The Stranding

by Karen Viggers

  And then he and Jilly were falling into each other, clinging and grasping, like two strangers on a life raft. Holding each other up. It was physical support, nothing else. Everything was over.

  Jilly took the baby. She sat on the couch in the lounge room, Isabel’s dead body loose in her lap. Lex saw the arms swinging, the head fallen back. He sat in the corner and watched them, maybe for hours. He saw the baby’s eyes watching him. And he wanted to reach for her. He wanted to tell Jilly the paramedics were wrong. That Isabel was still alive. But he couldn’t move from the corner. He was weighted there, and it was as if Jilly had forgotten him as she wailed over Isabel’s body.

  Eventually, he crawled near, reaching for the baby. But Jilly was like a feral cat, snarling and hissing. He wanted to touch the baby. His baby too. But she clawed at him and he retreated to his corner again and again.

  Then her mother came. Her long and haggard face looked at him, huddled in his corner. She went to Jilly and stroked her like a kitten, humming and cooing as she ran her hand over Jilly’s head, rocked her. Finally she lifted the baby, all rag-doll loose, and brought her to him, helped him unfold so he could wrap himself around that little body and hold it close. She patted him, his head bent to Isabel’s cheek. And then tears came, and wailing, chest deep. He was shaking with it, and it went on and on and there was no end to it.

  When he woke, sweating, the night was large and dense around him. The dull roar of the sea reminded him where he was, and he lay in bed listening before he flicked on a light.

  In the corner, his suitcase leaned lid-open against the wall. Everything he’d brought with him was still packed in there. The wardrobe remained empty. In truth, he was afraid of unpacking. Unfolding his clothes and hanging them up might signify ownership of this place. It might mean permanence of some sort. It might mean he had become someone else. Another person with another life.

  But wasn’t that why he had come here? Wasn’t that why he had left?

  He stared at the suitcase, feeling the sudden weight of everything. In the city, it had seemed important to keep something of himself, something from his past. But now these things were anchors. One month into a new life and nothing had changed. He was the same bruised person carrying the same scars. Still weak, broken and pitiful. He had thought things would improve by now. He’d thought the wounds might have begun to heal in this new place with its new sky and its cleansing wind.

  The sound of the sea reinvaded him, and he remembered the incinerator in the backyard. It was near the crumbling chimney, all that was left of a previous house knocked down years before. He dragged on clothes and boots, grabbed an old newspaper from the box beside the wood heater and hauled the suitcase out the back.

  In the dull shimmer of the outside light, and with shaking hands, he stuffed balls of crushed newspaper in the base of the incinerator, then struck a match and guided it to the paper. At first, the flames licked lazily, singeing the paper along its edges. He felt the warm glow against his face and the flicker of shadows at his back. Gradually the flames gained energy. He shoved in more paper, screwing it into balls, feeding the fire. Then he turned to the suitcase and pulled out a polyester shirt, dropped it in, his chest thrilling as it disappeared in clawing flames. He grabbed another shirt, neatly folded. Then three more. They were gone in seconds.

  Later, it amazed him that there had been a strange sort of logic within his craziness. A definite structure to the burning. He managed to choose clothes in order of flammability. The shirts first. Then socks, jocks, fleece jackets, cotton T-shirts. The flames were tall and angry, leaping and roaring through the top of the incinerator like a great beast trying to escape. Flashing vivid streaks in the darkness.

  He threw his jeans in last, then stood back, mesmerised, and watched the ripples of heat and flame rising into the dark dome of the sky. It was only then that he registered the hammering of his heart.

  He was just turning back to the yellow glow of the house when a scrap of burning denim wafted down out of the night and settled at his feet. He watched it smoulder in the shadows. Then he thought he saw a wisp of smoke, and the grass crackled into thin flames. All around him, bits of glowing denim were floating and landing. Within seconds there were dozens of fires across the lawn. He ran from one to the next, jabbing his foot on the flames to choke them. But there were more chunks of material descending through the darkness, more quivering flames licking at the grass. Panting, he ran to the incinerator and closed the heavy lid. Then he dashed around the shadowy lawn, putting out fires.

