I looked out across the city spread below me, still and distant, and I dialled his number again, this time right through, only to hang up before his telephone rang. I looked at the tulips I had arranged in the vase this morning and wished I had chosen another flower. They were already overblown, the tip of one leaf brown.
I wished I knew him better. I wished it hadn’t come to this.
I wished I could trust him with what I had to say.
And I couldn’t imagine how I would even begin to find the first word that I needed.
Once when I was in high school, I phoned a boy seventeen times in one night, putting down the phone each time he answered. He had been my boyfriend. He had started seeing my best friend. His parents complained to the school that someone was making nuisance calls. They suspected it was a student. Could they do something about it?
The teacher made an announcement in class. A warning to the person who had been pulling this stunt that it was not on. Just not on.
Everyone knew it was me.
But I did not bat an eyelid. I did not flinch, despite knowing that each and every student in the class was looking at me, waiting to see how I would react. I just looked straight back at the teacher.
I had been furious with him, and I had felt completely justified in what I had done. It was, after all, nothing compared to what he had done to me.
But it was not fury that made me keep dialling Anton’s number, hanging up two, maybe three numbers in, sometimes just before the answering machine clicked on to Louise’s voice, and then trying again, in each lull during the day, knowing that the light on the switch had been red far too often for the managing partner’s liking.
I’m sorry, I told him, about all these calls. It’s my boyfriend, I explained. He’s very ill and I’ve been anxious about him. He hasn’t been answering.
He looked at me with concern.
Perhaps you should go home? he suggested.
I reassured him that it was fine. He’s probably just asleep, I said.
When’s the next audition? he asked me, wanting to appear more friendly, more relaxed, because this is the image he likes to present and he is, after all, one of my father’s best friends.
I told him it was the next morning. Another junkie, I said and he laughed. Like most people, he has only ever seen a short stint I once had in a soap opera. A slow death from an AIDS-related illness.
One day, I said, I will get to play someone who is together. Perhaps even glamorous, rich and powerful.
Maybe even a lawyer, he laughed.
Maybe even a lawyer, I agreed.
Good luck, he said.
And when he walked off, I left a message for Simon at the bus depot and I tried Anton one more time, closing my eyes as I listened to Louise’s message, as I let it play right through, as I paused at the end of the beep, and then, faced with the silence, found myself without words.
I hung up.
I would go and see him tomorrow.
I would talk to him then.
seven
A river cut the town in two. A river that wound its way through the valley, twisting across the only way in, slicing right through the middle of the small cluster of houses and shops, and then twisting once more so that you had to cross it yet again as you left.
Three bridges. All of which have flooded and will, no doubt, flood again.
The year before we went to Candelo, it was the bridge that joined one side of the town to the other that went. Swept away as the water rose, the river choking the banks as it crept up the wide trunks of the great elms planted at the edge, forcing its way higher until the pylons eventually collapsed under the strain.
Three years before that it was the bridge that took you out of there, onto the road that leads up to the high Monaro country, where the tufts of grass lie flattened by the wind and the gums pierce the sky.
And once all three went down. No way in. No way out. No way across.
Candelo.
Cut off from everyone else, and cut off from itself.
It was Mitchell who navigated the last stretch, directing us across the bridge that joined two shadowy ribbons of pub, general store, police station and houses, all circled by dense hills, into one.
First left, he told Vi, following the road on the map in front of him, his hair illuminated by the single light in the roof of the car.
Are you sure? she asked him, knowing she had given him the responsibility in an attempt to make him feel part of the family, but uncertain as she always was when she handed any form of control to another. She had looked at the map earlier and she was sure it had been right.
No, it’s left, Mitchell said and he passed the map to Simon for confirmation, their shoulders touching as they bent towards each other to look.
He’s right, Simon said, as Vi clicked the indicator on to right.
She paused for a moment and Simon leant across the steering wheel and flicked the switch back up. It’s left, he said again.
True, Mitchell nodded, clearly amused by the whole performance.
And Vi shook her head in resignation, as she turned in a direction that she was certain was wrong.
There was a shudder as we hit the dirt, and Simon told Evie she should put her thumb on the window. Stops it shattering.
She did as she was told, the warmth of her body stretched across my lap, her other thumb still in her mouth.
It wasn’t far. Ten minutes out of town. The scrap of paper Vi had brought with her, instructions from the people who had lent us the house, told us it was about five miles. But in the darkness, lost in the first folds of the hills, it felt as though we were miles from anywhere.
Next bend should be the drive, Mitchell told us.
And it was. There, on our left, the rusted cattle grate marking the entrance, illuminated for a moment by the headlights as Vi slowed down to take the dip, so that we saw, for that one instant, the body flung over the grate, limp with no sheen in the scales.
Snake, and Mitchell was out of the car before it had even stopped, the front door slamming as Simon followed.
Don’t, Vi called after him, but it was too late.
