Night Swimming

by Steph Bowe

  The moment passes, and she goes back into super-efficient styling mode. ‘Dress needs a belt,’ she says. ‘Looks good, but everything looks better with a belt.’

  One hour, fourteen items and forty-three dollars later, we’re done.

  After our visit to the op shop, Iris comes over for afternoon tea.

  ‘That’s my room there.’ We’re out the front, and I point to my second-storey window. ‘Sometimes I feel like Rapunzel in her turret, gazing down. Not that I ever really identified with Disney princesses. Distinct lack of pet goats. Closest thing is Jasmine’s tiger in Aladdin.’

  ‘Yeah, the pets were never the problem for me. More the enforced heterosexuality and rampant whiteness and everybody getting married to their one true love at the age of sixteen.’

  I get this thrill of joy at Iris noticing the enforced heterosexuality of Disney fairytales. Even though that does not necessarily indicate anything about her sexuality at all. But the fact that she notices must mean something. Actually I have no idea whether it means anything.

  ‘That is weird,’ I say, as soon as I notice I’ve been silent for an awkward length of time while decoding the meaning of an innocuous sentence. ‘Why does that only seem weird now?’

  ‘You’re more of a Belle, anyway. Since you’re a reader. Clancy should’ve put on Beauty and the Beast, that’s one hell of a musical. I could’ve been a teapot.’

  ‘You’d be a great teapot.’ I lock the gate behind us.

  ‘No one’s ever said anything so nice to me.’ She grins.

  Stanley comes around to greet us. Iris kneels to give him a pat. He tries to eat her bag. She wrests the bag out of his mouth. She looks up at me and smiles sadly. ‘You’ve goat to be kidding me,’ she says.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I say. ‘That’s the worst pun I have ever heard.’

  She stands up. ‘It’s a shame you don’t have alpacas. My alpaca puns are much better than my goat puns. Alpaca my bags, alpaca lunch, and so on. Admittedly, a bit limited. Llamas are good, too.’

  I grin. ‘Do you just lie awake at night thinking up puns?’

  ‘Pretty much. I’ve been trying to think up a good goat pun since you invited me over. And yes, that was the best I could come up with.’

  ‘We should probably go inside before Stanley eats your shoe and then your foot,’ I say, stopping just before the entrance. ‘There are a couple of things I forgot to mention.’ There are a couple of things I didn’t want to mention, because I wanted everything to be nice. Because I wanted to talk to Iris about all the good things. But it’s better to tell her than for her to have an awkward surprise.

  Iris tilts her head. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘My grandfather is very forgetful. He repeats himself a lot. And he sometimes gets agitated for what seems like no reason.’

  Iris nods. ‘My nan had dementia, before she died. Mum’s mum. I used to visit her in a nursing home. It was strange, but I was young. I get it, now. The condition. You don’t need to worry about me.’

  I nod. And smile. Then take the three steps up to the front veranda.

  Grandad is sitting on the couch. Maude is running in manic circles around Iris and me, as if unable to decide who to jump on. The circles start getting wonky after a few rotations and she collides with a box of soaps.

  ‘Mum! We’re here.’ I call. No response.

  ‘Grandad,’ I say. He is staring absently at the TV, but doesn’t seem to register our presence. I have a brief moment of panic at his stillness before I notice his chest is still rising and falling. I kneel down beside him and pat his hand. ‘Grandad.’

  He looks at me, blinks. ‘Oh,’ he says. Then stops, waiting for me to say something.

  ‘My friend Iris has come over for tea,’ I say. ‘You met her the other week.’

  Iris waves and smiles. He nods, but I’m not sure he’s following what’s going on.

  ‘Now,’ he says, his voice suddenly forceful. ‘I’ll get you to mark off the days on the calendar.’

  We have a calendar hanging above the phone table by the door. Grandad is obsessed with it. I know it’s up-to-date because I cross it off every morning so he doesn’t get worried about it. But I glance over anyway. Grandad’s absolute conviction about the state of reality makes me second-guess my own perceptions. ‘It’s up-to-date, Grandad.’

  He nods and his gaze returns to the television.

