The Eye of the Sheep

by Sofie Laguna

  ‘How did he sound?’

  ‘He’s okay,’ said Uncle Rodney. ‘He lost the appeal.’

  Dad huffed out air.

  ‘He reckons Rockhampton is better than Brisbane.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He’s still saying he didn’t do it.’

  ‘He did it,’ said Dad.

  After a while Uncle Rodney said, ‘He asked about you and Paula and the boys.’

  Dad wiped sweat from his forehead. He nodded.

  We walked for a while longer, then Uncle Rodney said, ‘Did you ever work out what Dad had against him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Why he had it in for him. Why he nearly killed him on New Year’s Eve when we were at Portland. Why he hit him so much.’

  ‘Maybe he knew something was wrong with him,’ said Dad.

  ‘Bullshit, Gav. There was nothing wrong with him. You know there was nothing wrong with him. Not back then.’

  After a while Dad said, ‘Bastard.’

  When we got to the water Dad pulled off his t-shirt and went straight in. Uncle Rodney shook his head. ‘Your old man, hey? My big brother . . .’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you both, Jimmy, bloody good. Coming in today?’

  ‘No thanks, Uncle Rodney. Ned needs someone to throw the ball.’

  ‘Suit yourself, son. Don’t mind if I go in?’

  ‘Don’t mind, Uncle Rodney, don’t mind if you do.’

  ‘Make sure that dog doesn’t wear you out,’ said Uncle Rodney as he walked down to the water.

  Ned knew the ball was coming; he waited, he watched, I threw and Ned ran. It was one thing over and over.

  •

  Late at night I was in the guest room not sleeping while Dad and Uncle Rodney were in Uncle Rodney’s lounge room watching Convoy and drinking beers. Trucks sped down the highway as pictures of waves washed over me. I would fall back into soft water and then come sharply forward, my body jumping.

  I got out of bed and went to the door. ‘Ned,’ I whispered into the hallway. ‘Ned.’

  Ned padded into the room.

  ‘Ned.’

  He climbed onto the bed. I put my hands on his head and listened for the messages. Shhhhh . . . Jimmy . . . Listen . . . Ned’s warmth joined me to him and to myself, through him.

  ‘I got to give up the booze, bro,’ said Dad.

  ‘Not our friend Fosters,’ Uncle Rodney answered.

  ‘Not the beers – the hard stuff.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What’s brought that on?’ said Uncle Rodney.

  ‘I’m getting older, mate. Robby’s gone. Only one kid left. Can’t take it like I used to.’

  ‘Who can, mate? Who can?’

  I heard the click of a beer ring, then laughter. Ned put his chin on my chest. The trucks of Convoy rumbled past the doorway.

  ‘How’s Paula doing?’

  ‘She could be better. The asthma slows her down a bit. She works hard.’

  ‘You guys okay?’

  ‘We’d be better if I could stay off the hard stuff. I could come out of the doghouse once in a while.’

  Rubby Ducky ten four ten four Silver Bear to Rubber Ducky. Trucks overtook, honking their horns.

  ‘That fucken doghouse. Been there, mate,’ said Uncle Rodney.

  ‘Shirl ever let you out of it?’

  ‘Not a lot, mate. Fed me from a bowl on the floor in the end. Put a collar round my neck and walked me round the block. Ha ha ha ha!’

  It was as if they’d been laughing since they were boys, running up the Portland sand dunes with Stephen and Ray, sliding down on pieces of cardboard, beating each other to the waves, smiling across the water even as one tried to win against another. Four brothers joined by the sea and Mother Beloved and by Pop Flick. Pop Flick the ole bastard who hit them on Friday nights and Saturday nights and sometimes during the week until their feelings inverted, shot backwards and stole their language and drove them apart, drove them to jail, drove them into trees, drove them to Cutty Sark, split them, divided them and took from them Mother Beloved.

  One night we went to the pub for a counter meal. Other men knew Dad and he introduced me to them. ‘This is my son, Jim,’ he’d say, his words crisp and proud.

  I ordered a pink lemonade from Ginny.

  ‘I’d like to see her Ginny,’ said Uncle Rodney and Dad’s eyes shot down to me and he tried not to laugh but he laughed anyway and then I did too. It was a bubble from the core. When I laughed they laughed more.