He was gone. There with Mitchell, startlingly bright in the headlights, as they picked up the long body and held it high for us to see.
It’s a fucking whopper. And in the still of the night, Mitchell’s voice rang out, loud and broad, as he put the tail in Simon’s hands and held the head in his own, both of them stretching out the body to its full length.
I had seen my brother with death before.
I had heard him wake in the middle of the night, screaming, his pet rabbit cold in his hands, suffocated when he had rolled over to where it always slept, next to him. I had seen him turn his back on a dead bird washed up on the beach, his face white with fear, as I dared him to pick it up.
And I saw him then with a dead snake stretched out in his hands.
With all his attention focused on Mitchell, he was seemingly unaware of what he was doing. His gaze was shy, uncertain, as he stood there in front of us, the body now slack between them.
Hsss, and Mitchell bared his teeth and flicked out his tongue.
Simon laughed and I was surprised.
Hsss, and it was only as Mitchell dropped the head, as it hit the dust and Simon was left bearing the weight alone, that there seemed to be a moment of realisation.
I saw him wince, the tail slipping between his fingers, his eyes uncertain as he stared straight into the headlights, straight at Mitchell getting back into the car.
Vi turned the key in the ignition, the car rattling as we crossed the grate, the rear end slumping low, almost scraping the metal, before we were back on the dirt, the road potholed and steep as it led down to the creek and beyond that the house.
It was the trees that we saw first.
Cypresses, thick and dark, marking out the borders of what had once been a garden. The remains of a wooden gate, which was left slung low off its hinges. The road at an end, just
thick long grass leading up to the black of the house.
We did not know what to expect. But this was what it was like when we went on holidays with Vi. Driving miles to strange places, places offered to her by people she did not know. People who admired her work, who thought she might need a break; somewhere to finish a paper she had to write, somewhere quiet. Places that often proved to be uninhabitable, but occasionally proved to be more than we had hoped for. And as the car pulled up alongside the verandah, I had my fingers crossed, tight, willing something better than what I suspected we would find. Hoping it would be all right, as Vi searched for the key, the contents of her bag strewn across her lap, her door open so that she could see by the indoor light.
Nothing.
She swore loudly.
I haven’t forgotten them, she told us, directing her comment at me in particular. I just can’t find them, defensive before I even had a chance to get impatient with her.
She passed me her bag, and I began to search. Rummaging through cigarette packs, matches, loose money, scraps of paper with telephone numbers, but no keys. A chaos that used to drive my father crazy.
Not here, I told her, trying to keep the triumph out of my voice.
Maybe there’s an open window, Simon suggested.
But it was Mitchell who got out of the car. This is when you need someone like me. And he looked at each of us, his eyes wide and innocent. Anyone got a crowbar?
Simon opened his own door, eager to follow, eager to be a part of whatever it was that Mitchell intended to do, and the pair of them ran across the grass and up the stairs to the verandah.
It was the fuse box that Mitchell wanted. It creaked as he prized it open, the lid clanging shut as he bent the fuse wire to the shape he needed, and, calling Simon over, proceeded to show him how to pick a lock.
Piece a cake, he told him, and just as Vi accidentally knocked the volume on the radio, the dramatic strains of a requiem blasting out into the quiet of the night, the front door swung open with the force of both their bodies.
Jesus fucking Christ. Fucking Jesus, Mitchell swore, leaping backwards. White-faced and shaking. Jesus, and he shook his head, the colour slowly returning.
It was the music. He had thought the place was haunted. Thought he was entering some fucking haunted cathedral, and as he told us, I noticed his hands were still shaking. God, he said, I’ve gotta get my breath back, and he slumped down against the wall, his knees up against his chest.
It was the only lapse of his bravado.
Crouched on the floor of the verandah, not wanting to look at us looking at him, his fists curled up into two tight balls, his eyes fixed on the ground.
It was only for a moment, but for that moment none of us knew what to say.
It was Simon who broke the silence. Here, and he offered Mitchell his hand, helping him up, the pair of them standing together, looking at each other as they turned to follow us into the house.
It was, as Mitchell said, a dump.
But better than some of the places we’ve been to, I told him, and it was probably the first non-confrontational thing I had said to him all day.
Under the dim light of the few bulbs that still worked, it was clear that the place had not been inhabited for years.
The odd pieces of furniture that remained were covered, and underneath the cloth they rotted, rusty springs piercing through the upholstery. The dust was thick. Heavy, choking. Mouse droppings were underfoot. In some rooms, the boards had given way, splintering away to reveal the earth below. The beds that had mattresses sagged and creaked at the touch of a finger, stained canvas dipping low with the slightest touch.
We moved slowly from room to room. Not saying much.
We’re tired, Vi said.
It’s not that bad, Simon agreed.
But it was.
Later, lying on the floor with Evie in one of the three rooms we had marked out as inhabitable, I could hear Simon and Mitchell through the glass doors that separated us. Low voices just discernible in the quiet. It’s a fucking hole.
