‘This house … ’ Electra says the word ‘house’ as if she doesn’t know quite what to make of it. ‘It’s like something off TV. Look at those trees and the garden.’
We climb the spiral staircase to the silent second floor, a passageway stretching ahead like a bowling alley, with bedrooms, bathrooms, and other mystery rooms opening up off it.
‘It’s so, well, gorgeous.’ Electra looks at the pictures in the hallway; pictures painted with oil paint so thick they’re really bumpy under your fingers, the frames curly and gold, like something you’d find on a pirate ship. ‘It’s unreal.’
‘I know.’ I head into the exercise room, a pretty neutral place to hang out, as it’s filled with gym equipment, and a spare couch or two. ‘I guess I’m used to it. I’ve known Trav since kinder.’ Now might not be the time to tell Electra about the Bradburys’ beach houses.
We look down on the garden, and the eighty-year-old brick wall, the only thing the Bradburys kept, apart from the trees, when they knocked down the old house.
‘My place would fit into half the backyard.’ Electra looks at me, her hands like birds about to fly. ‘I feel like I’ve wandered into a dream. Is your house like this, Marc? It’s not, is it?’
Now that is one thing that I am absolutely positive about.
‘Nope. It’s nothin’ like it at all.’ The gym equipment, shiny and complicated, crowds around us. ‘It’s not nearly as big or neat or new or great. And there’s no pool, gym, cellar, or guest kitchen. But don’t worry. Trav’s cool. He’s not nearly as mean or mad as he sounds. He’s actually quite thoughtful. Sometimes.’
‘I think he’s funny.’ Electra gives me a quick kiss that seems to carry the message that I’ve said something that makes her feel better. ‘But this is pretty weird for me. I mean, I know it’s beautiful, and it makes me feel kind of nice. But it scares me that I might start wanting it. Like, a lot. And home would never be the same. And I’d hate myself.’ Electra lowers her eyes and looks away to where wet autumn leaves blanket the garden in yellow and gold.
Talk to me!
‘Well, who wouldn’t want stuff like this?’ I look at Electra, knowing that she’s a girl built for speed and not for comfort; a girl intent on sorting herself out before she starts looking for real estate. ‘But really, hardly anyone has it. So, hey, you know, relax. You know what’s real. The Bradburys are good people. They’re just nice.’
I’m not sure how that went. Or what it meant exactly, but I tried. I mean, wishing doesn’t buy you houses. And houses don’t buy you happiness; unless you don’t have anywhere to live, then most probably they will.
‘I guess you just gotta keep it real,’ I say. ‘It’s all anyone can do.’
‘Well, I don’t know how real running is.’ Electra looks out at a big black wrought-iron garden clock that is a sculpture, and doesn’t tell the time, speaking of keeping things real. ‘But I do know that when I’m going well, the whole world seems like it’s just a place, just a space, for me to run through. And fast.’ Electra smiles. ‘Which might or might not make sense. But it seems like the realest thing in the world at the time.’
I nod, because I agree that you can’t explain everything that you do, or want to do, or want, or are. Perhaps you shouldn’t even try.
36
On Wednesday afternoon I go to watch Electra train, noticing when I arrive that she’s the only runner left on the track. Supervised by Coach Tom Geraghty, she walks to her blocks, head down, hands on hips, spikes like little Day-Glo fairy shoes, for what must be her final run for the session. In fading light I climb the stairs into the grandstand, that darkening time of day when it’s easy to think on the downside.
I see there’s another person already up here; a guy older than me, wearing a big black coat. He says hello, I say hello, and I get settled pretty far away from him so I can concentrate on Electra as she prepares to start. For seconds she stares down the track before kneeling to carefully fit her spikes into her blocks. At the same time she moves her hands as if she’s feeling for something delicate and valuable hidden just below the surface of the white-lined track. Now she arches, holds as if in a vice, then, at a single hand clap from Coach Tom, she starts.
Or I should say, she goes. It’s like watching a fighter jet take off from an aircraft carrier; something you feel as much as you see.
