by Scot Gardner
With my sunglasses on and my old baseball cap pulled hard on my head, I cruised into The Hardware House like any other hapless customer. I made a bee-line for the timber shed and gave Harry the card I’d written for him before he even recognised me. I took my glasses off.
‘Chainsaw! You legend. Tony said you’d left town.’
I smiled. ‘He would. He sacked me.’
His mouth hung open. ‘Sacked? What for?’
I shrugged. ‘I think he is having an affair with Debbie.’
‘So? What’s that got to do with you?’
‘Well, I asked Debbie if there was any truth in the rumour . . .’
‘That’s certainly playing with fire. You should have known better.’ He tore into the envelope. ‘What’s this?’
‘Just a little thankyou note. You’ve been really kind to me. I hope you have a fantastic life.’
He read the card in silence and was obviously touched. He held out his hand. I dragged him into a stiff, back-thumping hug. His face flushed.
‘So you are leaving town?’
I nodded. ‘Give my love to Bonnie, hey?’
‘You’re just chucking it in? You’re not going to kick up a fuss? He shouldn’t have sacked you for that.’
I shrugged. ‘Time to move on. I have a bit of unfinished business, though.’
‘I guess that means the flowers are for somebody else, you big tease.’
I donned my sunglasses again and headed for paint.
Debbie backed away from the counter. She’d seen straight through my disguise. She looked startled. ‘What do you want?’
I hung my sunglasses in the front of my shirt and handed her the roses. ‘I just wanted to say sorry,’ I said. ‘And thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘Sorry for the gossip-mongering the other day, and thank you for everything you did for me.’
Debbie’s lips disappeared inside her mouth.
Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you.
I smiled, put my glasses on and left.
There was a proper spring in my step heading back to the flat. I had my sunnies on top of my hat and I met the eyes of shoppers. Eyes from a hundred nations, all ages, all sizes. Some said hello, some just nodded, some averted their eyes.
Dave was already under the bonnet of the ute, poking with one hand and talking on his mobile phone. He acknowledged me with a nod.
‘Yep. Tried that. Uh huh. Okay.’
He bent and rattled in the toolbox beside the front wheel. He stood again, wielding a hammer.
I backed away and covered my eyes theatrically.
‘It’s all right, mate, I’m not going to kill it. This is advice from Ricky Tan, the high master of older Holdens. Here, hold my phone.’
Dave arranged himself around the engine and had a couple of practice swings at the starter motor. I clenched my jaw and he smacked it. One solid, irreverent peal rang for a full second.
‘Give that a go.’
‘Serious?’
He nodded and took the phone.
It started first try. I revved it and smiled.
Dave was laughing and waving the hammer above his head like a trophy.
‘Can you hear it?’ he shouted, and held his phone in the engine bay.
I turned the engine off and started it again. I shook Dave’s hand and thanked him. He handed me his phone and I thanked Ricky Tan, the high master of older Holdens.
Mum was there.
She appeared out of nowhere and I knew something was wrong. She wasn’t wearing her uniform. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyelashes were matted together. For the first time in years, her face wasn’t pruned up with the anger that aged her.
She was sad.
Dave bundled his tools and left in a hurry.
‘What?’
Her lip twitched. ‘Your dad phoned this morning. Simon’s gone.’
It hit me like a flying tackle, but I remained upright. ‘What do you mean gone?’
‘Somewhere between the pub and home yesterday afternoon, he got lost.’
‘Fuck.’
‘They looked all night . . .’
She rested her forehead in her hand, then rubbed furiously at her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to do. I . . .’
I was in the ute by then, gingerly backing out of the parking spot. ‘Bullshit, Mum. That’s bullshit. You know what to do.’
Eighteen
I drove the morning in silence towards my home. The place I was born. I stopped for the toilet, petrol and food at the Billabong roadhouse near Bairnsdale and the bush-scented air made my stomach flip.
My thoughts were grey through a malaise of blame.
