Night Swimming

by Steph Bowe

  Now that we’ve finally got the last of the mud out, the town is having a festival in Main Street, to raise funds to put Alberton back together. Our house is the only one that got swept away, but there are plenty of folks whose houses have a lot of water damage and unsympathetic insurance companies. Mrs Kingston’s rose garden disappeared, which is a pity, and the Downs lost all the stock in the newsagent’s. A lot of snakes, a lot of red frogs, just gone. Tragic.

  You reckon Mum didn’t swear on the phone to the insurance company when they told her we weren’t covered for the particular variety of flood that took the house away. I think half the town heard her. I almost felt sorry for the insurance rep on the other end of the phone.

  Anyway, Clancy is standing on the back of the truck that belongs to Nick from the IGA, parked in the middle of Main Street, belting out a song from Anything Goes and tap-dancing with terrifying fervour. It would be more effective if his stage were not the flatbed of a truck, but it’s still impressive. He’s looking a little pale in the uplighting.

  He’s also trying to prove to his parents his absolute commitment to, and talent in, the dramatic arts. He’s heading up to Sydney for auditions at drama schools next week, and he has his final exams next month, and he’ll be living in the city next year, no question about it. His parents have come around to this fact. They insist he visit a minimum of four times a year (including Chinese New Year), and if ‘the whole drama thing’ (his mum’s words) doesn’t work out, he’ll come home to the restaurant. He’s got so many back-up plans and alternative options if his first-pick course doesn’t work out that he believes there’s no way the whole drama thing could possibly fail. Confidence is important, he reminds me.

  ‘Boy’s absolutely insane,’ remarks Mum.

  I can imagine Grandad would say more front than Myer’s. I have never got around to asking what that means. Grandad is parked on a chair in front of Saffron Gate, taking it all in. Mum is worried he’ll get overstimulated, with all the lights and everyone in the street, so she heads over to check on him.

  We’re going to visit Claire and Nathan soon. The stress of the flood wasn’t great for the baby, so Claire is spending the last couple of weeks of the pregnancy in hospital in Sydney. It’s good because Nathan’s parents and brother and sister are there, and the Downs have gone, too. So we’re staying at the Downs’ place for the time being.

  ‘What do you think?’ Iris has come over from the restaurant, where they’re selling samosas and naans on the footpath. She holds the phone out to me. It’s a real estate listing for a flat in Sydney. We’re looking at renting a place together, Iris and Clancy and me, starting January. Iris wants to do a music course at a college, then go on to uni. Mum is, of course, pretty keen for me to finish school, though I’m thinking it’ll feel a bit weird to be nineteen and in Year Eleven, but I could always go to a college instead.

  ‘Cool,’ I say. It is. Safe neighbourhood, and the rent isn’t ridiculous.

  Iris keeps saying she’ll go if I go, and I keep saying I don’t want to hold her back. I tell her that it’s hardly likely she’ll stay with someone she dated when she was seventeen, so I shouldn’t be affecting her life to that degree. She just gives me a look and tells me I’m deluding myself, that we’re already affecting each other’s lives. And that I don’t grasp how important I am to her. But I’m trying to be realistic. Because I don’t know how I’ll fare being in the city, away from Mum and Grandad. I don’t know what it will be like getting to know my dad and his family. But Iris is right: it’s worth the risk.

  Iris puts her phone back in her pocket. She knows it’s not the time for it, that my head’s still here. She puts her arm around my waist and I rest my head on her shoulder. The warmth of her and the smell of her and everything about her makes me glow with joy.

  ‘This is the loveliest,’ she says, kissing the top of my head. ‘Even if Clancy’s a bit tone-deaf.’

  ‘His true calling is as a dancer. He’ll work it out eventually.’

  She laughs. ‘I don’t think him dying of exhaustion is going to do good things for your fundraiser,’ says Iris, releasing me. I wish she wouldn’t. ‘I’ll see if I can tag team.’

