’s our deadline for finishing?’

  ‘Midnight?’ suggested Jem hopefully.

  Barney consulted his watch. ‘Your bedtime is in precisely twenty-five minutes and that includes a shower. How about this time tomorrow?’

  They bent over the table, hands darting out to pick up pieces and try them. A large number of cobblestone pieces sat dauntingly at the bottom left. As the last edge piece of sky was put in place, Barney stood up.

  ‘You have your shower, I’ll make the cocoa.’

  He stuck his head into the sun porch. ‘You having cocoa, too?’

  Simon looked up from his book. He stared at his grandfather defensively. He felt rather ashamed he had been ungracious about the jigsaw. Barney came in and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘You like-a da cocoa?’ he asked in such a phoney Italian accent that Simon smiled despite himself.

  ‘Yeah … I can’t stand Jem!’ he burst out. ‘He’s a little turd!’

  ‘These holidays are pretty special to me,’ said Barney quietly. ‘I look forward to them all year, and it gives your mum a break. You three are the most important people in the world to me now that Gran’s gone. Don’t spoil the holiday, Si. Please.’

  Simon drew his mouth down at the corners. It takes two to get along, he thought, and Jeremy was as provoking as he knew how to be — he asked for what he got.

  Barney went out to the kitchen to make the cocoa.

  Later, Simon watched a torch bobbing across the lawn as his grandfather searched for worms. In the morning there would be a bucket half-full of scraps of newspaper with the worms amongst them ready for the first fishing expedition. He wondered if casting a rod was like riding a bike — once you learnt how you never forgot. He had spent a lot of time the previous summer practising. Not that they fished like that from the boat. They used worms or trolled with spinners — the easy options, Barney always said with a wink; don’t tell the proper fishermen. But maybe tomorrow they would cross the lake to the outlet and fish from the bank. Then he would find out whether he could still cast.

  He lay back with his hands under his head. He wondered where his dad was — it would be eight o’clock over there. Would he remember to send them Christmas presents? He had forgotten their birthdays, and Mum had been furious. ‘Selfish jerk!’ she had said bitterly.

  If his father was here, he would go straight up to the house-yard and sort Squint Lewis out. And his dog. He would have a go at him, good and proper. ‘Watch how you talk to my son!’ he would say. Well, thought Simon, his dad wasn’t here and so he would have to stick up for himself. Maybe he should go back to the yard and look around, and Squint Lewis could get stuffed! If he went early in the morning, he would have the place to himself. Even if the gate was padlocked, Simon reckoned he could squeeze through the gap at the bottom. He wasn’t going to let the holiday be spoiled by a lowlife like Lewis.

  4

  Here goes, he thought

  Simon woke early. His watch said six o’clock. He instantly remembered his resolve from the night before and was filled with dread. He recalled Squint Lewis’s powerful body, his narrowed eyes, the dog’s growling. He got out of bed smartly and pulled on his clothes before he could change his mind. On the way out, he grabbed some bread and honey.

  The mist hung over the lake, concealing all but the heads and shoulders of the hills. The early morning conversations of the colonies of ducks, geese and swans, invisible in the reed beds down the bank beside the drive, were muffled.

  He pedalled vigorously to the gate, wet grass brushing against his ankles, leaving sticky seeds behind. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the yard. The gate was padlocked, although the chain holding the gate to the fence post was long enough to leave a gap at ground level. It was made bigger by the slope of the land.

  Simon’s breath came rapidly. His hands were sweating. It wasn’t too late to turn around and go home. He hesitated. It was only twenty-five past six — surely it would be a good hour before Squint Lewis came to open up the yard. He didn’t need to look at every house — that wasn’t the point; the point was to refuse to be scared off by someone like Squint.

  He pressed his lips together firmly and wheeled his bike across the road and into a shallow ditch, hiding it from the road. He didn’t want Squint arriving and seeing it.

  It wasn’t easy squeezing through the gate. He was forced to wriggle through on his stomach, the front of his shirt getting pretty dirty. He hoped he wouldn’t have to get back in a hurry later on, especially with a dog chivvying him from behind. He shivered at the thought.

  Once through, he stayed close to the gate, scanning the yard. It was absolutely still. He walked silently across the tarseal to the beginning of the gravel road. It would be crunchy underfoot, but he couldn’t reach the houses without crossing it.

  Here goes, he thought.

  Although the houses close to the fence were in quite good order, those further back were more dilapidated. He wandered through the weeds and straggly grass looking at them. The houses on pallets were too high-up to get into easily. There was quite a gap between the ground and their floorboards — he could walk under them without stooping. Others sat on wooden blocks closer to the ground, some with steps leading up to a door. Most were made of wooden weatherboards and had rusted corrugated-iron roofs; several had blue plastic sheeting over parts of them. One, at ground level, looked as though the front wall had been torn away, exposing a sitting room with curtains at the windows and double glass doors at the back. It looks like a stage all set up for a play, thought Simon. Grass was already climbing up the walls.

  He waded through the grass to the glass doors. A ballerina was etched on one door, and on the other a man in a diamond-patterned costume playing a violin. Bunches of leaves clustered in each corner of the glass, framing the figures. Maybe they tell a story, Simon thought. I bet someone was really proud of those doors. What would it feel like when the house you’d lived in for ages was hoisted up on a trailer and dragged away? Why had the owner let their house go? Maybe they’d bought a new house? Maybe they were old and had died? He wanted to open
the doors and go through, but one had a long crack in the glass and he thought he’d better not.

  Simon’s confidence grew. Wandering down the next row back, he came across a house which looked as though it was built of bricks, although it was really just a veneer with wood behind. It still had a burglar alarm on the wall and a green awning over the front door. Around the back, some steps led to an open door. Inside, an old stove sat against one wall and a yellow bench with a sink ran along another. He could even see a brush for washing dishes and a bottle of detergent on a shelf under the sink. Mum wouldn’t leave stuff like that if her house was being moved, thought Simon.

  He stepped carefully onto the grey lino. It was quite firm, so he walked into the next room. The sun had reached the yard and was slanting along the floor. Someone else has been here recently, he thought, noticing scuff marks in the thick dust. Across a passage he went into a bedroom. Twin light shades were still fixed to the wall. There was a wardrobe in one corner and a cot next to it. You’d think they’d sell the cot online or something, before the house was moved, he thought. The windows had dark brown roll-up blinds. Who had lain in that bed and read at night? What kinds of clothes had hung in that wardrobe in the corner? Simon felt strange. He didn’t like houses growing old and neglected and being dumped in a yard to be picked over. He wanted houses to go on being lived in by people who liked them and looked after them.

  Quarter past seven, he noted; time to be leaving. But he did want to see the old woolshed before he left. He ducked back between the houses to where he’d seen it from the road. There it stood — two storeys of corrugated-iron and wood covered with flaking red paint. Someone had tagged it with a sheep and baa-aa-aa. There was a butterfly next to it. Simon grinned. He knew who had done that: Fred, who had a reputation for doing a flit when a girlfriend got too serious.