Candelo

by Georgia Blain

I had made up someone whose only place in my life was one of smoky kisses in the darkness.

  I watched, sitting high on the cement wall that bordered the verandah, the red paint chipped and flaking beneath my bare feet, shading my eyes from the glare of the morning sun, as Simon carved out Evie’s path.

  And again, she screamed, as he ran from one end of the garden to the other, with her perched precariously on his shoulders. And again.

  And he did.

  Cutting his way through the grass. Flattening it as he had flattened it the day before, as he had promised he would do again the next day.

  They had left their cereal bowls behind them on the steps. The remains were already curling brown at the edges, drying into the milk under the intensity of the glare. I looked down at them.

  I knew that Mitchell was standing behind me. There at the door, shading his eyes with his hands as he, too, looked out, watching them both. And if I turned around I knew that I would see him, his body still wrapped in the warmth of sleep, his hair tousled about his face.

  He had not knocked on my door the night before. He had not called me out in the darkness.

  And now, in the morning light, I did not turn around to look at him. I just stayed where I was, while Simon and Evie made their way back up to the house, squinting in the sparkle of the dew, Evie sliding down from Simon’s shoulders and hitting the ground with a thump.

  It got me, she cried, clutching her leg, the snake.

  And she staggered across the verandah, finally collapsing into a heap, last gasps of air, and then still.

  Well, and Mitchell grinned, looks like we’re going to have to bury her, and he winked at Simon as he took her legs.

  Seems like it, and Simon took her arms, the pair of them carrying her limp, back down the stairs and out towards the cool green of the cypress trees.

  There in the distance, Evie kicking and squealing in their hold, twisting and turning until she made her way loose and ran back down her path, back towards me, laughing and screaming, unaware that they weren’t following her after all.

  Collapsing exhausted at my feet.

  While Simon and Mitchell slowly walked towards us, standing for a moment to feel the breeze, the direction of the wind, as they consulted each other.

  It’d be onshore, and Simon licked the tip of his finger and held it up. Anyway, doubt whether she’d let us have the car again.

  So what do we do? Mitchell asked, the disappointment clear on his face. He had wanted to have another go. To get up on the board this time. He was certain he could do it. And now there was only the prospect of a whole day here in this place, all this space, stretching in front of him.

  It was Evie who wanted to play hide and seek.

  Tugging at our arms, Please, please, until, unable to bear it any longer, we promised. Just one game.

  Sardines? she asked.

  And it was Mitchell who was it. Who had to hide, somewhere in the dark rooms of the house, while we looked for him.

  Simon, Evie and I with our faces pressed against the corridor wall, the wallpaper peeling in strips, breathing in the powdery dust of the plaster as we counted. Slowly. From one to one hundred.

  What now? I asked, forgetting the rules of the game.

  Simon explained. Separate and find him. If you find him, hide with him.

  And we did.

  I went to the back of the house. To the cool of the laundry with its heavy sinks and rusted taps. If I turned them on, the plumbing would groan, letting out a slow trickle of brown, the smell of rusted iron, before it gradually ran clear. Large cupboards with empty shelves that had once held linen, and a cement floor painted dark green, cold through the soles of my sandshoes.

  The window looked out onto a stone yard and rusted Hills hoist, and I stood there for a moment, staring at the weeds that grew sticky and wild at the edges. From behind me, I could hear Evie in the kitchen, calling his name, Mitchell, Mitchell, opening and closing doors.

  Nothing.

  Breakfast dishes left on the table, crumbs on the floor and the constant hum of the refrigerator. Behind the door, old wooden brooms and a mop, dry and bedraggled. It was a room with nowhere to hide.

  The corridors in that house were dark. Long and wide with a worn strip of carpet that ran down the middle. An old oak sideboard that had rotted on one side, and when I pulled at the front it came off in my hands, clattering to the floor.

  I listened.

  No sound of the others. And I wondered whether I was the only one left, whether I would open a door and find them all, huddled in the corner. Hidden.

  But I didn’t. I found Simon. Standing in the middle of their room, looking around him. And he started as I opened the door, letting go of the blind cord so that it swung, too fast, flapping as it hit the top of the frame. Dust dancing in front of our eyes.

  Doesn’t look like he’s in here, Simon said, both of us staring at the unmade beds and mess of clothes.

  And I was about to go, to get to the next room before either he or Evie did, when I saw it. A scrap of paper on the floor. Torn from a book. I bent down and picked it up, holding it in both hands as I tilted it under the light. It was a drawing of Mitchell, lying back on his bed, eyes closed, face relaxed.

  I was surprised when Simon snatched it from my hands. I was even more surprised when he snapped at me.

  You shouldn’t just take things, and his face was flushed.

  Sensitive or what? and as I glared at him, he folded the drawing up and put it in his bag.

  You just shouldn’t, and he slammed the door behind him, the handle rattling, loose, precarious, before hitting the floor with a clatter.

  I don’t know why I thought of the verandah. Probably because the three of us had just assumed that it was out of bounds. I waited until I was sure Evie and Simon were at the other end of the house before I opened the front door, softly, quietly, not wanting to make a sound, just a few inches, not wanting the light to flood down the darkness of the hall, not wanting them to know where I had gone.

