Water Under Water

by Peter Rix

  Tom?

  They’d chosen names months before. And when the nurse had lifted the baby onto her heaving belly, Jim’s voice, Hey, g’day there, young Tom.

  Thomas Anthony he was to be, actually, after his grandfathers, but it seemed out of scale now somehow, a cruel joke – all that lineage for one like this.

  Neither Jim nor Fran had dared utter the name since, but Tom it would be.

  Just Tom.

  Outside the delivery room, Jim prowled the corridors. Running Chatfield to earth gave him something to do, and even the walking helped. Maybe the chairman was right. What if there was a cure? In the States perhaps. Some kind of operation. If it was a question of money …

  Where has that bloody doctor got to?

  Dr Leonard Chatfield was long gone. Mother and baby were healthy, resting as they should. Back in the ward, Jim was learning that grief was a kind of claustrophobia. There was simply not enough room.

  Two

  The little town of Wassford won’t be on your holiday maps unless you’re part of the white-water crowd, and even with them the river’s reputation is patchy at best – flash flood or trickle, too much water or not enough, a decent rapids run two or three weekends a year at the most.

  As for the town, it’s usually just the signal to rouse the ones snoozing in the back seat. Not that there’s much to see: a few dozen houses, the one-class primary school, the settlement on the outskirts. Over half a century, the timber guesthouse on the hill has worn out a succession of owners. The town finally got a medical clinic built after years of begging. Doc Farmer was brought up from Sydney on a fixed-term contract.

  From the safety of just passing through, Wassford has a half-finished, half-ruined look about it, a century of existence only suggesting the town’s imminent demise – gap-toothed picket fences, timber-slatted shacks sagging under the weight of years. The place was built on good Australian hardwood, but the timber is long gone, jinkered down to the mill on the coast decades ago. Roll through tomorrow to find the rest gone and there’d be no surprise in it.

  Although, maybe if you stayed for a bit – a few beers on the pub veranda, a weather check with old Uncle Doug, who trades his forecasts for rollies at the store – you might just begin to give the town the benefit of the doubt. And, if you were one of those who sees below the surface, maybe you’d even begin to wonder whether Wassford might be the kind of place that defies time, on its last legs above ground but, underneath, with foundations like tap roots, challenging time to do its worst. But, then, why would you be hanging around anyway? People judge towns as they do people: what they don’t like the look of they quickly pass by. And Wassford does not make a good first impression.

  Just below the town, the river flows under a bridge. Hardly even a river mostly, tumbling down from the high peaks of the Great Divide, a lazy afternoon’s drift across the narrow coastal plain and out into the Pacific. The Wassford bridge is one of those old single-lane constructions, hardwood eight-by-fives, splintered and clanky. The mandatory knotted rope hangs from a river gum. The local kids are never out of the water during summer, bombing each other off the bridge until it’s their turn for the long swing out over the swimming hole. After each flood, the local teacher, Lionel Sharnley, and the dads from the footy club clear away the snags and logs.

  Once it leaves the town, the road east from Wassford stays with the river most of the way to the coast then veers south until it ends abruptly in a half-completed car park. The area was levelled a few years back but never sealed, so it’s mostly either mud or dust, and the rough-sawn posts dumped at the edge of the bush for the barricades were burnt or pilfered long ago. Past the car park, it’s a twenty-minute walk through scrubby sand hills out to Stringy Bark Point.

  The Wassford mob have always headed out there to fish. The kids swim and play in the shallows. Even after a long dry, the channel runs fifty metres into the surf. Where the two waters meet, lazy whirlpools barely stir the surface, and further out the broken waves jump on tiptoes as the river ducks beneath them. Every so often, a piece of driftwood or snapped-off branch still covered in leaves floats past, and the kids race to test their throwing arms with flat skimming stones. They’ve practised this sport many times, and no one piece of flotsam holds their attention for long. Just a small distraction – a gull, or one of the others jagging a fish – and when they look back the thing has drifted beyond their reach, through the channel and into the surf.

  On the morning of Tom’s trip to Wassford, his mum said, You have to be at the meeting place by nine. That’s morning time.

