‘What I think—I think you forgive my ears—never. You love me—not. Because I’m deaf—not.’
They looked at me, then at each other, shocked. My mother began to sign, sadly, but her message was swamped by my father’s anger.
‘Get out,’ he signed, enraged. ‘Now—tonight.’
He rose and shoved me hard in the chest, but only succeeded in pushing himself backwards. He might as well have tried to toss a Sumo wrestler.
‘I go next week,’ I signed. ‘I go when I choose. I pay rent already.’
I fled through the kitchen door. My wetsuit was pegged on the clothes line; I plucked it angrily, sending the pegs spinning onto the lawn. I gathered my seal-flippers from my room, and headed for the beach.
Food for thought as I floated in the dark ocean, seething inside: my ex-wife refused to have me in her house, now my parents had kicked me out. Was there an ounce of truth in their common complaint—I had never grown up?
Immersion gradually calmed me; I flippered slowly past the broken piles of the old jetty, then turned and let the rising tide lift me and carry me back towards the shore. Along the length of the esplanade only the window of my parents’ bedroom was still lit, a dull, curtained beacon in the night. Soothed by my own weightlessness, by the rhythmic rise and fall of the swell, I tried to imagine the argument of hands that must be taking place, in furious silence, inside. My dismissal, or resignation, would be discussed at length; tempers would slowly settle; Miss-The-Point would be reappointed scapegoat for my failings, at least by my mother. She would always finally find it easier to blame someone other than her own son.
The porch light flared, a much brighter beacon; the front door opened; her slight dark figure appeared. She was carrying a torch; she followed its weak dancing beam across the esplanade and down the beach steps.
She was waiting when I emerged from the mild surf, dripping, a few minutes later. I glomped awkwardly out of the shallows and sank into the dry sand next to her, struggling to remove my flippers.
The torch was embedded in the sand between her legs, beam-up.
‘Sorry,’ she signed, her hands held, illuminated, in the narrow cone of light. ‘Your father sorry.’
‘No,’ I signed back. ‘Both—correct.’
I sensed rather than saw the surprise in her features, obscured in the darkness.
‘I must stand on these feet,’ I added, and jerked a flipper off with difficulty, and overbalanced backwards, sprawling in the sand.
19
I drove over the last rise before the farm and spotted her immediately, squatting beside the outer gate. Stella and Clive were nowhere in sight. Had she crossed the open stubble field, alone, to wait at the gate? Her back was jammed hard against the gatepost, she was glancing warily about, some ancient instinct keeping her head and eyes moving.
I stopped the car, climbed out, scanned the surrounding ridges for any witnesses to this strange sight.
‘Star know you here?’
She leapt the fence without answering, and knuckle-loped towards me in the manner of her wild cousins, her normal attempt to mimic human walking forgotten. She hugged me, nuzzling her nose against my face. My reservations melted; I knew that for the love of me she had exposed herself to open savannah for the first time, overcoming her terror of whatever leopards or hyenas inhabited her deepest race-memory.
I also realised, with a recurrence of giddiness, that it was one of the most perfect expressions of love I had ever received, a gift, with no strings attached.
At length I pulled myself free and pressed the intercom buzzer; Stella’s voice crackled from the speaker after a few seconds. ‘It’s open, J.J.’
She clearly had no idea of the whereabouts of her charge.
‘Tell Saint-Star—not,’ Wish signed.
‘Staint’ might be a better transcription than Saint-Star. The two sign-names had merged into a single fluid abbreviation in recent weeks—more evidence, it seemed to me, of the diminishing importance of Clive and Stella in her life.
‘I tell not,’ I signed, ‘if you stay trees tomorrow.’
She nodded, reluctantly.
‘Come here alone—never,’ I signed.
She stared up at me, rebuked—but more with a residual stubbornness than with guilt.
‘I tell Staint—not,’ I signed.
