by Cowley, Joy
“Dad was in a protest march?”
“A lot of us were. Good days. Nights of music, meeting in coffee bars by candlelight, playing guitars and drinking red wine. Your father would go to sleep with his head on the table, wrapped up in someone’s coat. As for the marches, you wouldn’t believe it, but people chucked stuff at us, tomatoes, eggs, sometimes worse. Called us communists.” Grandpa laughs and slaps his leg. “Well, we did live in a commune.”
This is something I do know. “In a geodesic dome made of metal and plastic.”
“Metal and glass,” he says. “Where’d you get the plastic idea?”
It was my father’s description, but I say, “I don’t know. Was it comfortable?”
“Nope. It was damned uncomfortable, but we were young then, and you know something, laddie? When you’re young you put a romantic spin on everything.”
“I don’t,” I tell him.
He puts his hand over mine. “Give yourself time. If you’re lucky it’ll happen. Right now, my stomach thinks my throat’s cut. That chicken smells about ready. Wouldn’t you say it was time for the F word?”
He keeps saying that and it’s so tedious, but I smile and nod. I’m hungry too, and he’s right about the chicken. The roasting smell is making the flies go crazy. I’m still waiting for him to comment on the flat grass. Although I did an exceptionally good job he doesn’t seem to even notice.
There is no mention of it, but as we go up the back steps, he jerks his thumb over his shoulder and says, “If you can drive that car, you can drive anything.”
We go in the house. I reckon you could cook a dinner on the table, the dining room is so hot, and without exaggeration, I feel as though I have to cut the air into chunks to breathe it. Grandma says, “We can’t open any windows or doors because of these rotten flies, but they’ll go when it gets dark and then we can air the house.”
“Why don’t you have fly screens?” I ask.
“We did,” says Grandma. “Sea air rusts them after a couple of years. I’ve got more to spend money on than fly warfare.”
At the mention of money I look at Melissa and wonder if we should say something about you-know-what, but the moment passes and Grandpa is offering to make the gravy.
There is something different about my sister. When I think about it, I realise her hair is hanging straight down her shoulders and she has no war paint on. “You had a bath?” I whisper.
“The water’s hot,” she whispers back.
“Everything’s hot. I’d love a cold shower – if only there was a shower.”
She leans closer. “There’s something you should know, Will. I think Grandma was lying about the sharks.”
You’ll be interested to know that someone cleaned up the outhouse. I think it was Grandpa. Anyway, now it’s not too bad if you avoid looking down the hole. The spider webs have gone, the wood has been scrubbed and there’s a bottle of some dark fluid smelling like pine and tar that gets sprinkled when necessary. Since the outhouse is built on to the back of the garage, it’s near the tap where I washed the mussels last night. There’s a tin basin nearby with a bar of laundry soap, but no towel. I suppose we’re expected to shake our hands dry. On that subject, I can’t believe how sore my hands are, all red, with cuts from mussel shells. I show my hands to Grandma, but she can’t see and thinks they’re normal, which is probably also what she’d think if she could see them properly, anyway. I mean, it’s this crazy pioneer lifestyle.
But back to the outhouse: in the middle of the night I had to go, but there was no way I was making that journey in the dark. A torch could supply a little circle of light. It’s what’s in the rest of the blackness, like wild pigs and possums and rats, you know, real scary stuff, that makes me break out in a cold sweat. But I remembered the story Grandma told about Dad and the lavender bush, so that’s what I did. Of course, there’s no lavender bush now, just grass near the back doorstep. It’s so close to the house that if there was a strange noise or anything I’d be back inside the door in a second. And no one will know, because there’s a heavy dew each night.
This morning Grandma and Grandpa had another argument. I guess it’s about spectacles or something when I hear their voices through the wall.
“You’ve forgotten, you silly old bird. Why didn’t you put them in the case?”
“Aw, shut your mouth, there’s a bus coming!”