I blamed my way back through time. I blamed myself for running away. I blamed Mum for leaving, too, and blamed Dad for not doing enough. Then I was back to blaming the accident and Simon for being a bastard and then I was blaming God for everything.
The accident wasn’t God’s fault. It wasn’t my fault either. It wasn’t Dad’s fault or Simon’s fault or anybody’s fault. It just happened. None of it changed the fact that Simon was missing.
I caught the ABC radio news just outside Orbost.
‘Police are appealing to motorists who may have seen missing Splitters Creek man Simon Prince, absent from his home in Victoria’s East Gippsland since Sunday night. Mr Prince is described as one hundred and eighty centimetres tall, with blond hair, of heavy build and is intellectually impaired. He was last seen near the Splitters Creek Hotel around three p.m. on Sunday.’
It was just after one p.m. when I made it home.
Splitters Creek was a circus. A bass-baritone diesel generator hummed from Nigel Fenton Reserve. Two marquees had been erected and people in orange overalls were milling about. I spotted Squid Hegarty talking with Cappo and I knew it was time to face the music.
Fess up.
I parked the ute.
Squid saw me coming and had to look twice. ‘Ho! Look out, here comes trouble.’
I crossed my arms and they laughed.
‘Cappo? Can I have a word?’ I asked.
‘Certainly, Adam.’
Squid vanished into a tent. A helicopter took a low pass over the centre of town.
‘I’m . . . I’m not really happy with what I did. I’m ashamed that I did a runner. I’m really sorry and wish I’d done it differently. I . . .’
‘Listen, Adam, I don’t have time for this right now. We’ll sort it out later, hey?’
I looked at my feet.
‘Now, if you want something to do, you can go down to that house there.’ He pointed to our place. ‘Say hello to the bloke who lives there. He said he was going to be here by now. He must be having a long lunch.’
I nodded and thanked him.
The porch light was a weak glow against the afternoon sun. Roasted insects were sprinkled on the verandah and I stood there, thinking about knocking. My knuckles hung in the air for a full second, then I grabbed the doorknob.
The door burst open.
Dad and I both jumped.
He stared at me, his face awash with emotion. A scowl, fading to a frown and finally settling on a look of relief.
He hugged me. Wrapped his arms around me and caught me by surprise. My body stiffened and I patted his shoulder. His body started to shake and inside me something melted. I was five years old again. My body softened and folded into his familiar warmth. Whatever it was that had melted came leaking from my eyes.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
He shook his head against my neck.
‘Where is he?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Dad breathed, and hung on tight.
I rubbed his back again. ‘I’ll find him, Dad. We’ll find him. He’ll be okay.’
A sleepy currawong chortled from a shining gum beside the creek, its call softened by the distance.
I was suddenly aware of home. It washed over me and through me and my skin prickled.
Back at the marquees, the generator hummed, p
owering the racks of communications equipment in the tent. Desk lamps lit maps taped to trestle tables, greetings were exchanged – some shocked and delighted, some puzzled, some seemingly indifferent – and a bloke I didn’t recognise asked for a bit of shush. He outlined the rest of the day’s activities. The searchers were divided into four teams, one for each point of the compass. The road search had been completed the night before. Every walking track, every logging road, every siding and coop within a fifty-kilometre radius of town had been spotlighted. If Simon had walked out of town, he’d wandered off the track. The teams were to check the verges and drains along the major tracks on foot. Team leaders were to radio in every half an hour and report anything significant immediately.
I went with the north group, as instructed. Dad was group leader of the east. We pored over the maps and, while the SES bloke’s outline of the activities seemed hopeful, one look at the vast patches of green on the map and it hit me.
Simon could be anywhere.
Up here, the mountains roll on forever and if Simon had become disoriented and left the track as they were suggesting, a hundred sniffer dogs might not find him in a hundred years.
