All the Birds, Singing

by Evie Wyld

  ‘Feel like a swim?’ he says, wiping sweat from under his eyes.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I can show you the boat I found,’ and suddenly it’s all panning out, is there a more perfect way of getting kissed than lying in the bottom of a tin boat in the middle of the sea. The stories we will tell our kids. Denver grins at me, and says, ‘I’d like that.’

  A curlew and the black tops of the gums against the white sky. Leaves that are brown, grey and blue, crisp with heat, the dry, face-burning heat and eucalypt that empties my nose and there’s Denver two steps behind me and we’re walking home again. I can feel his eyes on the backs of my calves, which are biscuit-brown with tiny white hairs that catch the sand in them. I have never felt beautiful until this moment, when I know he is watching, when I know he doesn’t see me as Jake the Flake, Brick Shit House, the Whopper. I can feel him thinking about touching my legs which now I look at them are long, not thick trunks, but strong and capable. He isn’t talking any more – we have been passing back and forth about the football season just gone, I’ve sensed that I have impressed him because today I said James Flannery was past his passing peak and that while Kale Aidie was fast, he was a pussy in the tackle. He laughed when I said that, and it was a nice laugh, surprised.

  Even the spiders’ webs have disintegrated in the heat, burnt away, poof, in the air.

  We’re on the track down to the beach when he points at the Carters’ property and says, ‘You know, that’s Flora’s place.’ Like it would be something I wasn’t aware of. I know where we are, know this stretch of bushland like the back of my hand, he doesn’t have to tell me where we are. Just round the back of the Carter property there is a sand track that gets you down to the rocks and in the rocks there are things to look at and to talk about. Octopus, nudibranchs, sand sifters, crabs and urchins. Oysters you can prize off with a knife that taste of seawater and cream. I think about the boat I found a month ago in the dunes, and us lying in the bottom feeling the swimmers underneath us. I’ve got a stolen joint and matches from Iris’s hiding place which I know all about. She’s going to skin me when she finds out but it’ll be worth it. I’d thought that we could smoke it once we were past the main street and into the trees on the way to my house, but the boat is so much better. I wonder at how impressed he will be when I present it to him.

  ‘Listen,’ says Denver, ‘you talk with Flora, don’tcha?’

  ‘I do. Sometimes.’ I pick up the pace a little because it is very hot and a cool breeze would be nice.

  ‘She’s nice isn’t she?’

  ‘I like her just fine.’ Although truth be told right now I do not like her fine at all.

  ‘What about me? You like me?’ he asks. I go red-hot in the face, but it makes me smile the way he says it, like he’s nervous I might say no, as if it were a possible thing to not like Denver Cobby with his hairy legs and his black eyes.

  ‘Yer orright. S’pose.’ I turn and give him a smile that says, Yeah – I think you’re good.

  ‘Well look – can you keep a secret?’ My heart is blood-thumping in my throat. We can see the back of the Carter house now, through the pigface and jarrah. A shadow passes in front of the window, but we are too far off to see who it is. Denver lets out a sigh that is long and deep.

  ‘Look. Me ’n’ Flo—’

  Flo?

  Flo away and into the sea.

  ‘Me ’n’ Flo have been going together the past few months. Only her old man’s not all right with that sort of carry-on.’

  Carrion.

  ‘He won’t let blokes near his house, especially not a black bloke. But she’s really something, y’know, Jake?’ He says my name and I turn to look at him. I think nothing. It doesn’t get the chance to get in one ear hole and out the other, I don’t let it in. ‘I’m just about going fucking crazy out here – the two of us are. We’re gonna take the bike and head to Cairns. Get a little place there – I’ve got a mate who reckons he knows a guy with some labouring work I can get into. I dunno, mate, sounds crazy, I know. My fuck!’ And he goes on and on, but it is like the tops of my ears fold over and stuff up the holes. Something buzzes past my face, close enough that I can feel the air of its wings vibrate against my eyes. Then my ears open up in time to hear him going on, ‘But listen, we need someone on our side, try and help us get ourselves together – could you maybe store a bit of stuff at your house for us? Flo’s dad runs checks of her room, in case she’s hiding smokes or condoms or uh, I dunno, fuckin’ comic books, the way he goes on. I sleep on the sofa at Mum’s so there’s nowhere to put stuff. Thought maybe you had a bed we can stash shit under till we go? Maybe you might be able to lend us a bit of cash if you’ve got any saved? We need all we can get.’

  ‘Do you want to smoke this joint?’ I am holding it out in my fist like a lolly. A small frown goes over Denver’s lovely face.

  ‘Nah – not a real good idea I wouldn’t say.’

  I hold the thing to my lips. Denver watches me, looking unsure all of a sudden. Good, I think. You should feel unsure.

  ‘So what do you say?’ he asks, leaning back a bit with his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. I light the joint. It smoulders red at the tip, and the smoke goes straight into my eye, but I don’t let myself blink it out. I watch him standing there, looking like all the world rested on me stashing a sleeping bag under my bed.