By the time I’m dressed they’ve forgotten about it and he’s helping her to set the table for breakfast. They’re not lighting the fire yet, thank goodness – it’s a cold meal of cornflakes and peaches. No toaster, no toast, so the follow-up is bread rolls and plum jam. Of course, Will is his usual greedy self. That kid eats enough for both of us.
My phone and charger are well wrapped and ready for the mailbox. Grandma says I don’t have to do that yet, because the mailman won’t be here till lunchtime, but I’m not taking chances. I slip on my sandals, the Italian ones with little silver bells on the thongs, and go out to the road. The sun is up but not too hot. There are gulls squawking over the water and bellbirds singing in the trees, sounds meeting each other like an orchestra tuning up. The day has a wet, fresh smell, even though it hasn’t been raining, like all the air has just been scrubbed. After a while it hits me what the difference is: no traffic fumes.
The mailbox is a kind of long tin can on top of a post, and when I open the flap, I see it’s full of birds’ nests. More straw. Don’t those stupid birds know they’re supposed to live in trees? I rake the straw out, all of it, put in my phone package and Grandma’s list, then close the flap and put up the red flag that will tell the mailman to stop.
Done. It’s a good feeling, like being a prisoner and cutting through the first bars on the window. Well, actually I’ll still be a prisoner, but at least I’ll be able to text Jacquie and Herewini and some of the others, and find out what’s happening in the world. My mind is so full that I don’t look at my feet until I’m back at the house and I see that my designer sandals, worth two weeks of babysitting and shop work, are a wet mess, stuck with clay and grass seeds, and when I kick them off the dye from the red thongs has striped my feet. This place is so primitive that, honestly, I can’t wear half the clothes I packed.
“That you, Melissa?” Grandma calls. “I found the guitars! They were in the back of the wardrobe, only we couldn’t find the extra strings. They were in my guitar case, sure enough. Silly old fool couldn’t see for looking. I need you to replace two broken strings for me.”
I had this idea they’d have twelve-string country-and-western guitars but they’re classical – one made of really nice, varnished wood, the other painted red with gold stars stuck here and there. It’s the red one that has one string missing and another curled up like a cat’s whisker.
“After that,” says Grandma, “we’ll go through that box of photos. I can’t see the faces. If you describe them to me, I’ll tell you what’s what and you can write on the back of them.” She points to a cardboard wine box filled with pictures. I don’t mind too much. As a job, it beats scrubbing mouse poo out of cupboards.
I sit on the couch beside her. She’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday and they smell of cooked food, mainly roast chicken. Her frizzy orange hair with its grey roots reminds me of a tiger. I don’t know why, because with her sloppy mouth and hanging cheeks, her face is more like a hound dog. She’s got nice eyes for someone so old, such a bright blue you wonder why they don’t work well.
“How do you string a guitar?” I ask.
“I’ll show you.” She takes a length of nylon out of a packet. “Do you want to learn to play?”
I spread my chafed hands. “Grandma, I can’t. My hands are too sore.”
She snorts. “Nothing like guitar practice to toughen up your hands.” She pokes the looped end of the nylon string at me. “You’ll be good, girlie.”
I confess to a certain
impatience to drive the car again, but that’s not what Grandpa has in mind for today. One of the old macrocarpa trees has a split branch that is hanging down and resting on the ground, and he wants me to climb up and cut it off. The split is close to the trunk, and we have worked out that if I sit on the next branch I’ll be able to reach over and cut it, although, just between you and me, I’m a little worried about the chainsaw. Certainly I’m not ignorant about chainsaws, but Grandpa’s is heavy and old and I can’t see any safety gear.
“How do I get it up the tree?” I shout.
“Get what up the tree?”
“The chainsaw.”
He scratches in his ear like he’s trying to hear better. “Who said anything about the chainsaw?”
Uh-oh. I look again at the branch, which is thicker than a power pole. Even though it’s half broken, the wood is split in long interlocking fingers that will have to be cut. The other half is solid.