  Iris brought her mandolin with her earlier in the day to busk, but realised Clancy’s amplifier and microphone (presents from his parents for his birthday) pretty much eliminated the possibility of anyone else being heard.

  She kisses me. I could explode with joy right now. Metaphorically only. I grin instead. I can feel my face go pink but I don’t really care. She smiles back and squeezes my hand.

  She goes to collect her mandolin from its case and heads over to wait for the conclusion of Clancy’s tap-dancing routine. When she signals to him, he seems relieved to have a break. There goes the record attempt.

  Mum returns from checking on Grandad. ‘He’s good. Did I tell you I heard back from the in-home care people? Grandad’s going to get nurse visits, as soon as we get our housing situation sorted out. Somebody coming out to see him a few days a week. Shower him, give him meals, keep him company. Someone who understands his condition. So you don’t need to stay here to help out, and he won’t have to go into care. He’ll still live with me. I’m not going to pretend it won’t be hard, because of course it will. Life’s hard and getting older’s hard. But we’ll have support.’

  ‘I like to help out,’ I protest.

  She gives me a pointed look. ‘You can always come back, Kirby. But you’ve got to leave to begin with. I didn’t have a kid because I wanted a mini-me. Have a go at having your own life, would you?’

  This is the most earnest I reckon I’ve ever seen my mum. She is not going to take no for an answer. I nod. She smiles.

  Iris finishes fiddling with the amplifier on stage. ‘I think it’s time,’ she says, leaning down to the microphone, ‘for some audience participation.’

  She breaks into ‘Nutbush City Limits’.

  My mother snorts, which turns into a laugh, and then she’s doubled over. She turns to me, once she’s caught her breath, beaming. ‘Your friends are weird, Kirby.’

  The strangest thing happens. My mother starts dancing the Nutbush. Like we’re at a primary school disco. I have never, never, seen my mother dance. My mother is sensible and practical and not a dancer. This is bizarre.

  ‘What did you do with my real mum?’ I call out to her. ‘You’re an alien replica, right?’

  ‘Dance, Kirby!’ she shouts back. ‘You can’t not dance the Nutbush.’

  Somebody has drugged the town’s water supply. Other people are dancing. Mrs Hunter is out of the pub and is moving towards us in a manner that can best be described as grooving, carrying a tray of plastic cups of red wine.

  I scamper away, only half-dancing. They don’t seem to mind.

  Clancy is lying on the asphalt nearby, looking exhausted but blissed-out. ‘Life is a strange, funny, constantly unfurling thing, Kirby. You have no idea the marvels that await us.’

  ‘You could be a motivational speaker, Clance.’

  ‘I’ve been working on that one for a while.’

  ‘I appreciate it.’ I help him up off the ground. ‘I saw your mum eating a samosa earlier. She’s gone dark side. And my mum’s dancing the Nutbush.’

  He laughs. ‘Marvels! I haven’t eaten in seven hours. I am maybe having a spiritual experience. Or I have low blood-sugar. I don’t even feel worried about my auditions or my exams, both of which are imminent, that is how profoundly light I feel. Where do I get these samosas?’

  I take Clancy over to the folding table set-up outside Saffron Gate, and give Grandad’s hand a squeeze. He does seem to be enjoying himself.

  At this stage, it looks as if the town is big enough for two takeaway restaurants. Saffron Gate has been busy ever since Nathan and Claire’s party. I guess people just needed to get used to the idea of a new restaurant. Purple Emperor hasn’t suffered, but a third restaurant could be pushing it.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ says Iris, leaning into the m
icrophone. ‘I’ve not had a chance to address most of the town at once, and I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly and formally apologise for some immature and unacceptable behaviour earlier this year. I was solely responsible for the creation of the crop circles. Just the ones in this town, though. I am deeply sorry for any concern or turmoil I caused.’ Is she trying to be funny? She sounds like a sportsperson at a press conference after a scandal.