Electra leaves the blocks, lifting off, hands whipping, stride lengthening, her head so steady she seems to be lost in deep thought, the track disappearing behind her into the darkness as if it was gone forever. And now that she’s dealt with the first straight she leans into the bend, accelerating off it as she flows through it, and coming out of it like a racehorse doing what it is put on earth to do, and that is to go fast, and then go faster.
Electra runs the straight, hair flying, hands flashing, her stride measured by those flashing Day-Glo spikes. Then suddenly she’s over the line, slowing into that easing-down run that is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, as if she’s totally unaware of who she is, where she is, or what she’s done.
‘Now that girl can run,’ says the guy in the black coat, a dark shape in a river of descending seats. ‘Do you know her?’
‘Yeah, I do,’ I say, and add daringly, ‘She’s my girlfriend.’
The guy gets up, moving slowly down the steps, smiling in an open, all right kind of way.
‘Well, I hope you like to travel.’ He stops at the end of my row of seats, looming large. ‘Because she’s going places. If she keeps on improving like she has. You heard it here first.’
Well, maybe I didn’t hear it here first. Maybe I heard it from me first, before I even met Electra, when I realised that all people are going places, and maybe not places where you necessarily want them to go, but that’s how it is. And I am talking about Amelia-Anne.
‘Yeah, she’s fantastic,’ I say, noting the clipboard. ‘Do you think she might make the Olympics or something? Do you know about stuff like that? I mean, she’s quick, isn’t she? Like, she’s really quick.’
‘All good questions,’ says the guy, and gives me another smile. ‘Firstly, and hopefully, I do know about stuff like that, because it’s my job. And secondly, I would say there’s a chance she could do absolutely anything. But what anything might be, is something I’m here to work out.’ He puts out his hand. ‘I’m Gary Bianco. From the Australian Institute of Sport. We’ve been watching Electra for a few years now. And yes, she’s quick.’
I shake the guy’s hand.
‘I’m Marc Jarvis.’ And there’s not much more I can add to that.
Gary Bianco looks down at the track. Electra is warming down, a ghostly white shape in the dark, as if she’s a little less real than she was a minute ago.
‘She has super talent and she trains beautifully,’ he says. ‘But so do a few other girls. Having said that, if you get along to Olympic Park in about a week’s time, she’s going up against another runner from Queensland who can also turn it on. So that’ll tell us something. Don’t miss it.’
‘I won’t,’ I say.
‘Neither will I.’ Gary Bianco smiles, this time like a poker player. ‘You’ll see some racing that night. There’ll be fireworks.’
Electra and I walk home in the dark, which is what we seem to spend most of our time doing. I even carry her bag, full of running gear so light it seems it could blow away on the wind.
‘You ran fast tonight,’ I say. ‘That last two hundred, you flew. There was some guy watching. Garry B-something. From the AIS. He knew you, anyway. He said there’s some girl coming down from Queensland to race you. And he said you’re a talent. Like, a real talent.’
‘Yeah, I know Gary.’ Electra nods slowly. ‘And Meagan. From Queensland. But she’s not coming down to race me, Marc. There’ll be six other girls, too.’
Under the neutral glow of the streetlight, Electra’s face is shadowy, reinforcing my idea that although I know a lot about her, in some ways I hardly know her at all. She takes my h
and.
‘You know I’m weird about all this, don’t you? That I try to keep it in and I always have. Because talking about it just makes me feel bad and lose focus. ’ She drops my hand, laughs, and crosses her arms. ‘So when can I come to your house? I want to see what kind of people came up with someone like you.’
It’s pretty obvious we’ve finished talking about running, that’s for sure.
‘Are you serious?’ Man, why would you volunteer for that? ‘Well, you can come any time you like,’ I say. ‘I mean, they’re not too bad. But. There’s a limit.’ I actually feel okay about this idea, because I wouldn’t mind my family meeting Electra, as she is one of the two best girls I’ve ever brought to the house. And she would never stick her chewy under the table like one chick did. ‘They’d like to meet you. In fact, my mum’s been asking when you will.’
