Devastation Road

by Joanna Baker

  Mr Dowling from across the road was standing at the gate with Steve Jamison, the local mechanic. Steve was grinning, but Mr Dowling, as usual, was looking at me as if I smelt bad.

  ‘Pshhhh. The Tingle boy.’

  I realised that there was one good thing about my name. You just couldn’t make it sound evil. Even if you spat it out angrily, it still sounded harmless and stupid.

  I wasn’t worried about Mr Dowling. He was always like this. He was white-haired and walked with a stick, and he had the kind of wrinkles that come from a lifetime of sneering at things. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  I ducked under the police tape and joined them on the footpath. ‘Just having a look, Mr Dowling.’

  ‘You’ve broken the law, boy. No one is to go in there until the investigators have finished.’

  Beside him, Steve tipped his freckled face down towards his overalls and rubbed his nose apologetically.

  ‘I wanted to find the computer. I had some homework on it.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough?’ He was talking as if I’d lit the fire myself. ‘You young things. Hang around other people’s disasters. Nothing better to do with yourselves. That girl was here yesterday.’

  Steve put a hand on his shoulder. Steve is only about thirty, but he seems to be the only person who can handle Mr Dowling. In fact he handled everyone pretty well. I guess it was part of his job to get on with the whole town. He said, ‘Now, Mr Dowling, it’s OK that Tara was here. It’s her parents’ business. She just wanted to see the damage for herself.’

  ‘And she was around again this morning.’ The old man muttered something that sounded like ‘bone idle’. Then he said, ‘Went off …’ He glared down towards the shops, as if everyone in town was annoying him.

  So, Tara had been here and had gone down the street. For a second I thought about following her, but decided not to bother. She’d probably gone home. I wondered about her, though. In the bakery she’d said the café wasn’t worth worrying about. But she had been out twice to look at the ruins. Maybe she cared more than she let on.

  Steve gave me a look that glittered with amusement and turned the nasty old man into a joke we were sharing. ‘Got ya breakfast with ya?’ He nodded towards my toast.

  ‘Yeah.’ I smiled back.

  One reason I’d hurried out here while I was still eating was that during the night my parents had come home. They had slept in even longer than me, which was a first, and I had sneaked out to eat my toast in peace. When I finally ran into them I was going to have to tell my fire story in boring detail, and I didn’t feel like doing it over breakfast. Steve would understand that, but I didn’t want to explain it in front of Mr Scowling, so I just repeated myself.

  ‘Just thought I’d have a look.’

  That led to a short silence while we all looked at the café. The stone part was still standing, but the fire had destroyed a lot of the timber that supported the roof. There were great black holes with sheets of iron curling up around them. Above the windows there were shadows of smoke and the paint had blackened and bubbled from the heat.

  ‘Hooligans,’ spat Mr Dowling.

  ‘D’ya see any of them?’ said Steve.

  ‘They wore masks.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He seemed to like the idea. ‘Like it was a real robbery and not just vandals?’ He pushed his fleshy face into a frown. ‘Why’d they pick that place then? There’s nothing in there to pinch … Come to think of it, old man Roland is acting like it’s the end of the world. Maybe there was something valuable in there.’

  I didn’t answer.

  Steve’s face was smooth and plump, but now he was giving me a hard look. ‘They take anything?’

  ‘Didn’t see.’

  I looked away. I had an idea what it was that the Rolands had lost and I hadn’t worked out yet how many people I wanted to tell. The foil boxes. I knew why the man called Perry had taken them. They’d been full of money.

  A few months ago, I’d been in the street at night, for no particular reason, and through the front window I’d seen Mrs Roland carefully adding some notes to a big fat roll and posting it inside the foil. It was a good hiding place. Not at all obvious, and also fairly fire proof. I couldn’t work out why the Rolands would be hiding money. It was hard to imagine them stealing it. Maybe they hadn’t paid tax on it, or maybe they just hated banks. A lot of people in Yackandandah did. I hadn’t known what to do about it and ended up doing nothing. Then, one afternoon when Mum was minding the café, I’d been left alone in there for a few minutes and had a quick look. There were about ten rolls of foil under the counter and the one I peeped at was empty, so I figured only one or two of them had money in them.