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘Go away,’ I say quietly, and inhale. I’ve done it before, so if he is expecting me to choke like the kids on TV do, then he is sorely disappointed. I pretend I am Nerrida at the side of the boat sheds, jutting one hip out and crossing one arm over my chest so that I can rest my other elbow on it, keeping the joint near my lips and pretending to pull a hair of tobacco from my mouth. I see for the first time that I am taller than Denver, and I look down my beak nose at him. Jake the Flake the Dyke. The smoke comes out of me, white. Denver runs his hands through his hair.

  ‘Well? Whad’ya say? Say something.’

  Perhaps he is impressed by how I smoke, I don’t know. It looks like it just pisses him off.

  ‘Fuck. What’s your problem? Thought we were mates?’

  He is shaking his head. I’ve made him angry.

  ‘Fine then,’ he says, to my silence. ‘If you’re gonna be shitful about it, fine. I was only walking you home because Flo felt sorry for you. I find you’ve told anyone, you’ll get the beating of your life.’

  He holds up a finger, and I believe that he means it, but I keep still. I smoke.

  ‘And for Christ’s sake, put that out.’

  When he says that I take the joint from my lips and hold it between the tips of my index finger and thumb. Then I let it drop, foaming red-hot at the tip and it lands with a pat in among the dry crackled leaves on the ground. Denver moves like a snake, stamps the red out and then turns and pushes me so that I fall on the floor. ‘What in the name of fuck are you doing, stupid bitch? You’re as fucking nuts as your whole fucking family.’

  His face is curled in the wrong places. Ha, I think – not so pretty after all. He holds up his finger at me like the way you would at a kid or a dog.

  ‘I mean it – you breathe a word of this to anyone . . .’ His finger is trembling. ‘Fuck off home. You can forget we were ever mates, stupid fucking kid.’ And he glances at the back of the Carter house, looking for some sign of who it is that is at home. There is blonde hair on the veranda, I see it as I crane my neck, she is on the rope-swing her father had made her when she was a little kid. Flo into the sea, and away.

  Denver is off at a trot, disappearing around the bend where the track leads down to the rocks. No doubt they have a meeting time, no doubt he has known all along that this is where we would come and he can see Flo right after he’s sorted out where they’ll stash all their stinking rubbish for the journey ahead. They’ll be down on those rocks eating the oysters. They’ll push the boat down to the sea and they’ll float there, lying in the bottom of the hull. It is their boat, I realise, it is there for t
hem, not for me. I can’t imagine Flora Carter letting Denver feel up her tits in the bottom of the boat, but what do I know. Not very much.

  I am looking at my tree-trunk legs splaying out on the ground where Denver has pushed me. The birds are loud and all singing at once, Cuk . . . cuk . . . cuk . . . cuk . . . cuk . . . cuk, Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo hoooo-hoooo, Wup wup wup wup, Quit-quit-quit. Near my foot is the stamped-out joint and I reach for it. It is a little ripped and flat, but it still lights, and I smoke while I look up at the white sky with those fingers of blue gum, dark against the space. The birds sound faster and sharper, Cheerily, cheeriup, cheerio, cheeriup, Chicka-dee-dee-dee-dee, Fee-beee, Cheer, cheer, cheerful, charmer, Tur-a-lee, Purdy purdy purdy . . . Whoit, whoit, whoit, whoit.

  I put the red end of my joint to a leaf and it eats it up with no flame, just like someone has taken the leaf out of existence, like it was never there in the first place. In my head starts a countdown, like the kind they do when a rocket is about to take off, or when you’re ten seconds away from the new year. The birds are louder still, or I am stoned, and I do another leaf, Bzeee-bzeee-bzeee-bzeee, Tsip, tsip, tsip, tit-tzeeeeee, Zray, zray zray zray sreeeeeee, Tsyoo-tsyoo-tsyoo-tsyoo-tswee, Zeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-tsyoo, Drink your teeeeee, towheee, Sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet-and-sweet, and then I take out the lighter and somehow the path is on fire and I don’t know if I meant it to be, and it goes up, and the birds scream, they scream at me, Chip, chjjjj, chewk, Jaay and jaay-jaay notes, Tool-ool, tweedle-dee, chi-chuwee, what-cheer . . . Wheet, wheet, wheet, wheet. Chip, chjjjj, chewk, Jaay and jaay-jaay notes, Tool-ool, tweedle-dee, chi-chuwee, Tur-a-lee, Purdy purdy purdy . . . Whoit, whoit, whoit, whoit, what-cheer, and before I can scream back, before the birds can take flight, it is up, sucking up the trees, with the sound of ice breaking, it goes up, and no amount of stamping will help, I can see that, I just watch it like I am part of it. The birds are loud and then it is just roar and I run for the rocks. Down the path I pass Denver who has sweat on his face in pearls. He roars as he passes but he doesn’t stop to give me the beating of my life, he runs like murder into the fire and towards the Carter house, and I want to shout, Stop, don’t go that way! but the sound of the birds and the noise of the fire roaring take the sound out of my mouth, and he goes into the hot trees, and I can’t follow.