  Nathan pokes his head in from the kitchen. He wipes his hands on his T-shirt, leaving a trail of flour. He offers a hand for Iris to shake. ‘I’m Nathan.’ He lowers his voice and turns to me. ‘Your mum’s instructing me in the art of scone-making,’ he says. ‘It’s not going too well.’

  ‘I love scones,’ says Iris.

  I hear my mother’s voice in the kitchen. ‘I have enough to do without cleaning up this bloody mess!’

  ‘Exhibit one,’ mutters Nathan. ‘She’s been going on about the Country Women’s Association being a bunch of self-subjugating slave women stuck in the past, and how her mother used to say she’d sooner stab herself in the eye with a fork than bake. It’s gotta be the tax. Doing her head in.’ He winks at Iris. ‘Nothing to do with you. Or scones. Or the CWA.’

  ‘Iris is here, Mum,’ I call again.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ Mum comes into the lounge room, flashes a forced smile at Iris. ‘Baking-related stress. I don’t cook.’

  Iris is doing her best not to appear uncomfortable. She smiles shyly.

  What a terrible first impression of my family. I want to rewind to when we were outside, and start over. This time, my mum isn’t having a scone-related meltdown. This time, my grandfather isn’t staring absently at the TV, half the man he was before. This time, there’s no enormous stack of boxes of soap teetering in the lounge.

  Can’t rewind. I push the boxes back against the wall so we don’t get crushed to death.

  ‘Scones and tea in the kitchen, then?’ I propose.

  It picks up from there. Hard for it not to, really. Nathan is a pretty affable character. Everybody likes Nathan. Mum warms up, a little. Iris is beautiful, magnificent, brighter than the sun. I keep looking at Nathan and Mum, to see if they can tell, if they can see what I’m seeing, just the sheer wonder of this kind, funny and cheerful girl. The scones are flat but delicious, and there’s more jam and cream than we can possibly eat. Grandad eats three scones in the living room, then comes to the kitchen on his way to the bathroom and says, ‘Someone make scones? I wouldn’t mind one.’ So he has some more.

  I offer to show Iris my room, and Mum is visibly relieved that she can get back to work.

  As we’re climbing the stairs, Iris pauses and asks, ‘Do you have a slinky?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Not since I was a kid.’

  She searches through her bag, and pulls out a rainbow slinky, holding it aloft, triumphant. It’s a bit tangled and bent out of shape, so when she sets it on the stairs its course isn’t straight.

  ‘You’re still a kid,’ I laugh.

  She grins and goes to retrieve the slinky.

  ‘I love your room,’ she says, surveying it. My room is drab. I try to see what she’s seeing, but all I see is mess. And the cat, dozing on my bed in amongst the mess. I try to tidy up without her noticing. ‘And your house. You have so many books.’

  I shrug. ‘I have problems. Book-buying problems.’ Amongst others. But let’s not get into it.

  She notices a pile of papers on my desk. ‘Do you actually handwrite letters?’

  I hastily push the pages together into a neat stack. ‘I never write letters, really, I’m just trying to write this one letter,’ I mumble, flustered.

  Iris looks embarrassed. ‘I…I wasn’t looking at what you’d written. I wouldn’t…I’m sorry.’

  I must seem upset. I try to speak calmly, so she sees I’m not, but I just end up saying everything in a single breath, blustery and agitated. ‘It’s okay. It’s just, I’m trying to write a letter to, uh, my father. I tried to write an email and it didn’t really
work and I was thinking, you know, handwriting is supposed to make you more creative? Like accessing a different path in your brain? So I thought it would be easier if I handwrote it, but none of the letters worked out. I meant to throw them away but I forgot.’ I breathe again. I sit down on my bed and pick up Marianne and pat her frantically, so I’ve got something to busy my hands. Marianne gives me a look of loathing.

  Iris watches me, quiet. I imagine it’s all clicking over in her head, whether she should ask about my father, but how could I guess what she’s thinking.

  ‘I don’t know your relationship with your dad,’ she says slowly, ‘and I don’t know if this is too personal, but if you need an objective opinion, I could help. Sometimes I write to Dad’s relatives in India, which I know isn’t the same, but I’ve never met them. So I get it if family seems…distant.’

  I don’t say anything for a long time. Marianne scampers out of the room.