We crossed the field hand in hand, her head swivelling about, watching again for predators. Her tight grip loosened a little as we passed through the second gate and into the safety of the trees. Clive was waiting in the lounge for the morning briefing, Stella joined us from upstairs. Wish clutched my hand, watching my face anxiously, but I kept my promise. I had other matters to discuss.
‘I need even more time with Wish,’ I announced. ‘I’d like to stay every evening—until her bedtime.’
‘What about your duties at the Institute?’ Clive asked.
‘I’ve resigned.’
Something passed between them, subtle eye contact, a current of apprehension. ‘Uh…J.J. You’re a very important part of the team. But it might be a good idea not to put all your eggs in one basket.’
His words surprised me. I’d assumed he would be pleased.
‘I wouldn’t like to think you had given up other opportunities for what is a rather insecure, possibly short-term, job.’
‘It had nothing to do with Wish. A clash of personalities—that’s all.’
A partial truth, but reassuring to Clive, whose tense body language relaxed considerably. I felt less comfortable. It had been spelt out, for the first time, that my presence in their house was regarded as provisional. I remembered again those first tentative questions of Wish about my family life—did I ‘own’ any children? The usage, her own invention, now had an added poignancy. I had become the most important person in her life, but they retained sole ownership. Not for the first time I sensed a different set of priorities. They enjoyed her company, Stella surely even loved her, as she loved all her animals, but to both of them, Project Wish came first, even at the expense of Wish’s happiness.
‘Serendipity?’ Stella said, enigmatically, to Clive.
I waited; he explained. ‘My publisher wants me in the States for several weeks. Publicity for the new book.’
‘It would be good to have an extra pair of hands around the house,’ Stella said. ‘So to speak.’
‘I would be happy to move in,’ I said, hesitantly.
Another meeting of their eyes, the transmitted message inscrutable to me. They both spoke, in turn.
‘It’s a lot to ask, J.J.’
‘Your help has been invaluable but we can’t expect to monopolise your time.’
I ignored the unintended slight. In my mind, they had been helping me.
‘How long do you plan to be away?’
‘If I go.’
‘If you go.’
‘Two weeks. Perhaps three. It’s a huge nuisance. A contractual obligation. The terms of my contract—signed in the days before I became father to a gorilla—compel me, at the discretion of my publisher, to make myself available for interviews.’
Stella laughed, loudly. ‘Poor Clive! His publisher is forcing him to be famous.’
Clive ignored her. ‘It would be a considerable help, J.J. Even if you only stay a few nights. And not just for Stella. Wish will need extra affection.’
Stella leant forward on the sofa, her body language alert, interested. ‘You think she’ll miss you?’
‘There is a precedent. After Terry went back to Melbourne—when she first came to us—she missed him terribly.’
‘What you are really saying,’ she said, ‘is that you’ll miss her.’
He smiled, then said, with exaggerated pedantry: ‘That’s not what I’m saying at all, my dear. I’m merely saying that we should try to learn from our past mistakes.’
They were playing their favourite game again: spot an emotion. Clive enjoyed the contest as much as Stella, slipping into self-parody, erecting ever-higher barriers.<
br />
‘Of course I’ll stay,’ I intervened. ‘I’d love to stay.’
‘I may not need you for the entire three weeks,’ Stella added, quickly, as if to remind me again that the arrangement was merely temporary.
20
On the afternoon of Clive’s departure I filled the Fiat with winter clothes and books and set out for the Hills. The weight of my baggage was minimal but sufficient to slow my progress. My little car struggled; I arrived late. Stella had planned to drive Clive to the airport, leaving Wish in my care; she had obviously given up on me, a cab was already waiting at the outer gate. The face of the cabbie behind the wheel was familiar, the same giant who had ferried me home from my first visit to the farm. Perhaps he lived nearby. He failed to recognise me; his window was wound down, he was peering intently at the tree line.
‘Tell me, squire,’ he said. ‘Can you see something moving in the trees over there? Something big.’
‘A koala?’
‘Bigger.’
He was curious, but not curious enough to heave his great bulk from the cab and take a closer look. Stella’s jeep appeared from between the trees, canvas roof up, and churned slowly down the muddy track towards us, followed by the usual herd of animals.