  Afterwards, he remembered this fragment of time in slow motion: a strange foot-stomping dance in the darkness, with orange flames glowing around him like torches illuminating his steps.

  When it was finished, he hauled back the lid of the incinerator and peered inside. The last remnants of clothing were smouldering embers, slowly fading. He turned and went back into the house.

  At the kitchen bench he stopped to look at the only possession he’d kept. A photograph in a frame. Isabel smiling out at him. All gums.

  How did you come to terms with something as definite and infinite as death?

  For a while, he stood staring at her, trying to hold on to the memory of her face. But he knew he was already losing her, knew that she was becoming as fleeting and ethereal as those leaping flames clawing their way out of the incinerator.

  With his heart heaving, he pulled the magnet-torch off the fridge and went out the front door. Barefoot, he walked across the tarmac, over the moist pads of couch grass, among the sighing shadows of the wind-torn heath, down the uneven sandy steps, and out onto the open expanse of the beach. The stars cascaded across the clear sky like tiny flung jewels, right out to the black horizon where they seemed to fall into the murk of the sea.

  At first the ocean seemed hollow and distant, but then the sound crept closer as he sat in a dent in the damp sand and the night swelled around him. He had never felt so small and vulnerable, so awash with loss, grief and desolation.

  Dense with despair, he shrugged off his clothes and strode blindly into the breakers. He could see the wild white puffs of shredded manes as the waves dashed at him out of the dark. There was a sense of strength in pressing through the churn of the water, a sense of taking charge as the tingling cold smashed around his groin and splashed up his chest and back. There could be an end to all this. Everything could dissolve into blackness. But when he stumbled in a gutter and the waters surged over him, he realised that if he let himself go out there, sliding half-willingly into the surging night, Isabel’s death would mean nothing. He foundered, panicky, trying to find his feet and drag himself away from the urgent pull of the rip. The dark suddenly seemed infinite.

  In a lull between waves, he dug his feet into the sand, tore himself out of the suck of the waves, and lurched shorewards where a dull sheen of light from the moon glowed faintly on the wet sands. On his knees in the skittering shallows, his anger at himself subsided to shock and then grief which surged out of him in horrible racking sobs. He cried himself into exhaustion and emptiness.

  Two

  When the old orange Kombi fizzled to a stop, the girl cursed. Usually the beast was reliable, but lately she’d been having a few problems. She ought to get rid of it, but she wouldn’t be able to afford anything better, so for the time being she’d just have to put up with these unscheduled roadside delays. Leaving the keys in the ignition, she clambered out and jerked open the rear door where the engine was housed. Jordi kept telling her she should learn something about car maintenance to rescue herself, but she couldn’t think of anything she’d dislike more. Changing tyres was about her limit. Mechanics was beyond her.

  She stood on the roadside, wondering what it would take for somebody to stop. The wind shuffled her brown curly hair and she tied it back impatiently with a scarf. She had a pleasant rounded face, but the usual humour in her brown eyes was lost in her annoyance at being stranded. As she turned to look along the road towards town, a blue four-wheel drive
flashed past. Obviously not a local. A local would at least slow down to have a look. Some of them may just wave and keep going, especially the church crowd. But most would be inclined to stop and give her a hand. She’d just have to wait it out. Pity it was a weekday. Everyone would already be at work.

  Finally, an old F100 ute pulled up behind her. It was Barry Morris. He owned the local servo and was Jordi’s boss.

  ‘G’day, Callista,’ he grunted, going straight for the engine.

  ‘Barry. Thanks for stopping. I thought I was going to be here all day.’

  He grunted again and poked about at the engine while Callista pretended to watch what he was doing. He was a big guy with a beer gut that hung over his belt like an advanced pregnancy. Jordi reckoned he was long overdue for a heart attack and Callista agreed with him. She could smell his BO from here. He caught her watching him as he turned and straightened up, holding a burnt-out spark plug between his oily black fingers.