  I stand up and go back to my desk. ‘This is it, right. It’s not like I’m desperate for a dad. Lots of people only have one parent, or divorced parents, or have a guardian who isn’t technically their parent at all, or parents who are the same gender. So…I don’t feel like I’ve been denied anything. I have a pretty cool mum and grandad, and cousins, when they’re around. But, it’s just this big mystery hanging over my life. You know?’

  ‘Not exactly. But it makes sense. Can I see?’ She nods to the papers.

  I lean against the edge of my desk and shuffle the letters, until I find my most recent draft. I hand it over. I feel like I might throw up.

  Iris reads it, slowly and carefully. Then she looks up at me and smiles. ‘I think that’s lovely. It’s perfect. You’ve got nothing to lose by sending it. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their family.’

  I could kiss her.

  Only I can’t.

  *

  The next night, Mum insists on a sit-down family dinner, and, for the first time in living memory, she cooks it—a roast. I clear the paperwork off the table and set out placemats and cutlery, like we’re a normal, civilised family. We even bring Grandad in to sit at the table, a change from his usual tray-table-in-the-living-room routine; he can still watch the news through the doorway. Nathan’s over at the Downs’ place. So it’s just Mum and Grandad and me. I give Grandad his pill; he looks at it as if taking medication is a foreign exercise, despite the fact that he takes the same pill every evening.

  We get stuck into the lamb and vegetables without much fanfare. The lamb is overcooked but I don’t say anything. I think of telling her that I summoned the courage to mail a letter to my father today—partly as a result of Iris’s encouragement—but the words don’t quite reach my mouth.

  ‘What do you think of Iris?’ I ask instead.

  ‘She’s your friend. It doesn’t matter what I think.’

  ‘It matters to me. I want you to like her.’

  ‘She seems nice,’ Mum says. I can tell this is a stretch for her. The only commentary she’s ever offered on Clancy is to shake her head at his behaviour.

  ‘Are you just saying that because I want you to?’ I ask, staring at my wrinkled peas.

  ‘No. She’s a nice kid. I’m not that invested. Your friends are your friends. None of my business.’

  Grandad is looking from me to Mum and back again, like it’s a tennis match.

  ‘Like how Nick is none of my business?’ I ask.

  I expect her to flinch. I might even get a sermon like, Kirby, I’ve been on my own for a long time now. I need adult-company time. Okay, no, I’m glad she doesn’t say that.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested,’ she says instead. She doesn’t seem upset in the slightest. She shovels overcooked steamed carrot into her mouth.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be interested? He might become my stepdad.’

  Grandad is struggling with the knife. While Mum gets up to cut his lamb into even tinier squares, I slip Maude a bit of fat under the table.

  ‘Doubtful. You know how I feel about marriage. We can have him over, if you like. But you know him already.’

  Saying hi when I go in to pick up food from the IGA hardly counts. I don’t know him well enough to understand why Mum is suddenly going out with him.

  After dinner, Mum returns Grandad to his spot in the lounge, then comes back and opens a packet of assorted biscuits.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a couple of bikkies, Jess,’ she says quietly, a spot-on impression. Grandad requests biscuits after dinner every night, but when he asks it’s as if it’s only just occurred to him. I grin at her. She smiles back. We’re on a steady footing again.

  When I get home from yet another rehearsal for our play, there’s a letter waiting for me on the kitchen table. My name and our address is scrawled across the front in handwriting I don’t recognise. Every character is somehow shaped like an oblong. It’s now June, a fortnight since I sent that letter to my father. It’s the only possibility.

  Mum has a letter of her own, unfolded in front of her. ‘Five hundred thousand dollars, upfront,’ she says. ‘Then fourteen grand a year. Ridiculous.’

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask.

  She looks up, as if she hadn’t realised I was there. ‘A retirement home.’ She sighs. ‘For Grandad.’

  ‘Aged care?’

  ‘It’s different. Look at the pamphlet. It’s a lifestyle choice.’

  ‘It’s aged care. It’s everything wrong with modern society. Divide and conquer! It’s… capitalism. It’s narcissism. It’s getting rid of people the moment they stop serving your purposes. We send away our old people because they make us think about our own mortality, and that causes discomfort. If there’s anything people hate, it’s discomfort. We will avoid it at all costs.’ I am aware that I sound ridiculous and pompous but I can’t help myself. I’m shaking with anger.