  It was bright outside.

  Glaring white.

  And I was, for just a moment, unsteady, unsure, standing there and holding onto the door, not wanting it to slam shut behind me, but not yet able to close it. Waiting for my eyes to adjust.

  It was his voice that I heard.

  Hissing my name.

  And I followed.

  Round to the side of the house.

  He was in a cupboard. A cupboard that had once belonged inside but had been carried out there by some person some time ago. The door was open an inch, and I could see his face. The white of his hair, the gleam of his teeth.

  Where are the others?

  I told him I didn’t know, and he told me he was glad. He had been hoping I would find him.

  He stepped out, cobwebs clinging to his shoulders, dust falling from his hair and onto his face. I was about to tell him that he wasn’t meant to come out, I was supposed to hide with him, when he leapt over the wall and down onto the grass below.

  Staring up at me.

  Let’s go, he whispered.

  And I followed. Running after him, chasing him through the long grass, catching up with him at the gate that separated the garden from all that surrounded us.

  I remember. Seeing him standing there. In his jeans and thongs, checked western shirt, arms folded, daring me to follow him. I saw the packet of Winfields tucked into his back pocket and I saw his stride, long and sure, as I ran after him, following him down the dusty, dirt road.

  I don’t know who led the way. I can only presume it was me. I had, after all, been there before. Through the barbed wire and across the paddock to where the creek wound its way through the hills.

  It was still and it was hot. There was no sound except the trickle of the water over the rocks, no shade except the patches beneath the willows.

  I watched as Mitchell lit a cigarette, picking a fleck of tobacco off his tongue before passing it to me.

  So, we going i
n? And he lifted his shirt off, over his head, arms high to the sky. He took his jeans off, peeling them down his legs, standing there in front of me with just his underpants on. Nothing else. And he stepped out slowly, unsteady on the rocks beneath his feet, the water swirling brown and cool at his ankles, his knees, just above his thighs, before he slowly sank down, submerging himself for just a moment, shaking his hair as he emerged, a great sparkling spray that seemed to arc out across the water, suspended for an instant, before raining down on me.

  And I put the cigarette out.

  It is strange what I remember. Wishing Vi had let me buy a bra. Standing there in my underpants and T-shirt, hesitant, unsure as to whether I should take it off or just go in as I was.

  I was awkward.

  With my T-shirt still on, I made my way out to where he waited, the rocks bruising the soles of my feet. His hand was held out towards me, but I did not take it. I sank down next to him, seeing the white of his skin under water, ghostly pale.

  This is tops, and he lay back with his head against a boulder, staring up at the emptiness of the sky, looking, for a moment, like the picture that Simon had drawn.

  You know, he said, I’ve never been in a river. Till now. Never been in the sea either. Till yesterday, and he waved his arm through the air. Reckon I could live here. No worries.

  Don’t you think you’d get bored? I asked him.

  And he pulled himself up again, standing there in front of me, thinking. Maybe. Guess you just get used to things. You don’t miss what you haven’t got.

  He looked down to where the creek disappeared around a bend, staring past me as he spoke, as he asked me what I thought they were trying to do.

  I did not know what he meant.

  The department. Sending me away with you lot.

  I did not know what to say. I shrugged my shoulders.

  But I liked it. You know, the other night. When we were out there on those steps.

  I turned to him but he wasn’t looking at me. He was making his way back to the bank. Stepping up onto a rock near the edge. And I watched as he rolled a joint, his feet still dipped in the creek, yellow leaves caught between his toes, as I made my way over towards him, wanting to tell him that I was sorry for going on about his mother, for asking him questions, but still I didn’t say it, afraid that my words would spoil everything.

  It’s been good you coming, and as I spoke I could not meet his eyes. You know, I pointed to the bag of dope and the packet of cigarettes, you’ve taught me a few things.

  True.

  And he touched my thigh with his finger. It was damp and cool. The flare of the match as he lit the end and leant towards me. The grin on his face as he asked me if I wanted to learn something else. Ever done a shottie?

  The lit end of the joint in his mouth, the other in mine. My head reeling as I took it in. Wanting to choke. Stopping myself.

  I don’t know if I kissed him first. When I try to remember, I just don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter. Because it was, at first, how I had imagined it would be. The slow rush of the branches in the creek, the warmth of the rock beneath my back, the smooth slide of his hand up my leg, closing my eyes because if I kept them open, it all reeled, too bright, in front of me.

  But when I try to remember I just don’t know where the dividing line was, or if there was one at all. I can’t separate what I wanted from what I didn’t want. I could feel my underpants, sliding, wet, down my legs, I could feel him pressed tight against me, and I suppose there was a moment when I tried to push him away, but I am just not sure. His mouth on mine, his hand there, inside me, and then it wasn’t his hand. And I could not cry out because he was still kissing me, but I wanted to, I wanted to scream. Watching my fingernails dig into the palm of my hand, not wanting to look at him, not knowing if this was what I wanted, not even knowing what it was that was happening.