  I swear I see a bird, bright and on fire, rise out of the trees and just keep on going up like it’s a rocket going for Mars.

  31

  Lloyd fed the sheep, left me and Dog under a blanket on the sofa. I got up once he’d gone, and stood in front of the mirror and looked. My eyes blinked at me. I took off my bandage and underneath felt tender.

  I washed my face, and then dipped my head in the sink, poured warm water over my hair with my cupped hand. The water ran out pink from the cut. I wrung out my hair and draped the hand towel over my shoulders. I opened the kitchen door and looked out at the hillside, then I closed the door, and leant the gun up next to it. I found the kitchen scissors and sat at the table to wait for Lloyd.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said when he came in.

  ‘I want you to cut my hair.’

  Lloyd was still for a moment looking at me, and then he came and stood behind me.

  He pulled his fingers lightly through my hair.

  He worked in silence, and lengths of hair dropped in my lap and crept down my back, and his fingers at the nape of my neck and at my temples were warm. I kept my eyes closed, and listened to the clean sound of the scissors.

  After a long time, Lloyd put them down, laid his hands on my shoulders and said, ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve made you look so much worse. We’re going to have to find a hairdresser’s.’

  In the truck, Lloyd wrote a shopping list. ‘Shall we have some wine?’ he asked. ‘I feel like I’ve overdone the whisky lately.’

  ‘I’m not going to a hairdresser,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, come on. You need to go.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me. You can have another go later on if it makes you feel better.’

  ‘It won’t make me feel better – it won’t make you look better.’

  ‘It doesn’t worry me. I don’t feel worried by it.’

  ‘God almighty, you look more like a local than the locals do. I can’t live with seeing this disaster I’ve created every day.’

  ‘It’ll grow out. I can wear a hat.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Lloyd in a new voice. I pressed the brake but didn’t stop.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop the car, stop the car.’ He turned to the back window and pressed his hand against the glass. I pulled into the lay-by.

  ‘What is it?’ Before the truck had properly stopped, Lloyd was outside. I slid out too, shutting Dog in – he panted in fury. Lloyd had crossed the road and started to move into the woods.

  ‘Lloyd!’ I called and he just held up one hand to silence me. I followed him, through the sticks and brambles, Dog yipping in the truck behind me. When I got closer, I saw Lloyd’s cheek was bleeding where a branch had whipped him. He ploughed on; my ankle turned down a rabbit hole while I tried to keep up with him, the back of his jacket moving in and out of sunlight.

  ‘Stop,’ I hissed, not sure what I was being quiet for. He stopped dead. When I caught up he was still apart from the breath which moved his back up and down, and which puffed around him like smoke.

  I swallowed. ‘What is it?’ I stood next to him and he put his finger to his lips and then pointed into the newly unfurled bracken.

  ‘I see it,’ he whispered, and I looked and saw a shadow beneath the green canopy, where maybe something moved.

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘It’s huge,’ he said in a voice that did not sound like his own. ‘It’s here – it’s just here.’

  ‘And you see it?’

  ‘It’s just in front of us.’

  Something crunched in the undergrowth.

  ‘Should we run?’ I said, but I didn’t think we would.

  It moved deeper into the woods and we stayed standing, watching and listening.

  ‘My god,’ said Lloyd quietly.

  I looked down and saw that we were holding hands.

  32

  On the beach at low tide after a storm, the sharks that have washed up are the small ones that don’t need to be towed onto the sand spit first. They are just finned on the boats and plopped back into the drink. There is a blue with its long and pointed snout, looking like a worm without its fins, and I squint at it trying to imagine it swimming, ever.

  Soon I will go home, and there’ll be Mum squirting cream into her drink. The place will smell of chip fat and laundry. Iris will be out the back in her version of a bikini, and the triplets will be complaining that tea is too far off and that what they need is chocolate milk, even though there is never any chocolate milk in our fridge. Dad will pull up in his car and there’ll be the sound of him dropping his keys on the kitchen sideboard. I might ask for a dog again, just to join in. Dad opens the fridge and takes out a beer and it hisses open and this is how life will always be, and I will always be here.

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to Mary Morgan and the Hereford sheep farmers who generously let me watch them at work and ask boring questions. Also to Sally, Pig and Sir Colin McColl for looking after me so well.

  To Nikki Christer and all at Vintage Australia, and all at Pantheon in the US for their hard work and very helpful edits. Special massive thanks to Diana Coglianese.

  To everyone at Jonathan Cape and Mulcahy Associates, particularly Alex Bowler, Joe Pickering and my agent Laetitia Rutherford, for their exceptional skills and for being such kind friends.

  Thanks Mum and Dad, Tom, Emma, Flynn, Jack, Matilda, Juno and Hebe, Roz, Roy and Gus.

  Thanks Jamie for dealing with me and also for helping me write.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in wri
ting by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Epub ISBN: 9781448114481

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Jonathan Cape 2013

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  Copyright © Evie Wyld 2013

  Evie Wyld has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by

  Jonathan Cape

  Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,

  London SW1V 2SA

  www.vintage-books.co.uk