  I had no idea how Perry had known about the money, or which two rolls to pinch, but it was a very neat crime. If the Rolands were hiding that money for some reason, they were hardly going to complain to the police that it had been stolen.

  It was an exciting sort of secret, this hidden money. But it was also something I should be telling the police. And that meant it had potential to create a lot of hassle.

  ‘I better go in,’ I said.

  ‘You can thank your lucky stars you got some toast,’ said Mr Dowling. ‘Mavis is that tired from looking after you all day, she burnt mine.’

  He was always like this. In a way you had to feel sorry for him. I tried to ignore the rudeness. ‘You thank her for me, Mr Dowling. It was very nice of her. I’ll be round later with Mum, OK? She’ll do you some minestrone.’

  But Mr Dowling always went deaf when people were nice to him. ‘What?’

  ‘The soup. With tomatoes and beans.’ I raised my voice as I was backing away. ‘Soup!’

  Steve was grinning again, leading Mr Dowling back towards his house. As they turned I heard the old man still whining. ‘Kids. Shout all the time.’

  ***

  From the front door, I could hear Mum, moving about in the kitchen. She was unpacking some of Dad’s pots that he’d had at a craft festival, and probably gulping tea. To put off the meeting a bit longer I sat on the step to finish my toast. With any luck she thought I was still in bed.

  Usually I love my toast. Today I’d made my favourite version — huge amounts of butter and a smear of vegemite, and my second favourite version — huge amounts of butter and even huger amounts of honey. I’d eaten the vegemite one on the way to the cottage and I still had the honey one to enjoy. But now it was no good. Just listening to Mum doing things inside, and wondering whether I’d left a toasty clue in the kitchen had ruined my peace. I held my honey and butter up in the sun admiring its slippery surface, but it had gone cold and seemed to have soaked up the taste of the fire. I sighed and went inside.

  ***

  Parents always state what is completely obvious. It’s a habit they pick up when they have their first baby. Something to do with the shock of the pooey nappies. Mum is better than most about this, but when surprised she can fall back to it.

  ‘Matt. You’re up.’

  I forced a little smile and put my plate on the sink. Automatically, Mum cleared it and put it in the dishwasher. She would be annoyed about this later, because I’m supposed to do it.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘OK.’

  She peered into my face as if she didn’t believe me.

  ‘What are you doing up before eleven?’

  ‘I went to bed early.’

  She gave a quiet little gasp and looked even more concerned. I couldn’t blame her. This ‘early’ stuff would normally be a sign of serious cracks in my physical or mental health. To hide her feelings she turned back to the bench and started mucking about with pots and packing paper. The activity seemed to soothe her and this worried me. I didn’t want her soothed and thinking clearly. She was pretty good, Mum, and tried not to be too prying or annoying, but she was a parent and she was only human. These people have an overpowering need to interfere. Mum had a million questions for me and I could see by the way she wa
s holding her head that she was only trying to think up the best way to start. I had to get out of there.

  ‘Mum, I’m going for a walk.’

  This threw her nicely back off balance. ‘A walk?’

  ‘Bit of fresh air.’

  ‘Fresh air?’

  The element of surprise was working well. I had her saying really stupid things. I couldn’t help a feeling of satisfaction and tried not to let it show. Now all I had to do was to be nice to her and I could get right out while she was collecting her wits. I put an arm around her shoulder and gave her a little kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘It’s great to have you back.’

  I edged away towards the door.

  She said, ‘Should I come with you?’ She knew as soon as she’d said it that there was no way. She went on weakly, glancing towards a plate of pastries. ‘Have you had enough to eat?’

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right by yourself?’

  I felt a bit sorry for her, but not enough to keep me there. I’d done it. Not a single question. Round one to me.

  I headed for the corridor with a cheery ‘See ya’, and as I did so the front door was thrown open and there, against the morning light, was Chess.

  ‘Jessica!’ Mum sounded so relieved, you would have thought it was the SES rescue helicopter.