My sense of futility grew as the afternoon yawned on. Our crew of six spread through the bush on either side of the road. We walked, slashed and stomped in a line as the fire truck idled and kept pace with us. Squid had the coloured lights on. They looked pathetic through the sunshine and they only added to my sense of hopelessness. There was the hopelessness and there was an embarrassing sense of relief in the thought that Simon might never be found. That his story might finally be over, that his final chapters might read like an unsolved mystery. I tucked those thoughts under the mattress in my mind and kept searching.
But when the crew sat down to rest at four p.m. and I thanked them with all the sincerity I could muster, the words sounded false, even to my own ears. I didn’t believe that we’d find him this way. I excused myself and ran towards town. I could do that. I was allowed to run. It was my brother they were looking for and they knew the situation would be breaking my poor little heart. But every footfall added clarity to my conviction. My chest was tight and my lungs burned, but my head was working fine. I understood why the bush search seemed futile.
Simon never left the track.
Ever.
Even before the accident, his habits and rituals and routines were the things that allowed him a Splitters Creek sort of greatness.
Something or somebody had fucked with his routine. It wouldn’t take much. Last time it happened, Simon wrapped his car around a tree. This time, I realised as I reached the outskirts of town, was more serious.
Nineteen
I stood in the shade beside the marquee and caught my breath. I almost laughed out loud when Col radioed through that one of the members of the east team had found a beanie. A grey polar fleece beanie that Dad had identified as Simon’s. Emma Terry started crying and the other teams were radioed. The search was to begin anew in the area halfway to Hargate.
Bullant dived through the door of the tent, his clothes creased as though he’d dressed from the pile on his bedroom floor.
‘Adam!’ he shouted, and shook my hand. ‘I tried to phone about twenty times. What happened to your phone?’
I shrugged. ‘Lost it.’
‘You right, mate? Have they found him yet?’
I shook my head. ‘They’ve just found a beanie. Si’s beanie. Out near Hargate.’
‘Serious?’
I nodded.
Bully just stood there. ‘Well, what are we waiting for?’
Then a body hesitantly entered the tent. A body that I recognised before my eyes could discern her face from the daylight glare that followed her in.
‘Shit,’ Bully whispered, and made himself scarce.
Mum and I stared at each other for the longest time. A silence descended in the marquee as those who knew the story held their breath.
‘Have they found him?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘They found his beanie on the side of the Hargate road.’
‘Are you going out?’
‘Do you want a lift?’
Mum offered a single shy nod and backed into the daylight. I followed her to the ute and Bully jumped silently in the back like a kelpie.
‘There’s room in the front,’ I said.
Bully thumped my rolled swag and sat on it as reply.
Mum sniffed as I drove. She eventually found the tissues in the glove box, mopped her eyes and honked twice. Cars lined the road. It seemed like every driveable vehicle in the district was there. Hudson’s old F100, Kent’s Bedford tray, Sam Pliney’s red Fergy.
Mum stiffened in the seat as we drew alongside. She spotted Dad and started shrinking under the dash.
I parked.
Mum and I looked at each other. Her eyes blinked rapid-fire but she said nothing.
I opened my door.
‘I might . . . I’ll stay here.’
‘Fine,’ I said, and gave the door a bit of extra torque as I shut it.
Dad strode up to me and hugged me tight. He looked manic and held the holy grail of Si’s beanie in one paw.
It was Simon’s all right. It smelled of Emma Terry’s shampoo and sweaty hair.
The ute door closed behind us. Dad turned. He straightened and stepped from our embrace, sniffing and rubbing at his face.
Mum stood in the canopy-broken shadows clutching her red purse, lips curled inside her mouth, cheeks glossy.
They stared and said nothing.
Dad’s short breaths turned to faint puffs. Mum barely moved, from foot to foot, the gravel grinding quietly beneath her city shoes.
She dropped her purse. She took a step, then froze. Her wet eyes scanned the road, the cars, the bush, and came to rest on my dad.
She opened her mouth, but Dad cut her off.