‘Who’s in that?’ the cabbie asked. ‘The pied piper?’
‘The poet,’ I said, but he still didn’t remember.
The jeep halted at the gate; Clive climbed down, reached back inside, and tugged out a large suitcase. I pushed open the gate, and went to help.
‘Nice of you to join us, J.J.,’ Stella said.
‘Sorry. Car trouble.’
She ignored my excuse and turned to her husband. ‘Now that J.J.’s finally here I could follow you down.’
The suggestion puzzled him; he seemed unable to understand why his wife might want to see him off at the airport, a waste of her valuable time. He shook my hand, and was about—or so it seemed to me—to reach up and shake Stella’s, but she slid from the jeep, stepped inside his extended arm and hugged him, warmly.
She watched the cab over the rise, but her husband didn’t look back. I climbed into my Fiat, and drove through the gate, following her jeep up the track. Wish was waiting at the second gate, out of sight of the road. Any sorrow she might have felt at the departure of Clive was swamped by pleasure at the sight of me. She scooped my bags from the car with one long all-encompassing arm, and tugged me through the trees and into the house. Her big bare feet were covered in mud; well trained, despite her excitement, she paused to scrape them hard against the verandah steps in the manner of boots. I wondered if she had ever worn shoes. My room was the guest room upstairs; she tossed my bags onto the bed and watched, curious, excited, as I began to unpack. My wetsuit was the first item to come to light; she fingered it, bemused. The black flippers caused a bigger reaction; she took a step back, concern written on her face.
I sat on the side of the bed, pulled off my shoes and socks, and demonstrated their use—which caused even more astonishment.
‘Walk on water?’
‘Under water—like fish.’
Prepositions in Auslan have an immediate, natural clarity. On: the back of one hand slapping the palm of the other.
Under: one Flat Hand passing beneath the other.
I pulled off the left flipper and knelt at her feet, cupping her heel in my hand like a prince trying to locate some aquatic Cinderella. Her odd-shaped appendage, more hand than foot, had no chance of squeezing into my rubber slipper.
‘Swim in dam,’ I signed.
In: the forefinger inserted into the hole of a partly closed fist, an old family sign.
She grimaced, horrified. ‘I hate water.’
She fished in my bags for more treasures: music cassettes which she insisted on hearing, picture books, and a few of Rosie’s discarded toys that I had salvaged. Late in the afternoon, Stella appeared in the door carrying a tray.
‘Come and get it.’
She set down the tray on my bedside table and passed a huge bowl of steaming greens to Wish, who crossed her legs, set the bowl on her lap, and began to shovel food into her mouth, using the fingers of her right hand. An open bottle of champagne also stood on the tray; Stella filled two slender glasses and passed one to me.
‘Welcome, J.J.’
‘Thank you.’
We clinked glasses. I offered Wish a sip; she shook her head violently, Bad Hand circling her lips, the sign for bitterness, or bad taste. Stella drained her own glass, poured out another, climbed onto my bed and lit a cigarette, settling in, it seemed, for the evening. I found her presence inhibiting; the easy intimacy I shared with Wish vanished. She examined my wetsuit, sceptically.
‘Planning on doing some swimming, J.J.?’
‘It’s how I relax.’
‘We’re a long way from the coast.’
‘I thought I might use the dam.’
She laughed. ‘Jesus, J.J.—we drink that water.’
I continued to unpack items from my second suitcase; she provided a running commentary. The unpacking took time; I only had one free hand. Wish kept a tight grip on the other; sitting on the bed next to Stella, peering into the suitcase, but without her former enthusiasm. Like me, seemed to feel that three was a crowd.
‘What time do we eat?’ I finally asked.
‘Hungry, J.J.?’
‘Starving!’
Stella rose and gathered the various bits of glassware, and the empty bowl.
‘I’ve made something special for dinner.’
‘Asparagus?’
An old joke, more a ritual response than an attempt to be funny—but she managed to find a smile.