  Chess was wearing a funny little shirt with drawstrings that pulled it into puffy shapes. ‘Good morning, Sarah. I was going past and I thought I’d better see if Matty’s OK.’

  ‘I’m just off,’ I said. But Chess was standing in the kitchen doorway and didn’t move to let me past.

  And now Mum had an ally. ‘It’s good that you’ve come, Jessie. He thinks he’s going for a walk and I’d love someone to go with him. He doesn’t look well to me.’

  Chess peered at me too. ‘Bit better than yesterday.’

  ‘I’d hate him to be out alone. Just in case there’s concussion.’

  ‘You can’t help worrying with these things, can you.’ Chess nodded.

  For a moment I had an overwhelming urge to run screaming from the room and to roar down the main street smashing windows, but all I said was, ‘I’m off. Back soon.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Chess. She grabbed me by the arm and held it surprisingly tightly. If I tried to shake her off it would turn into a ridiculous wrestling match.

  ‘Nice smell,’ said Chess.

  ‘Apricot Danish from Griffith,’ said Mum. ‘Take some.’

  ‘Aah,’ said Chess. She’d been eyeing off the Danish since she’d got there. The girl was a big eater. Mum gave her two and we went together up the corridor. I’d been defeated and I didn’t even know how. Mum followed us to the front door.

  And then, just when I was at my most pitiful, there was Tara, framed by Mum’s climbing rose. She looked as if she’d been about to knock. At her feet was a little tartan backpack, but I knew that belonged to Chess. Tara wouldn’t carry such a thing.

  I swallowed a groan of annoyance. Tara hadn’t visited me for years. I looked at her neat little hips in their crushed velvet pants and her smart no bull-dust expression and suddenly a visit from Tara seemed about the most desirable thing in the world.

  I stepped out towards the front garden. It was one of those clean mornings that you get after a lot of rain. Everything shone and the edges of things were very clear, with a strong jasmine perfume over the wet-ground and fire smells. A good day for unwinding. If Chess hadn’t turned up I could’ve taken Tara out to the courtyard, shared coffee and Danish. I could’ve made her some toast.

  But I couldn’t do that now. I was going for a walk. With Chess. I hated walks. I hated …

  ‘Where would you like to go?’ said Chess, around a mouthful of pastry.

  ‘Hello Tara. What a nice surprise,’ Mum said, not meaning it. She didn’t really like the Rolands. She called them ‘materialistic’.

  ‘I saw Chess’s bag and the open door,’ said Tara. She was too sensible to explain further. She definitely wouldn’t say she wanted to see how I was.

  Still, it had been a weird answer. Tara would never go anywhere because she saw Chess’s bag. She usually tried to avoid Chess. I decided she must have come to see me, and it just wasn’t her style to say so. It was the same as pretending not to care about her father’s café, but then going to look at it two mornings in a row.

  I smiled to myself. Maybe I was starting to understand Tara.

  And maybe she was starting to like me.

  ‘Chess and Matty are just going for a walk,’ said Mum.

  ‘Great,’ said Tara, taking a step towards the street. She was going to come with us. I felt a surge of hope and began calculating how I could off-load Chess.

  Chess was trying to pick up her bag while holding a whole Danish in one hand and a half-eaten one in the other. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said. ‘I’m supposed to be returning a plate to Mrs Cassell at the retirement village. But I don’t suppose you want to go up to Butson Street, do you Matt?’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Mum ‘I’m going up there later. Matt, get the plate out of Chess’s bag for her.’

  I could see Mum was still twitchy. She didn’t usually order me around like that. She was big on showing people respect and saying things like ‘please’ and ‘would you mind’. I took the bag and started rummaging in it. The plate was buried. To find it I had to pull out a water bottle, a screwed up ball of red and white striped paper and a Pocahontas notebook. Finally I dug it out and handed it to Mum.

  Mum was happier now. She’d found me two chaperones, one I wanted and one I didn’t want.

  Mum called to us at the front gate. ‘Bye,’ she said. ‘Have a nice walk.’

  I kicked at the fence.