‘He’s gone,’ he said, and walked. ‘I . . . I’ve got to find him.’
Mum’s hair moved in the breeze Dad made as he stormed past. She hung her head and fought to keep the sobs inside her mouth, first with one hand, then with two. The pain just flowed around her fingers and all over the afternoon, ugly and merciless.
I held her and our tears mixed on our cheeks.
‘I shouldn’t have come back,’ she said. ‘I knew it’d only make it worse.’
‘Don’t be stupid, Mum. Coming back is gutsy. You did the best that you could with what you had. It’s all any of us can do. Even Dad.’
We held each other for the longest time and I knew things would never be the same. Mum would never be a stranger in my life. Dad would either open his heart or keep the lid closed and continue to believe that it was Mum’s fault. My fault. His fault.
It was nobody’s fault and everybody’s fault. It just was.
In time, I left Mum on the roadside and took my place in a long line of searchers, an arm’s length from my best friend in the world, locked in an awkward and sombre silence.
The hours passed and we walked over the bridge. We passed the white-painted boulder on the roadside that marked where Simon had stacked his car. Where Patchy had died. We walked right into Hargate.
Tori’s ute wasn’t in her driveway but Todd, her neighbour, invited Bully and me in for a drink. Beer, port or water. Bully chose beer. I went with water.
Good water. Clean water. Hargate rain in a glass.
Todd’s rusty beard was powdered with sawdust. I remembered that he made bush furniture from salvaged branches and figured that he’d been in his workshop before we’d arrived. Todd was the same age as Bully and me. We went to school together until Todd left to do a cabinet-making apprenticeship in Bairnsdale. The apprenticeship didn’t work out but, between odd gardening jobs and his bush furniture, he made enough to pay the rent and feed himself. We used to look down on him – a Hargate feral – but the world was a different place now. Now I wanted some of the autonomy and determination that he had.
Todd told us that Tori was at her mum’s p
lace in Orbost. She probably didn’t know about Simon’s disappearance and she was due back that evening.
I felt envy for the fact that Todd knew things about her that I didn’t. I could barely mask my disappointment, my longing. She would be able to make sense of what was happening. She’d be able to help me find the words to put my mind at ease. I knew then that she was a bigger part of my home than I’d ever imagined.
I was tempted to prop on her verandah and wait for her and Francis, just so I could give her the story myself, but my dad and a dozen others were already aboard Kent’s Bedford, ready to be ferried back to our cars.
Todd shook my hand and wished us luck. Bully and I climbed up and hung on.
‘Give her my love when you see her,’ I called to Todd.
‘Hey?’
‘Tori. Give her my love when you see her.’
‘Sure, mate. I will.’
I watched Todd walking back up to his house as the truck departed and I prayed that he’d remember to pass on the message. I hoped that I’d have the courage one day soon to tell her with my own mouth. To let loose in the light of day that thing that had rattled mysteriously inside me for years.
The front door was open. I sat in the familiar shell of my bedroom and realised that the door was always open. I couldn’t even tell you if it had a key or if the lock actually worked. I’d only noticed it was open because all the doors in the city weren’t. Everything was under lock and key. At home, on this little island of human habitation in a sea of wilderness, it felt safe to leave your keys in the car.
Just don’t leave your brother alone.
Mum and Dad arrived separately just after dark. They looked beaten, but they were talking again, albeit in the shallow words of the unforgiven. It was a choice of baked beans or spaghetti for dinner, Dad informed us, and he was cooking. He ended up opening both cans and burning four slices of toast trying to do two things at once. I thought I saw Mum smile when the smoke alarm went off for the second time.
That was when the awkwardness began to fade. We sat around the small table and Dad said grace that turned into a prayer for Simon. He spoke about the feelings of hope that finding the beanie had given him. He mumbled an apology to Mum. His fork trembled against his plate until Mum rested her hand on his. It made him flinch, but he didn’t pull away.