  Until afterwards.

  And when I tried to move, I wanted to be sick. I remember. The slow thickening of nausea, before I hunched forward and vomited in the creek.

  twenty-eight

  Bernard always calls Mari that old bull dyke.

  I have told him several times that this is an offensive term to use. He just smiles. Of course it is. I wouldn’t use it if it wasn’t.

  But despite what he calls her, Bernard does have a grudging respect for Mari. Like him, she is a pragmatist. She is aware that there is a right and a wrong, but she is also aware of how irrelevant these concepts can be in striking a path through day to day life.

  This is not all they have in common.

  Like Bernard, Mari is a person of action. She makes a decision and she immediately tackles all that is necessary to put it into place.

  Since my mother has become ill, Mari has turned to me, demanding my involvement in the decisions she implements in order to take charge of the situation.

  Shortly after suggesting a family outing, she calls.

  You’re right, she says. Vi does need something to occupy her. To take her mind off the fact that she isn’t working.

  When I had picked up the phone, I had only been back from work for a few minutes. Tired and fed up, I found it difficult to hide the irritation in my voice. It didn’t matter. Mari was oblivious. Wasting very little time on saying hello, she went straight to the point, telling me she would like us all to go on a picnic this weekend. To the mountains.

  To the mountains?

  And I would have assumed that my repetition of her words would have indicated my hesitation about this idea. But she did not seem to notice.

  She told me she would organise everything. Of course.

  I asked her if Simon had agreed to come and she admitted she had not yet put the plan to him. But she was sure he would be there. It’s not like he ever has any arrangements, she said.

  I know I have no choice but to agree. If I don’t, I will have to hear the disappointment in her voice. I will have to wear the guilt. But I am also aware that there is an unspoken agenda behind Mari’s plan.

  Mari has always wanted to move out of the city. She wants dogs, a big garden, and sometimes I get the sneaking suspicion she wants my mother all to herself. She has fantasised about living in the mountains for years, but knowing it would be impossible to manoeuvre Vi into doing something she does not want, she has never really taken any serious steps towards proposing the move.

  But things are different now.

  Vi is ill and Mari has had to take charge.

  And I am anxious that she will try to open up the topic, clearing the way to bring me on side so that I can help influence Vi when she puts the proposal to her.

  But she doesn’t.

  She asks me if I have spoken to Simon recently and I tell her that I haven’t.

  You know he’s been taking time off work?

  I didn’t and I am surprised. Simon never takes holidays. As far as I know, he has never even taken a sick day.

  She says he has had three days off in the last week. He just walks. I don’t know where. But he leaves in the morning, doesn’t take his car, and doesn’t get home until the early evening.

  Is he all light? There is anxiety in my voice.

  I don’t think so, she says.

  And there is a moment’s silence between us before she speaks again. I can tell she is apprehensive, but being the person she is, she wants to tackle the problem, she doesn’t want to stay silent any longer.

  Did anything happen? she asks me. At the funeral?

  I have not shut my front door properly and I can hear Mouse coming down the stairs. His footsteps on the path. Slow and heavy. I look down before he passes. But I am too late. He catches my eye and waves, thinking, as he seems to think these days, that there is now some friendship between us.

  No, I tell her.

  She knows I am lying and she sighs in exasperation.

  Ursula, she says. This is ridiculous. You have no reason not to trust me. If something has happened, and it seems like it has, you should tell me. It’s
better if we tackle it together, rather than wait for it to burst out and distress your mother. For Christ’s sake. I could be a help.

  I do not know what to say.

  In the face of her directness, I am left speechless.

  I am sorry, I tell her. It’s not that I don’t trust you.

  Well, that’s certainly the way it seems.

  I can’t tell you, I say.

  And I can’t. Worse, the reasons are so complicated that I cannot even attempt to explain them. But I do know that one of the causes of my silence is the fact that I do not want her to have to share my knowledge. I do not want her to have to live with Vi and not know whether Vi knows what I have recently learnt, and, if so, what that means. Or whether she should tell her.

  She sighs again in frustration.

  Think about it, she says. If you change your mind, I am ready to listen.

  I know, I tell her and I hope she can detect the fact that I am trying from the tone of my voice.

  So, she says. You will come on Sunday?

  And I promise her I will.

  twenty-nine

  Vi always told me that it would be a shame to lose my virginity too young. She told me she disagreed with people who believed there was no significance attached to the occasion.

  It’s not that I ascribe to any form of puritanical morality, she would say. But nor do I believe that sex should be taken lightly.

  She would tell me that I should be certain. I should be sure that it was what I wanted. I should be able to trust without fear.

  I was sixteen when she gave me those talks. No doubt the timing was influenced by her work of the moment. She was sitting on a government committee into the rights of the child. They were examining, among other issues, the age of consent.

  I would be on my way out and she would suddenly call me back. She would shift her papers to one side, light a cigarette and tell me to sit down. She would lean forward and reach for my hands. I would find it impossible to meet the intensity of her gaze. She would tell me that I shouldn’t be afraid of talking to her; if I was confused or unsure, talking could help.