  I’m not stupid, Mum.

  And just get a one-way ticket for the train. You’ll be coming back with Dad.

  Then Tom had a great idea. Why don’t both Dad and you come and give me a pick-up from the river, he suggested. That’s the best way.

  His mum said, Give it a rest, will you, Tom? Dad’s made a special arrangement with work to go up there for you, so just enjoy that.

  That was the voice his mum used when she’d had enough. If you have a brain that doesn’t work so well, you can forget about mums having enough. White-water rafting – even his brother would want to see the river and hear about how Tom steered the group over the giant waterfall and saved Virginia from drowning.

  Hey, I’ve got it, Mum. How about you and Dad and James all come up there to lift me home? Yeah, that’s the best one of all.

  His mum said, Aghh! She did the thing with her hands like she was going to strangle him, so Tom said, I get it, I get it, and his mum messed up his hair, which was all right because his friends weren’t around. Then his mum said she’d whip up to the newsagent to buy a prepaid card for his mobile phone. She’d bought a phone card for him last week ago but his stupid brain made him forget about only making short calls and only when they’re absolutely necessary.

  I really don’t have time for this, Tom.

  But she whipped her car up to the newsagent anyway. When his mum came back home, she would find the note on the kitchen bench. He worked hard on the note; most of the words stayed between the lines of his special paper.

  Mum,

  It 6.36 on my watch (morning time). I go early to meeting place so you got nothing to worry about.

  Tom (your other son)

  Tom caught a bus to the train station and bought a one-way ticket. On the train, he counted the five stops to get to the station near the meeting place. He knew the names of the stations, but it was good to count, too, just in case. He carried his bags along to the gates and put his ticket into the first slot of the special machine, with the arrow facing forward like you have to do, but the machine kept his ticket. He looked hard at the second slot, where his tickets usually slid out, but no ticket did any sliding out at all.

  Tom collected train tickets. Tom caught trains to work and to the movies and to the meeting place, one train ride to get there and one train ride to come back. At his home station, there was no machine for the tickets, just a man with a special hat.

  The station man lets me keep my tickets for my collection, he’d told his dad, but his dad hadn’t said anything about the station man. It was better when his dad said something.

  Because the machine didn’t give his ticket back, Tom hoisted his backpack, picked up his other bags and started walking along the platform to the ticket office – the station people could help him. It was a long walk along the platform.

  I always know when it’s Tom, his big brother James said last month ago. I can tell even from a long way away, because he walks like an ape with a cucumber up its bum.

  Tom had practised walking like the apes on TV. He’d tried with a cucumber from the fridge, but it kept falling out of his pants.

  With his special camping rain jacket tied around his waist, his backpack and his other stuff, Tom thought he might fall flat on his face on the platform, but he didn’t. Hey, which famous Australian will never fall flat on her face? The answer you have to tell them is Elle Macpherson. Then you say, Because of the
bazoomas! And then it’s a joke.

  On the platform, some people looked like they wanted to ask if he needed help, but when they got up close they walked away like they hadn’t really seen him. Maybe they were late. Maybe they didn’t want to talk to him because of the Down Syndrome. Hey, cool. There was a boy and a girl leaning against the wall next to the ticket office. The girl leant up against the wall, and the boy stood close to her like on TV, and he held her hips with his hands while he kissed her. Tom grinned. He walked up close and watched the boy and the girl. James would get angry and punch him when Tom spied on him with his girlfriends, but this boy and girl didn’t care who saw them. Sucked in. The boy gave the girl quick little kisses, lots of them, on her lips, her nose, her eyes, her neck. Tom put down his bags to watch better.

  Whadya staring at, bullet-head?

  Now I get it, Tom told the boy. I’m going to do it like that with my girlfriends, Maisie and Virginia, too.

  He stepped up to give the boy a punch on the arm like he did with his brother, but the boy backed away.

  Thanks, dude, you’re the best, Tom said. My favourite kissing man.

  The boy and girl walked off, holding hands, so Tom started after them. Maybe they could come to his twenty-first – then James would see. At the top of the steps, his brain remembered the ticket.

  See ya.