  ‘This one’s had it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another one in the cab.’

  He flicked the old plug into the back of his ute and tugged a toolbox out from behind the seat.

  ‘Here,’ he said, returning with a new plug. ‘I’ll just put it in for you. But you ought to get this bloody thing serviced.’

  ‘Can’t afford to,’ she said.

  ‘You’re just like your brother,’ Barry said. Then he smiled. ‘Only you’re stylish and much better looking.’

  ‘Don’t go there, Barry.’

  His smile widened. ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he said. ‘You’ve got more prickles than an echidna. It’s no bloody wonder you’re single.’

  ‘Thanks, Barry.’

  While Barry replaced the spark plug, Callista kicked at the roadside gravel. She watched the stones skitter across the tarmac. Then she heard the back door of the Kombi slam shut. Barry climbed in the front and turned the key. The Kombi started like an angel and Barry hopped out, leaving the engine running.

  ‘Going to the markets this month?’ he asked.

  ‘I might.’

  ‘I’ll look out for you there. Might even buy one of your paintings so you can get this heap serviced and give the money back to me.’

  ‘Nice idea. But I’d buy a cask of wine instead.’

  Barry laughed loudly. He was even more distasteful when he threw his head back like that. He ought to try laughing in front of a mirror sometime. Callista stood back while he hauled himself into the F100 and slammed the door.

  ‘Where are you off to now?’ he asked.

  ‘To see Joe Denton at the hardware. He gives me a discount on boards. For my paintings. And he keeps all the timber off-cuts for me. They’re useful for making frames.’

  ‘How about old fence palings?’ he asked. ‘They any use to you?’

  ‘Could be. If they’re not too damaged.’

  ‘Mrs Jensen’s having her fence done. She’s got a whole pile of palings to get rid of. I could give her a call for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having a look. But come on.’ Callista rolled her eyes. ‘Do you think she’d give them to me—of all people?’

  Barry smiled. ‘Tough call. But I’ll ask her.’

  He dug around in his pocket to pull out his mobile phone then dialled a number.

  ‘Mrs Jensen,’ he bawled. ‘You still trying to get rid of those fence palings? I’ve got someone here who might take some of them off your hands for you . . . You are. Good. It’s Callista. The artist . . . Yep, that’s the one. I’ll send her around.’

  He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and looked at Callista with a smirk on his face. ‘Looks like she’s feeling generous today.’

  ‘Sure. But I have to go to her house now, don’t I?’

  Barry laughed. ‘You’ll survive. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.’

  He started the engine and the F100 throbbed loudly.

  ‘Thanks for helping,’ Callista said. ‘I appreciate it.’

  ‘Make sure you go ’round there,’ he said. ‘Old Mrs Jensen’s a bit of a cranky old dame, but she doesn’t bite.’

  The wheels skidded briefly in the gravel as he pulled out and headed into town. Callista climbed into the Kombi and followed him.

  Callista Bennett lived in a small A-frame home submerged in a deep gully in the foothills of the mountains. The house was surrounded by a token firebreak of slashed grass, and looked out over the twisted canopy of rainforest cradled in the gully floor. From the gully, where the heaped mounds of vegetation rambled and climbed, the scrub rose up the steep slope to meet the gangly eucalypts high up along the ridgeline. It was a quiet place where one season faded into the next. Most people would find it lonely but Callista liked the solitude and she revelled in the shifts of colour and light.

  It was luck that she lived here. The owner lived in the city and had planned to retire here. But his whimsical wife had changed her changeable mind and decided that the humid isolation and the deep moodiness of the coastal bush were too difficult. So they lived in the city, close to the streetlights, theatre, restaurants, dinner parties and all the frenetic activity that Callista most needed to escape from.

  Once, the wife had come to the gully with her husband when he was checking where the new water tank should be located. She had stepped out of the shiny white four-wheel-drive all beautifully made up and smart as a fashion magazine. Her careful image was entirely misplaced in the gully’s wondrous perfect disorder. While her husband talked with Callista about the drought and the capacity of the new tank, the wife wandered around the dam looking bored and then retired to the car. Callista saw her preening in the mirror behind the passenger visor, tidying her lipstick. Primping wasn’t something Callista had time for.