  After I ordered my drink from Ginny I looked at the row of bottles lined up behind her, ready to pour – all at different levels, all different coloured glass and liquids. I traced the line of the levels with my finger and Ginny lifted up the pink cordial over my glass for more. At the end of the row hung the Cutty Sark. Its level was the lowest.

  Dad said, ‘Order whatever you want, kid.’

  ‘Order the Oysters Kilpatrick, Jim. Let’s make your old man pay.’ Uncle Rodney winked at me.

  ‘Who’s Patrick?’ I asked.

  Dad and Uncle Rodney laughed again and so did I. More bubbles floated upwards, as if a man had been kicking underwater. The more you laugh the more you can. The pressure of the laughter behind Dad’s skin puffed out the lines and the holes so they disappeared. Whatever came out with the laugh left a gap behind that light rushed in to fill. It shone out my dad’s eyes. Uncle Rodney was a convector for it. He drew it from the sea and the island’s earth and gave it to us.

  ‘Chicken parmy, son?’ Dad looked at the menu.

  ‘Oysters Killed Patrick, Dad. Better call the cops.’

  Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

  After we finished dinner Uncle Rodney’s friends came to our table.

  ‘Hey, Jim, this is Amanda and Dave,’ said Uncle Rodney. Amanda looked the same age as Mum but if you doubled her she still wouldn’t be the same size. ‘Pull up a pew,’ said Uncle Rodney.

  Amanda smiled and put a jug of beer and two glasses on the table. ‘Hi, Gav – we haven’t see you in ages.’

  ‘Too bloody long,’ said Uncle Rodney.

  ‘He’s right about that,’ said Dad. ‘Been working too hard.’

  Amanda poured beers into everybody’s glass. ‘You southerners need to take more holidays.’ She turned to me. ‘Jim, are you having a good time on the island?’

  ‘Are we having a good time? Are we having a good time? We are having the best time!’ I spoke my words through a loudspeaker as if I was at the circus, like Uncle Rodney.

  ‘How’s the teaching?’ Dad asked Amanda. ‘You still at the island school?’

  ‘Still there. It’s good. I couldn’t take working in a big school.’

  ‘School sucks,’ I said.

  ‘Jim’s not a fan,’ said Dad.

  ‘That’s okay, Gav. It can suck if you’ve got the wrong teacher,’ said Amanda. ‘Remember Mr Bunt, Rod, when we were in high school?’

  ‘I remember calling him something else,’ said Uncle Rodney, grinning.

  ‘Has Uncle Rodney got you fellas working in the shop yet?’ Dave asked. Dave had even more drawings on his arms than Uncle Rodney. There was a picture of a man with a metal bucket on his head, underneath that was a fish.

  ‘I’m waiting for that,’ said Gav. ‘Time and a half or nothing. Double for the kid.’

  ‘Double for the kid!’ I said.

  ‘You reckon Jim’d like a day on the boat?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘Jim’s not much of a sailor,’ said Dad. ‘The plane trip was bad enough. He went a bit nuts, didn’t you, Jim? Not a fan of heights, hey?’

  ‘There’s no heights on a bloody boat, Gav. How long since you seen one?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad. How long since you seen one?’

  ‘Jeez, look at the cheek on the boy,’ said Dad, ruffling his hand through my hair, his touch warming the follicles.

  ‘Been bloody nice weather for a day past the heads,’ said Dave. ‘Amanda and me haven’t been out for a couple of weeks – but Ashle
y Lynne is keen and ready.’

  ‘I’m desperate for a break from marking tests. Give me an excuse.’

  ‘We could make a day of it, what do you reckon, Gav? Before you guys go back,’ said Dave, turning to Dad.

  ‘Come on, Dad, let’s make a day of it!’

  Amanda said, ‘Come on, Dad.’

  It was as if my dad was standing at the top of a cliff and at the bottom was water and it sparkled but my dad didn’t know how deep it was or what lay beneath. Everybody waited while he tried to guess. Then at last he jumped, his body a neat arc over the depths. When he reached the surface he waved up at us and said, ‘Righto then, a day on Ashley Lynne! Let’s do it!’ He raised his glass, and everyone else did the same, knocking their glasses together so that beer tipped and frothed over the sides. I raised my glass too, the pink lemonade fizzing with beer as it spilled, the light behind it yellow and gold and pink.

  ‘A day on Ashley Lynne!’ I said, and it was a party.