  ***

  ‘It is strange to find both of you out and about at this hour,’ said Chess. As she walked, she was fiddling with the stuff in her bag. She shoved the red and white striped paper back in and zipped the bag up.

  ‘I needed some air,’ I repeated.

  ‘I just had to get out,’ said Tara. ‘Dad’s still stressing about the fire and this morning it’s worse than ever. He went to inspect the site and came back just choking.’

  I thought again, she wasn’t being entirely honest. For a start she hadn’t mentioned she had been to the cottage. Also, if Tara had to get out she usually went to Wando’s. Maybe I was right. She had come to see me and didn’t want to say so. But if that was it, there was no sign. She hadn’t even looked at me. Women are a mystery.

  We looked back at the remains of the Columbine Collectables. The rain had come too late to save it. Over the wet gardens, we could smell the ash as we walked away.

  ‘You can’t really blame your father for being upset,’ said Chess. ‘It was such a dear little building. It must be very sad for all of you.’

  Tara grunted.

  ‘I suppose he was well insured, though.’

  Tara’s curved eyebrows drew together. ‘I don’t know. This time he seems to think he lost something really valuable, but he won’t say what it is.’

  The streets of Yackandandah are really just country roads — narrow strips of bumpy bitumen, crumbling at the edges into dirt. At the sides there’s usually a bit of patchy grass under big trees, and then someone’s front fence, and that usually needs fixing. Visitors think this is great. They stay at the B & B’s and say how lovely it is. It makes you wonder how bad it must be where they come from.

  ‘So everyone’s feeling tense at your place today,’ said Chess. ‘That must be unpleasant.’

  Tara looked at her for a while without speaking, and then shrugged and said, ‘I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s go to the creek.’

  She said the two sentences quickly as if they were part of the same idea, and we found ourselves heading off there before we’d had time to answer.

  We turned off the main street. In Windham Street we were evil-eyed by old Mr Datney’s psychotic white cocky. There was no one els
e around.

  Yackandandah Creek runs through the southern side of town. At the back of the caravan park there’s the entrance to a path. There’s a sign here saying the creek banks are going to be re-vegetated and cleaned up as a project for unemployed youth. So far nothing’s happened. That doesn’t bother me. I like it the way it is. The path starts in a series of steep earth steps, held together with pine logs, and then tunnels down through a thick band of trees. There are fallen leaves all over the place and big earth banks, and a lot of the undergrowth has been taken over by vines and blackberries. Today, with everything damp, the air was dense with the smell of soil. There was also something sharper — a sort of piney, lemony smell, that stayed with us right until we came out at the creek.

  The creek itself is only a few metres wide. Mostly the banks are damp earth, nearly black, but in places there are stones. As you go along towards the golf course there are two bridges made of railway sleepers, each with a piece of iron tubing for a handrail. We stopped on the first bridge, leaning on the rail, looking down into the water.

  After all the rain, the creek was quite high. Upstream it was deep and dark. Just below the bridge it hit a submerged branch and spread out to rattle over a stony bed. We were in the shade of the bank and the trees, but in patches the water caught the sun and threw up stabbing white lights that I tried not to look at.

  Across the creek there was a small cleared area called Lawson Reserve. It consisted of a bit of weedy lawn, a concrete fireplace with no grate and no wood, and a bench with a splintering seat. A couple of kids were playing there on fluoro-green birthday-present bikes. They pedalled away when we arrived. We stood on the bridge for a while and then sat on some big granite rocks on a grassy mound. No one talked much.

  Chess had a few tries at conversation, asking Tara things like ‘Are you going away for the holidays?’ and ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’, but she didn’t get much in the way of answers.

  I’d stopped worrying about my secret knowledge and started worrying about what Tara thought of us. She had come to visit me. It was the first sign of friendliness I’d had from her for years, and here was Chess, ruining it. I wondered what to say to impress her. Then I got over that too. Tara had made it pretty clear she didn’t want to discuss her family life. Like me, she had come out to mellow. I’m good at mellow. Mellow is my specialty. If it was just the two of us we could do it together.