‘I thought—maybe you could sign Wish a bedtime story as a special treat. Then you and I can have a little privacy.’
She turned to Wish, shaped a tooth-cleaning mime, and opened her arms for a goodnight hug. Wish was still holding my hand; she enfolded Stella briefly, with her free arm, then tugged me into the bathroom. Now that she had me living in the house, she wasn’t about to let go. One-handed, she balanced her toothbrush carefully on the basin, bristles up, picked up the toothpaste and squeezed out a dollop. She cleaned her powerful teeth vigorously, and swallowed the foaming lather with clear pleasure. Task complete, she plonked herself, without warning, on the toilet seat, still gripping my hand tightly. A stream of piss spurted immediately, resonantly, into that porcelain tuba, the room filled with the rank scent of urine flavoured, I now recognised, by the distinctive tang of asparagus. I looked away, then back. She grinned toothily at me as if pissing in public were the most ordinary thing in the world. Or was she teasing me, enjoying the spectacle of human embarrassment?
Still in tow, I was pulled into her bedroom. She tugged a clutch of books from her shelves and climbed onto her bed; I sat on the edge and began to translate the topmost book with my free hand, the story of a happy lion in a zoo in France.
‘Speak too,’ she signed.
I propped the open book on my lap and read the story aloud as I signed, never an easy feat. After a few minutes her eyes slid shut. I wondered what sort of sense she made of my voice alone. Perhaps the soothing music of it was sufficient, a background murmur. When I finished the book, she lifted her hands and signed, drowsily, her eyes still closed: ‘More book.’
There seemed little point, but I obliged, reading in English, without moving my hands, until Stella’s voice called up the stairs: ‘It’s getting cold, J.J.’
Even asleep, Wish’s grip was a vice. I reclaimed my hand with difficulty and headed downstairs, ravenous. An astonishing sight greeted me: a large cooked fish, wrapped in palm leaves, doused in spice, was sitting in the centre of the table.
‘Isn’t this illegal?’ I said.
Stella was watching me with an expression of great anticipation, enjoying the shock value.
‘The fish is for you, J.J. I’ll stick to the salads.’
‘I’ve become a vegetarian too,’ I protested.
She made the long-
tongue sign, and added, aloud: ‘Don’t tell fibs. I can smell a carnivore a mile off.’
‘Do we smell that badly?’
‘Rancid.’
She trowelled a thick flake of white flesh onto a plate, and passed it across. Her nose was accurate: my vegetarian zeal had lasted no more than a month. Shellfish had first forced the door open—then finned fish, thicker end of the same marine wedge. Fish didn’t have feelings, I managed to persuade myself. Free-range meat soon followed, in small doses. I still held the line at pork and bacon—the images of suffering, self-aware pigs painted in Clive’s book had been the most vivid, and durable.
‘I don’t want you to break house rules just for me, Stella.’
‘Nonsense. You’re doing us a big favour. I want you to be happy here. I want it to feel like home.’
‘Please. Anything but that.’
She laughed, obligingly; I forked a fragment of the white flesh to my mouth.
‘Delicious.’
‘I’d better check to see that it’s properly cooked,’ she said, and with a cheerfully wicked wink reached her own fork across the table, and lifted a tiny flake from my plate, an intimacy I found exciting, like sharing her cigarettes.
She chewed, and swallowed.
‘I love cooking, J.J. I just don’t have much of a chance to let my hair down in the kitchen.’
‘When the cat’s away,’ I said.
‘The cat’s still here,’ she said. ‘It’s the mouse that’s gone away.’
She laughed loudly, hugely amused at her own joke. I laughed with her, but felt a small prickle of surprise. Such irreverence at her husband’s expense, so soon after he had left, seemed disloyal.
‘I love him dearly,’ she said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘But he’s such a fucking fundamentalist.’
She reached across the table, took another forkful of fish and ate it.
‘Clive believes fishing is torture, but I’m not so sure. Do fish feel pain, J.J.?’
‘They wriggle on the hook.’
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