“Bush saw,” says Grandpa. “It’s light. You can carry it up on your shoulder.” He fetches a saw from the back of the garage. It’s shaped like a big D, with the blade – the straight part – wrapped in oily rags to keep it from rusting. After four years the rags have dried out, but the blade is still clean and the teeth feel sharp. He says to me, “Have you used one of these before?”
I shake my head.
“Easy,” he says. “Use a light stroke. Push it too hard and it will bend. After a while it’ll stick a bit, gum on the blade. I’ll give you a kerosene rag to wipe the teeth when that happens.”
I imagine that cutting a huge branch with this saw will be like painting a house with a toothbrush, but I’m happy to give it a go. Grandpa puts the saw over my shoulder, teeth facing backwards. There is a string tied to the saw. At the other end is an old paint can with a lid and handle, and inside, a rag swimming in kerosene. He says, “When you get up there, untie this here string from the saw and fasten it around the branch you’re sitting on. When you need the kerosene rag, just pull the tin up.”
It’s an easy tree to climb, and by sitting on the good branch I can reach the one that has to be cut. The saw is another matter entirely, totally different from the crosscut and tenon saws we use in woodwork. For one thing, the teeth are literally the size of sharks’ teeth, and for another, those teeth dig into wood like a row of chisels. As I wrench the saw free, Grandpa calls out, “Lightly, laddie! Don’t force the saw or it’ll bind. A light-as-a-feather touch lets it do the work.”
He might be deaf, but he sees everything. He is definitely stronger than Grandma who needs help, especially with walking. Maybe that’s because she’s heavy – “Two pick handles across the backside,” Grandpa says – or perhaps it’s her inadequate sight. Whatever, I think I have better jobs than Lissy who has to be Grandma’s eyes as well as hands in a house as hot as a steam bath. Through the branches I see smoke curling out of the chimney. That’ll be for lunch.
Last time I climbed a tree was to get my friend Dave’s kite, which was caught in a poplar. We have no real trees in our garden and sitting in this big old macrocarpa is very satisfying. It smells good, it feels good, and now that the saw is cutting I’m on my own, which also feels good. Grandpa has gone back to the garage.
Once you get used to a saw like this, it slides easily across the wood, the teeth eating the fibres and sawdust falling like snow. The wood is wet and has a strong tree-sweat smell – if I smelt like that, Mum would tell me to change my socks. I’m through most of the split stuff when the saw gets sticky. Time to rest my arm. Time to haul up the tin with the kerosene and wipe the blade.
From up here I can see a bit of the sea, a gannet diving head first, and the green bush at the end of the bay. The road is narrow and wrinkled with ruts; a private road, Grandpa says, owned by three families, so I guess that means you can do what you like on it. I wonder if he’ll let me drive the car again.
The rag wipes the saw blade clean, and I manage not to cut myself on the sharp teeth. I lower the kerosene can and start cutting again, remembering, out of nowhere, a book about a man who put electrodes on plants to measure how much pain they felt. Why do I think of that at this moment? Sorry, tree, if it hurts.
My mates would like it here. Dave lives on a farm and he’s got a kayak. The others, Seong, Anton, Buster, they’re all into fishing. I’m sure Mum and Dad would enjoy a holiday in this place, too. I’ll try to convince my mother that it just takes a couple of days to get used to it.
Grandma wants to show me some chords on the red guitar but I tell her my fingers are too sore, so we move on to the box of photographs. This will be a horrendous task, days probably, because I have to describe each picture to her, and then write what she tells me on the back. Some she doesn’t recognise, and these, the easy ones, get dropped into a bag to be burned. Others have stories to them about people and places I don’t know, although every now and then there’s a photo of Dad as a baby with Grandpa and Grandma looking so young I hardly recognise them. Grandpa has a long droopy moustache and round-rimmed glasses. Grandma’s frizzy hair sticks out sideways like a gorse bush and she has one of those peasant blouses that fall off the shoulders, not quite to cleavage level. She looks awesomely quaint. I hold a photo in front of her eyes and she says, “Is that my Indian wrap-around skirt?”