  There’s a pause, then there’s laughter. I think most of the town is tipsy. Someone yells out, ‘You’re right, love. Don’t worry about it. Everybody knows it was Clancy.’ I think it’s Mr Jameson.

  ‘I’ve clearly just been exonerated, sir!’ Clancy yells in response.

  Iris did not expect this reaction. There’s an awkward moment, after which she smiles and says, ‘Thank you.’

  Then she starts playing an instrumental piece I don’t recognise. She smiles at me and I smile back and breathe as evenly as I can.

  Her dad, who has come out the front to have a cigarette, elbows me gently in the ribs. ‘Who needs a man when you’ve got a mandolin, eh?’

  ‘Stop it,’ says Iris’s mum. Everyone is pretty jovial.

  Nick is wandering in our general vicinity. He’s been looking anxious all evening about the damage Clancy might be doing to his truck, but he seems more relaxed now. He has a beer in his hand, so that probably explains it, and Iris is a lot more sedate on the flatbed stage. ‘I reckon it’s a cover-up,’ he says. ‘It was definitely aliens.’

  Nick can’t fool a soul.

  Clancy’s mum comes over from Purple Emperor, bearing spring rolls and dim sum. There wasn’t really much rivalry to begin with, and there certainly isn’t now. ‘You don’t know how glad I am to have another restaurant in town,’ she’s saying to Iris’s mum. She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ‘Parmas are like cardboard at that pub.’ She shakes her head. They share a laugh. Clancy’s eating gulab jamun with a look of absolute pleasure on his face. It’s borderline inappropriate.

  Across the road, I see Mum and Mrs Hunter still dancing like they’re in a discotheque, even though Iris isn’t really playing a dancing song. They’re having fun. I don’t hear Mum’s phone ring, but I see her answer a call. I know who it is before she says anything. Her face shifts into a look of absolute joy. She walks towards us.

  ‘Baby’s here! Baby’s born!’ She is grinning, smiling more than I have ever seen her smile, the phone pressed to her ear so hard it must hurt.

  I squeal, which I don’t think I’ve done since the Christmas I was seven, when Mum told me I could have my very own pet goat. Good old Gary. Everyone hugs everyone, including Grandad and Nick and Iris’s parents and Clancy’s mum and then Nick’s mum, Irini, and then Mrs Hunter and then the Jamesons and everyone else who comes over, wondering what we’re all yelling about. It’s like ten New Year’s Eves at the pub put together, but the grown-ups aren’t that drunk yet.

  ‘Did they name her Kirby?’ I ask, once I’ve regained my composure, only half-joking.

  Mum is still breathless with excitement, like a kid. ‘Nah. A boy. Named after Grandad. Cyril.’

  Grandad is with it, tonight. He knows what’s going on. ‘I haven’t got a hanky,’ he says. Winnie hands him a serviette. He dabs at his eyes. He’s so overcome he has to sit down again.

  ‘Well,’ says Mum, calmer now. ‘Well.’ She wraps me in another hug. So many hugs. I think she might be crying, too.

  And I know it, then. That everything will be fine, whether I’m here or not. That going away won’t be abandoning my town or my family. Or Stanley. That it’s not about any particular place—not our house, not our little town on the river—as nice as those places can be that keep us together, that mark out who we are and how we belong to each other. We decide. We have decided. We have each other, even when we’re apart, and I’ve got Iris, the loveliest. And everything will be all right.

  My immense gratitude to my agent, Ginger, my editor, Penny, and everyone at Text for making it such a welcoming publishing home. Thank you to Wendy, for her invaluable feedback on Night Swimming.

  All my love to my family for their unfaltering support and inspiration: Rhiannon and DD, Nan and Pop, Peter and Carol, Grandma, Carol and Susan, Abbey and Buffy, and, of course, Mum—nothing I do would be possible without you.