  Later that night, when we got back to Uncle Rodney’s, the telephone rang and it was Mum. Uncle Rodney passed me the receiver.

  ‘Hello, love, I miss you,’ Mum said.

  ‘Mum, there was waves and Ned was in the water, he swims, Mum, he catches the ball . . .’

  ‘That sounds fun, Jimmy. Is it sunny? Is the weather okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, sunny, sunny every day. I threw the ball very far but Ned always gets it, Mum, he always gets it; you can throw it anywhere. Anywhere! Anywhere, Mum!’

  I saw a smile lift Dad’s face from underneath as he watched me talk.

  ‘Are you sleeping, okay?’ Mum asked.

  ‘No, Mum, not sleeping, not sleeping. Lining things up, Mum, lining things up. Ned is big. Really big. Bigger than a sheep, Mum. Mum, I can swim now. Uncle Rodney has a ping-pong table. Dad beat him, Mum, every time, but Uncle Rodney keeps trying, he keeps trying, Mum, even though Dad beats him. Uncle Rodney says next time, mate, next time and he tries again and again and Dad keeps beating him but, Mum, that doesn’t stop him! He picks up his bat and tries again the next day. He tries all day, Mum. He doesn’t stop. But Dad keeps beating him, Mum. He gets every ball, he doesn’t miss, Mum! Just like Ned, Mum. It doesn’t matter where the ball goes. It can go anywhere and he gets it. Dad is fast, Mum, but Uncle Rodney keeps trying, but, Mum, he’ll never beat him, he never will. Not ever!’

  ‘Jimmy, Jimmy,’ Mum laughed. ‘It sounds like you’re having a good time. I love you, son. I love you very much and I am glad.’ I heard tears in her vocals.

  ‘Mum, Mum, what are you missing?’ I asked her.

  ‘What do you mean? I’m okay, love, you just go on having a good time and I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?’

  ‘But, Mum, Mum, what are you missing? What are you missing?’

  ‘Nothing, love, nothing. I’m not missing anything.’

  ‘But you said, Mum, you said.’

  ‘Yes, love, I am missing you, of course – I am missing you. But I know I’ll see you very soon.’

  I didn’t cry. I didn’t know where the engine of crying was, what it looked like. ‘But Mum, what are you –’

  ‘I love you, darling. Can you put your father on, love?’

  •

  I wished I had a manual for crying; I’d follow the instructions carefully from point to point, letter to letter, until I cried enough tears to fill the tray of a truck and then I would tip the truck in the hole in Mum and up it would fill, up and over the edge and nothing would be missing, nothing at all.

  The next day it was windy and raining and Uncle Rodney said, ‘Let’s take the Statesman for a spin around the island, fellas.’

  We got in and I pressed the window button and down came the window. I did it again. I did it one more time and then I didn’t do it anymore. The button was there if I wanted to press it, in the same place just under the ledge – but I didn’t need to press it anymore. Uncle Rodney turned the key, fuel charged through the passages and the Statesman hit the road.

  Dad’s arm rested against the open window and the wind blew back his hair. I stuck my arm out the window behind him and the wind bounced it back and forth. Ned put his head out the other side and the wind blew back his ears. The Statesman drove past the long lines of palm trees that ran beside the beach, tossing their pineapple hair in the breeze. Pelicans flew like white boats across the sky. The water kept changing; no one shape stayed the same – even when a single ripple found its shape, it was already on the way to another. There was no point of static.

  I closed my eyes and I made a picture of Mum sitting at the kitchen table reading an Agatha. I chose The ABC Murders. She looked up from the page, her head turned to the window as if she was waiting for something. I listened to the slow drag of her breath. She needed the winds of Broken Island to blow back the dust in her tunnels.

  ‘Can Mum come, Uncle Rodney? Can Mum come here?’

  Uncle Rodney looked across to Dad. ‘Of course she can, mate. Love to see Paula again. We’ll organise it, hey, bro?’

  ‘Great idea. I’ll get on to it soon as we get home.’

  I sat back as Mum floated around the body of the Statesman. Dad pulled his arm inside and pressed the button so his window went up as if he was scared of something.