‘There you go!’ Electra reclaims her bag, swinging it as if it holds the money from a bank raid. ‘I promise I’ll be good.’ Suddenly Coach Tom Geraghty’s twenty sensor lights flick on, a curtain twitches, and Electra takes a step away. ‘You work it out, and I’ll clear it with the maniacs inside. Call me.’
Then she nips back for a kiss before going up the garden path, and I wander off into the night, feeling as if I’m caught in a spell of speed, and the unknown things of the world, past and present, that go into making up the future, whatever it might be.
I know where the Australian Institute of Sport is. I read it on the back of a Weeties packet. It’s in Canberra, and that’s more than I need to know at the moment, because Canberra isn’t exactly a hop, skip and jump away from Melbourne.
But it is closer than where AA is; which seems to me to be beyond light, space, time, hope and reason. So where that leaves me in the big equation of life, love and the future, I don’t know. But I will find out, because I suppose that in the end there are answers to everything. And they’re coming to a cinema near you.
Whether you like it or not.
37
After a week, which I’m counting as a success because not only didn’t I lose anything, I found a T-shirt I lost two years ago, and it’s Saturday again. And although this morning’s footy didn’t go so well, Trav and I have made it back to his place, after playing a team with a coach so frightening he scared me into attacking the ball with absolutely no fear. And that was only after what he said to their guys about eating the oranges at half-time. The kid I was on was that worried about not getting a kick I let him have two.
‘If he thinks you’re not trying,’ this kid told me, ‘he not only tries to get you expelled, he goes to Mass and tells God you’re a bastard.’
That seems a bit harsh, even by private school standards. Compared to that I’d much prefer to go to a school full of those bad lady teachers who only want you to go around to their house if you’re lucky enough to get a double free period. Anyway, we lost by ten points, so that was that.
‘Even Tindale said that school sucks,’ Trav says, as we go through a stack of overdue DVDs we found in Dot’s bed. ‘And he ought’a know. He was the vice-principal for six years. So what’s the deal with Electra and the home visit?’
‘Movies tomorrow afternoon and then tea at my place.’ I try to smooth out teethmarks from a DVD cover, but it’s a lost cause; so into the After Hours Return pile it goes. ‘How come you’re not banned from the video store?’ I ask. ‘You guys wreck or lose just about everything you ever borrow.’
Trav heads toward the DVD with a disc that doesn’t seem too bad.
‘It’s not a problem.’ He stops to polish the disc on the carpet. ‘Hailey’s got a card. Anyway, we can have the beach house on the long weekend, if we like. All the old man said was that we’d have to catch the train down, and don’t invite anyone else. Whadda you reckon?’
I don’t hesitate. I love Trav’s beach house. It’s set in the trees, above the trees, and near the beach. Plus it has balconies, a terrace, two decks, and a bathing shed right on the sand that has featured in many of my storylines with girls, an approaching thunderstorm, and a big, soft couch.
‘Freakin’ excellent,’ I say. ‘I’m in.’
And that’s another good weekend sorted; although it’s a huge pity Electra and Hailey can’t come too, but even I know that would never happen.
Later, to get out of the house, Trav and I decide to take Dot to the park. But in the end we decide to go to Mikey’s place, to see how he’s getting on with the gallery, so we head for the railway station and get onto the next train to Hawthorn.
‘That’s the great thing about trains.’ Trav helps Dot to sit up on the window seat. ‘No rules. Like, in the old days you had to buy tickets and everything. And to take a dog on, you had to be either like blind or mental.’
Trav’s right; these days dogs travel free, and they seem to be quite popular with other passengers, especially one like Dot who likes to look out the window and bark at the people getting on. So we do the trip, hop off at Hawthorn, and walk up to Mikey’s, me carrying Dot’s rubber chicken because she always thinks she wants to bring it then drops it as soon as it’s too far to take home.
‘Well, there’s a dumpster.’ Trav points to a big yellow dinted metal bin outside Mikey’s place. ‘With a plank up it. And the front door’s open. So I presume he’s home.’
We go up the path and stop at the door. Somewhere out the back I can hear someone rummaging around, moving things.
‘Mikey!’ I yell into the house. ‘What’s happenin’? We’re at the front door!’
‘Where else would we be, tool?’ Travis says helpfully. ‘Coming down the chimney?’