I watched as they undressed, vague figures through the frosted glass, both tall and lean, and I leant closer, trying to hear the mutterings of their conversation. Nothing.
From the other end of the house, I could hear Vi’s transistor radio. She was, no doubt, sitting up in the only bed that had seemed to be in relatively good condition, and reading.
Like her, I have difficulty going to sleep.
And I lay there, for what seemed to be hours, thinking about Mitchell crouched on the verandah, about the feel of his leg beneath my hand, and about the brief moment of his eyes, resting still, on mine.
eight
Simon telephoned the next morning. He called to tell me that Mitchell’s funeral was three days away.
There was a delay, he said.
It was early. Just before he started his shift. Squeezed into the small public phone box outside the staffroom, he was wheezing slightly as he spoke. In the background, I could hear a fly buzzing around his head, flying into the glass and then back again.
I did not understand what he meant.
Because of the way he died, he tried to explain.
I opened my curtains and looked out across the sharp heat of the morning. The ocean was harsh, too bright under the fierceness of the sky. I felt nauseous again and I had to get ready for the audition.
How did he die? I asked, and I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice, despite knowing that this would only make him slower.
They had to do an autopsy, and I heard Simon draw back on his cigarette. I guess that’s what they always do in cases like this. I don’t know. Anyway, that’s what his sister said.
You called his sister?
Once again, he didn’t answer my question.
That’s why the funeral was delayed.
I told him I was running late, I couldn’t talk and could he please tell me what had happened.
I waited.
He cleared his throat.
It was, and he stumbled for the word, a suicide.
And for a moment, we were both silent, neither of us sure of what to say.
Mitchell had killed himself.
Hung himself, Simon said.
I sat up slowly and pushed the sheet off me.
From above, I could hear one of them, Anton or Louise, opening a window wide, letting in whatever slight breeze drifted off the sea, and I, too, reached across the small space of my room and opened the door that leads out to the garden. Nothing. Just the still heat and the whirr of the cicadas, starting already. Early.
Did his sister know who you were?
He told me he had said he was a friend. That was all.
Please, he asked, can you come? I don’t want to go alone.
I didn’t answer him. Not straightaway. I didn’t know what to say.
I could hear a bus pulling out from the depot, the groan of the engine as it shifted into first gear, and I could hear Simon leaning against the door to the booth, heavy against the glass.
And I agreed, wishing I hadn’t as soon as the words were out of my mouth. Wishing I could take them back.
I’ll go there with you, I said, but I won’t go to the service.
He didn’t argue.
I’ll pick you up, he said. Friday morning.
He had to go. His shift was about to start.
Have you told Vi? I asked.
I’ve got to go, he said again. Friday morning, nine o’clock, and he hung up, leaving me with all my questions still hanging, useless, in the air.
I, too, was going to be late. I could see the clothes I had ironed hanging off the curtain railing, my diary open with the address and the time written in red, and my dinner from the night before still in the bowl next to my chair, ants swarming up the sides, thousands of them, and I watched as they carried the leftovers away, piece by piece.
It was not until I heard him, Mouse, turning on the shower, the high-pitched grate of the rusted pipes, that I actua
lly hung up the phone and moved. With my towel and shampoo in one hand, I knocked on the bathroom door, loudly, trying to be heard above the roar of water hitting the tin bath.
What’s your problem? he shouted.
I told him I was late, that I needed to have a shower quickly, that it was urgent, I had an audition. But I knew it was useless.
He started singing. Loudly. Tunelessly.
I went back into my flat, slamming the door behind me so that the whole building shuddered, the windowpanes rattling, precarious, and then still.
nine
Violetta was actively involved in the first campaigns to legalise abortion.
I remember.
A new sticker suddenly appeared on my school folder: ‘Our bodies, our choices’, in bold purple.
I looked at it and I looked at her, waiting for me to ask her what it meant.
I didn’t want to oblige. I didn’t want another long sermon, but whether I asked or not, she would explain. So I shrugged my shoulders, stared out the window and asked her what it was about.
She told me. And it all made perfect sense. So much so that I couldn’t even begin to see why there was a debate.
But, nevertheless, I still spent most of the afternoon scratching that sticker off with my fingernails. Not because I disagreed, but because it didn’t go with the overall colour scheme, the pictures I had cut out and painstakingly pasted into a collage.
Do you know what you said when I saw you’d taken it off? Vi asks me.
I can’t remember.
My folder, my choice, and she laughs. You were such a smart arse.
We both smile.
As I try to help Vi collate some of her papers, she remembers the details of every struggle like she would remember family members. And, invariably, the work that we have set out to do is pushed to one side as she reminisces.
We had to be extreme, she says. We had to take a black and white stance. Sometimes the only way you can get a message across is by ignoring the complexities, by pushing a simplistic truth as forcefully and as often as you can.
Take this, and she holds a copy of one of those stickers up for me to see.
Candelo Page 4