  She liked her landlord though. He was tall and good-looking with tired blue eyes and an elegant longish nose. His face was ruddy and he was a bit thickset, probably from drinking too many beers trying to cope with the boredom of the city and his marriage.

  Thinking of her landlord and his wife always reminded Callista of how different her own parents were in so many ways. When she was a child, her parents had been painfully embarrassing. Now, from adulthood, she admired their courage to be different and their strong stance on living what they believed. But it hadn’t been so easy when she and Jordi were young. They had grown up isolated and sparsely clothed, running barefoot through the bush, scaling trees and devouring plates full of lentils, bean sprouts, brown rice and home-grown vegies. They hadn’t known until they went to school that it was unusual to be vegetarian. At school, everything they did or wore was open to ridicule—their lunches, their home-made bright-coloured clothes, their wild unbrushed hair, the smell of garlic on their breath. All of it became a cause for shame. They were glaring exceptions in a conservative rural community—a town where dairy cows and timber-cutting were still the predominant sources of income. The other children jeered at them so that Callista longed for a pair of blue jeans, a sweatshirt and vegemite sandwiches so she could be like everybody else.

  Over time things changed. Attitudes shifted and hippies became more socially acceptable. Eventually the children Callista had grown up with broke awkwardly into adulthood, and some tried to talk to her in the street—uncertainly, as if they weren’t quite sure whether she remembered. It was too late by then. She and Jordi never could assimilate. Jordi lived alone in a shack in the bush up behind her parents’ place, playing his guitar and smoking dope. He barely scraped a living from the meagre wage he earned pumping petrol down at the local servo. Callista couldn’t merge with the local crowd either. She lived on a different fringe. Nobody could understand someone trying to make a living out of art. And, despite much encouragement from some of the young males, who fancied her curvy figure and exuberant curls, she just couldn’t make it through the front door of the church to meld with their social group.

  Over the years, she’d attempted a few dates with some of the local boys with no luck. Once or twice things had advanced to a fumbled kiss or an embarrassing g
rope in the back of a car, but that was it. They still considered her too weird, with the dabs of paint that were permanently on her hands and scattered through her hair, and the family that still lived by choice in a rough home embedded in the bush. She was just wired differently—she simply didn’t think the same way as them. That was why she lived in her secluded gully. On her own at thirty-three.

  Mrs Jensen lived with her husband in a large old home overlooking the river. It was one of the better bits of real estate in town. They had bought the house when Mr Jensen retired, selling his dairy farm to a big conglomerate that was buying up dairies in the district. The locals resented an outside company buying up their farms, appointing managers and taking the profits away from the community. And it was becoming harder for local owners to compete. But it was the way of the future and there was nothing they could do about it.

  The sale of their farm placed the Jensens among the wealthiest people in town, as well as cementing their position as powerful members of the church. Their donations had helped finance most of the renovations at the church over the past few years, and they’d helped to put missionaries overseas in Africa and West Papua. Yes, the Jensens were held in high esteem by the church-goers of Merrigan. But Callista and Jordi reckoned the Jensens weren’t being selflessly charitable. They were simply buying their tickets to heaven.

  Callista parked the Kombi at the gate and sat behind the wheel for a moment staring at the big house and rambling old garden. She had never seen eye to eye with Mrs Jensen, and it was hard to come asking for hand-outs, although Barry had said she’d be doing Mrs Jensen a favour. She could see the palings piled up by the new fence. It’d be easy to just help herself and drive away, but she ought to do the right thing and go up and speak to Mrs Jensen first. She climbed out and trudged up the steps to the front door. The doorbell was loud enough to make her jump, and Mrs Jensen opened the door quickly, as if she had been waiting for her.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Jensen.’

  The old woman cocked her head back and looked down her nose at Callista.