“Seems like it.”
“Damn me if it wasn’t just the niftiest thing. Indian cotton skirts and patchwork dresses. Leather sandals. It was all about being children of the earth.”
“Dad says you made sandals from seaweed.”
“Kelp. But it was a very brief fashion. They wore out in one morning.” She laughs. “That photo was taken at a gypsy fair when Alistair was seven months old. Write it on the back.”
There’s a kind of slow, sick feeling bothering me, but it’s a while before I realise what’s causing it. Then it hits me with a thud. In sorting these photos she’s preparing for the time when she’s gone. She knows she’s going to die. I’m now wondering if this entire holiday is a kind of goodbye to happy times in the past. The sadness of it blurs my eyes so I make a mistake and start putting good photos in the rubbish bag. She leans forward and yells, “You nincompoop! What are you doing?” and I feel embarrassed.
We have to stop to make lunch, which is homemade bread and mussel fritters. Neither Will nor I eats mussels, usually, but these have been ground up so they don’t look like dead shellfish, and she’s put in chilli and tomato and stuff, so they don’t taste like it, either. We eat them with salad and they’re actually amazingly good, and then, when I’m pouring everyone more lemonade, a car stops. The mailman! I run to the window. It starts up again, not a car but a red van, passing between the trees. Oh yeah, the man has picked up my phone!
I slap Will on the back. “He’ll bring it back tomorrow!”
“No he won’t,” says Will. “Wednesday. It’s twice a week, remember?”
No, I don’t remember, but brother poo-face obviously does. Well, Wednesday then. I come back to the table and continue filling the glasses. The kitchen is hot again and even the lemonade is warm.
Grandpa says, “You kids coming for a swim this afternoon?”
I look at Grandma. “You’re absolutely sure there are no sharks?” I ask.
“Nobody said there were sharks,” Grandma says.
“You did!” I tell her. “We talked about it and you told me not to believe everything I heard!”
“I never said there were sharks!” She glares at Grandpa. “He probably told you. Silly old fool, he’ll say anything for a laugh.”
“Be blowed if I did!” he said.
“Be blowed if you didn’t,” she replied.
He leaned over the table towards her. “Woman, you got a tongue in you so long, the back doesn’t know what the front is up to.”
I look at Will who shuts his mouth tight, glaring at me to remind me that I’ve started one of their useless arguments.
I have to interrupt. “Grandma, you told me there were sharks. Then when we went to get mussels, you told me not to believe it.”
She turns to me, her eyes bright. “Never! I never said there were sharks. What I said was ‘look out for sharks’, which is entirely different.”
At that, she and Grandpa laugh like mad, as though this is the comedy show of the year, and it’s me they’re laughing at. I am extremely disgusted with their behaviour. It’s all a big act, a two-clown circus. It occurs to me that all their quarrels may be nothing more than performances for their own amusement. Well, I am not amused. But seeing as it’s so hot, and considering there are no sharks, I will go for a swim after all.
I’m learning about tides. High and low tide are about an hour later each day, and in this part of the Sounds there is a bigger than normal tidal difference, over two metres, which means if the outhouse was set in the mud at low tide, it would be covered when the tide was full. Today the tide is fully in at about 2.30pm but we go down earlier than that, while it is still crawling up the beach, since Grandpa and Grandma don’t take much notice of rules such as no swimming after a meal.
Lissy is wearing a bikini about as big as three handkerchiefs, and the oldies have the same bathing gear they wore yesterday, their underclothes. We all have beach shoes. Grandpa is quite steady on his feet. It’s Grandma who’s all over the place, afraid of falling, so today we know what to do. Lissy gets on one side and I manage the other, so Grandma’s held by the elbows and hands. We walk into the water together. It’s not too cold and there are no waves, just ripples against knees, thighs, belly. When Grandma is up to her waist she shakes us off and dives in, reminding me of the big seal at Marine Park: clumsy on land, but smooth in water. Grandpa follows her and they plough across the surface, out into the bay.