  ‘It’s about having people who understand his condition looking after him,’ she says, her voice level. ‘It’s about the end of his life being as stable and secure and pleasant for him as possible.’

  ‘He’s nowhere near the end of his life. And he’s happy here. In the home he built. With his family. Why don’t you listen to anything I have to say?’

  ‘I’m trying, Kirby. You get very emotional about this. We need to be objective and reasonable. It’s a lot of money and a big decision and we can’t ignore Grandad’s health just because it’s awful to think about. I’m his power of attorney, so I have to take responsibility for him. Okay?’

  I shake my head. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Family’s the most important thing. You don’t send them away. That’s irresponsible. The whole thing is bullshit!’

  I stomp up the stairs, like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum. Only once I’m in my room do I realise I left my letter on the table.

  Nathan comes up the stairs. I’d recognise his footsteps anywhere. He walks so heavily the house shakes. ‘Mail for you,’ he says. ‘Handwritten and all. Is this like a time-travel letterbox thing? Do you have a boyfriend in 1896?’ He smiles, lopsided. He chucks the letter on my bed.

  I put down my book and stare at the letter. Marianne, curled up next to me, shows no interest.

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘Pretty keen on somebody living in the present.’ Who is just as unreachable.

  ‘You and Clancy. Knew it’d happen. Learn from my mistakes. Use protection. I know it’s weird buying condoms at the IGA, but it’s better than the alternative. If you need me to, I will buy them for you. I will.’

  ‘You’re my cousin. That’s strange. If I needed, I’d…wait, we’re totally off track. It’s not Clancy. It’s…you met Iris?’

  ‘At the restaurant? Long hair? Pretty?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He smiles wider. ‘She’s a bit of all right. Don’t tell Claire I said that. Also don’t tell Claire I said using condoms was better than the alternative. It is. But I am happy about the baby. She keen on you?’

  ‘Who?’ I ask.

  ‘Iris.’

  I shake my head. ‘D
oubtful. Pretty long odds that the one beautiful girl who has moved to our tiny town would be gay and interested in me.’

  ‘Hey, hey, don’t be so hard on yourself. It could happen.’ He winks. ‘Why’d you never tell me? About liking girls?’

  ‘Not exactly relevant. What were you going to do, introduce me to all your lesbian friends?’

  ‘I see your point. As long as you didn’t think I was a homophobe. That would wound me.’

  ‘Course not. You’re a very decent bogan.’

  He laughs. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Anyway, I’d rather not talk about Iris.’

  ‘Fair enough. How ’bout this letter then? Who’s it from?’

  ‘Rather not talk about that, either.’

  ‘Come on, Kirb. I’m willing to risk the humiliation of Nick or Mr Gregson seeing me buying condoms at the IGA. Pointless, given my girlfriend’s already pregnant—horse’s bolted, right. All for you, and you won’t tell me who’s writing you letters. Are we in Downton Abbey or something?’

  ‘Reckon it’s my dad.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You gonna open it?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not just yet. Might just put it off till I can deal with whatever it says. Which might be never.’

  ‘Fair enough. Just remember it doesn’t matter, right? You got us. Your mum and Grandad and me and the rest. Pretty easy for dads to be disappointing. My dad’s a pretty good dad, and even he gives me the shits. So don’t stress if he’s a knob.’

  ‘Thanks, Nathan. Not that you would, but can you not bring it up with Mum? Gotta work some stuff out before I talk to her about it, you know?’

  ‘Yeah, no worries. Let us know how it goes. Or if you need condoms, or whatever else.’ He points at himself. ‘I’m a cool cousin.’

  ‘I got it.’

  A week later, I’m at Purple Emperor, and Clancy’s mum is pushing around a trolley laden with little bamboo steamers.

  ‘Yum cha,’ she explains. ‘Can’t get complacent. Have to lift our game if we’re going to compete. Evolve or die.’

  ‘Like Pokémon,’ says Clancy. It’s a quiet night, so he has his laptop open on the counter to work on an assignment. I’ve started reading his copy of Jane Eyre.