  When we got to the other side of the island the skies began to clear. Uncle Rodney picked up fish and chips and we took them to the lighthouse. We ate on the grassy slope looking up at the steeple, with its red circles at the top to warn the fishermen. Uncle Rodney poured sauce on the chips and every time I thought an obstacle would come it didn’t. The seas of Broken Island had powers that thawed us. The invisible world had lost its language. Ned ate the chips we didn’t want and the gulls came close for their share. I looked way out to sea and Dad said, ‘Do you think Robby is on one of those boats, son?’ It was the first time Dad had mentioned Robby in a long time. The first time he’d said his name.

  ‘No, Dad, no. He’s west. That’s the Pacific. He’s on the Indian. And those are liners carrying cargo, Dad. Cans and planks and car parts. Robby is fishing.’

  ‘You’re too smart for me, kid,’ said Dad.

  ‘I tell you what,’ said Uncle Rodney, ‘Robby will be working so hard he won’t know which ocean he’s in.’

  ‘He knows how to work,’ said Dad. ‘He’s a Flick, remember.’

  ‘And one thing you can say about the Flick brothers,’ I added. ‘They know how to work.’

  ‘Jeez you’re sharp, kid,’ said Uncle Rodney.

  ‘Little bugger,’ said Dad, messing my hair.

  I lay in bed and listened to the hard coloured balls smacking against each other as Dad and Uncle Rodney played pool. The window was open and the light from the yellow moon shone through. Uncle Rodney had lit a coil to keep away the mosquitoes. If the mosquito breathed in the smoke from the coil, the smoke entered its body and did the same thing to its breathing apparatus as dust did to my mother’s. But the mosquito is so much smaller than my mother that it couldn’t manage the poison; its body burst. The coil glowed on the window ledge, going slowly round on its way to the middle where, with nothing left to burn, it would become the same ash that was left in Dad’s egg cup after Pop Flick went through the incinerator.

  I breathed in the smoke and lined up shadows: frame, curtain, coil, crack in wall, crack up wall, crack down wall, hook, suitcase, Dad’s shoe, Dad’s coat, Dad’s belt, Dad’s other shoe, pillow, my knee, my arm, my elbow, my hand.

  Just as I was about to close my eyes I saw a faint line connecting the shadows, like string you take into a forest so you don’t lose your way. Everything in the room was joined by the one line; the frame to the curtain, the coil to the crack, the belt to the shoe. I closed my eyes and in the vision behind the skin of my lids I saw the line stretch way out to sea, like cobweb blown by the wind, further and further; it crossed the Pacific until the Pacific became the Indian and it found Robby in his ship. It touched his shoulder and moved across the sleeve of his shirt and up to his eyes a
nd across the top of his head and then the line went to all the other men on the ship, then all the way back to me. Everyone was joined.

  ‘Don’t know why we left it so long, mate. Madness.’ I heard Uncle Rodney say.

  ‘You get caught up in things . . . work. First holiday in – I dunno how long . . . too long, mate.’ My dad sounded lighter, as if laughter had altered his weight.

  ‘Too long is right. Pass me the short cue, will you?’

  ‘Shirl wasn’t too keen on visitors – don’t you remember?’

  Click went the balls.

  ‘No Shirl now, mate.’

  ‘No Shirl, true story. Bloody hell, mate. Nah, but you’re better off.’

  Smack went the balls.

  ‘Shot! ’Nother beer?’

  ‘Yeah, mate. Good to see the young fella again. Got to happen more often.’

  ‘For sure, mate, going to make some changes when I get back. No more of the hard stuff, like I said.’

  I closed my eyes and saw my Dad tearing through the surf towards me, getting to me as fast as he could. Mum wasn’t there, only Dad. There was room for him. In Nineteen Emu Mum took up all the room. Her streams of love flooded the house; that’s why Dad spent so much time in the shed. It was dry land in there.

  As the brothers played and spoke and swallowed beer, and the balls clicked and smacked and sank, the sounds became a lullaby – not the one Mum sang to me when I was small; a different one, an accidental one made of men. Ned lay beside me, the power of the animal kingdom adding a harmony.

  ‘Good idea. Save up for your retirement and come and live up here – the island life, mate, the island life,’ said Uncle Rodney.

  ‘Retirement, that’s a good one. Bloody hell.’

  Smack click.

  ‘Two on the black.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Click.

  ‘Two on the black.’

  I drifted to sleep on the waves of the accidental lullaby.

  One morning we left Ned at home with a bone and drove to Uncle Rodney’s shop. Outside was a sign that said Flick’s Marine and Tackle and Uncle Rodney showed me where he kept the bait and the hooks and the sinkers.