Mikey comes out through the kitchen carrying a jar with paintbrushes in it. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and sleeveless overalls, and has smears of blue paint on his hands, and a blotch of it on his cheek. Seeing us, he stops, and points a finger.
‘Boys! Come in.’ He comes over, shaking our hands. ‘Nice to see you. I was just about to start singin’ the blues. You know, when the sun goes down over those trees over the bloody railway line there, there’s a colour in the sky that reminds me of good old Queensland. Now, your dog won’t widdle on the walls, will she?’
‘Nah.’ Trav looks at Dot, who’s wagging her tail, not that that means much. ‘Probably not. She just did one on the train so she’s probably out of gas.’
And that was a bit embarrassing, but as usual there was that much newspaper on the carriage floor we could’ve mopped up a spill from an oil tanker.
‘She’ll be right.’ Mikey shuts the door. ‘Pull up a paint can, men. And I’ll go put the kettle on.’
And that’s exactly what we do; we set up three big paint cans for seats, and while we wait for Mikey to come back, I look to see if I can spot this famous colour he was talking about, and I guess I can. The sky, now that the sun’s gone below the houses on the hill, is a fine silvery blue mixed with dusty orange, complete with some white birds flying through it. And it does have a kind of sad country and western feel to it.
‘That window nearly kills me.’ Mikey arrives with three mugs and half a packet of biscuits. ‘Still. It’s like the best picture I could hang there, if good art is supposed to have an emotional impact. But enough’s enough. Give a bloke a break.’ Mikey sits. ‘Anyway, guys. Cheers. Thanks for dropping in.’
Trav pushes Dot away from the biscuits. ‘Out of it, Dot. You had yours on the train. Anyway, Mikey,’ he adds, looking up, ‘what’s this place like that you come from again?’
Later, we head out into Mikey’s backyard to demolish part of an old shed for some firewood. Then we light a fire in the lounge, drag in some chairs, and eat two pizzas delivered from Carlo’s. Outside it’s dark, but in here it’s bright and warm. Mikey hauls out some magazines to show us the types of paintings he’d like to hang when the place is finished.
‘My mum buys a shitload of pictures.’ Trav studies a green and black painting that could be anything. ‘Some a bit like that even.’ This he says despite the magazine being upside dow
n. ‘Whatever it is. She knows artists and the whole deal. You should talk to her.’
‘Yeah, that’d be great.’ Mikey tosses bits of shed onto the fire. ‘But the painters she knows might be a bit out of my league. I’m kind of looking for new people who might need me as much as I need them. As in, struggling.’
We sit and look at the fire. Fires are great; there should be more of them. They’re better than half the shows on TV – well, half the shows on free-to-air, anyway.
‘My brother, Brad,’ Mikey says, arms crossed, studying the flames, ‘he can really draw. But he gave it away. Soon as he finished school he never picked up a pencil again. It’s funny, isn’t it? How some people just decide not to do something they’re bloody good at. And that other people would like. For one reason or another.’
Trav waves away a moth away that has come in with the wood. I’m more worried about huntsmans or centipedes. They might not be able to fly, but they can cover a lot of territory, and they do it in silence.
‘Drawing’s not illegal in Queensland, is it?’ Trav says.
Mikey smiles and leans towards the fire, hands out. ‘All he said was that he was too busy. But there was more to it than that. There always is.’
‘You oughta tell him to come down here for a while,’ I say. ‘Hell, people draw on anything all the time. Trains, bridges, buildings, trees, trams. Do what you like. Go crazy.’
Mikey stokes the fire, impressing me with his style. Usually Trav and I go through a whole newspaper, a box of matches, and two hundred fire-lighters just to get one started, as Trav doesn’t believe in kindling. Once we had a fire purely of fire lighters. The flames were fantastic but the smell was overwhelming.
‘He wouldn’t come.’ Mikey’s face shines in the reflected firelight. ‘He hates the city. It’s too far to drive. Plus he doesn’t get much time off. You’d have more chance of landing him on the moon. So how’s Electra going, Marc? Didn’t you say she’s running next Saturday night?’
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