  Bullet-head. Yeah, like a gangster. From now on, Tom decided, he’d bring his machine gun with him every time – not the one that squirted water, his real one that fired bullets and made the sound.

  At the ticket office, Tom waited in the queue. When his turn came, he put down his bags and took off his backpack. This man didn’t have a special hat.

  The machine didn’t give my ticket back.

  A return ticket, of course?

  The man winked at the lady behind in the queue.

  This ticket was a one-way, Tom said. Like Mum told me, he added, so the station man would know.

  That’s it then, the station man said.

  The man looked over Tom’s head to the lady. Tom stood very still. He stared at the station man, and the station man looked at the lady, but the lady didn’t say anything, so the station man looked at Tom again.

  Listen. You had a one-way ticket.

  I didn’t get it back.

  The man talked louder. It’s a one-way ticket. One. Way. You don’t get it back.

  When people talked loudly to him, Tom told them, I’m Down Syndrome, not deaf, but his mum said that was rude. Talking loudly is rude too.

  I need the ticket for my collection, Tom said.

  The man opened his mouth to say something to Tom. The queue was long now, and some of the people were interested. The station man called back into the dark place behind the counter.

  Kim … hey, Kim. Can you help this … young fella? The station man looked past Tom to the queue. A one-way, he said.

  Tom put on his backpack, picked up his bags and followed Kim. Do you know my friend, Amit? He’s like you.

  Your friend, he Korean, like me?

  He was born in a hospital, in India. That’s another country.

  Kim stopped on the platform. India, Korea, not same. Different.

  Ah, yeah, now I get it. I’ll tell Amit.

  Kim opened the ticket machine and scooped lots of tickets into a bag. Plenty tickets, see?

  Tom peered into the bag. I need my ticket.

  Ticket was one-way, Kim said.

  For my collection, Tom told him.

  Look, boy, tickets all same. Kim grinned. Ah, doesn’t matter. Take more for collection.

  Tom shook his head. They’re not mine. It was good talking to Kim.

  Ha, how you know which one ticket yours?

  My dad says I can’t write my name on them, Tom said. That’s what I used to do last year ago, but he said it was stupid.

  Kim looked like he wanted to ask a question but didn’t want to ask it either because Tom was a disabilities person.

  Look, boy, you lose one ticket in machine, you take one ticket now. All same. Collection good.

  Kim’s brain worked really well.

  Hey, now I get it.

  But it was still hard to take one of the tickets. Tom hauled on his backpack and hoisted his bags. Kim was definitely invited to his twenty-first. He pointed at Tom’s stuff.

  Where you go to? Maybe move house, hey!

  No, my brother’s going to move but only when I can look after myself. Then I’m moving to Hollywood in America. You can come and visit me if you want. But in this time right now I’m going on the river trip. We’re going to Wassford. That’s still in Australia.

  Tom arrived early at the meeting place: one hour and forty-three minutes before the scheduled departure time for the trip to Wassford. It could be a record. He was always early. It said 7.17 on his digital watch. If it was a record – cool.

  In the morning time, seven comes before eight and eight comes before nine, so that’s all right. He could ring Mr Lucas to remind him he wouldn’t be at work today. He reminded Mr Lucas yesterday, and the day before – every day for two weeks. He had another look at his digital watch: 7.22. He wouldn’t ring.

  Time was hard. Not the numbers; he could do the numbers like anyone else – hours, minutes, like on his special watch. It was the space in between the numbers. The present – now time – was easy. He knew that one all right. Except when his dad said, As soon as we say it’s now, Tom, it’s not now any more. It was great when his dad did tricks and teasing. But there were other ones, like the times that had been now before and weren’t now any more, and the times that hadn’t been now at all, not even for a minute or an hour.

  The really best is, Tom said out loud, if all the times are now, but just different parts, different places for now to be in.

  The time that had been now before wasn’t so hard, like yesterday and last year ago and even back when he was just a kid. He could keep all of those ones together, like his train-ticket collection, all the times that were gone but still there in his brain, underneath, like the water under water in the swimming pool at home. Like one night at the dinner table when his favourite big brother made a list of the family’s pets.

  In the order of their demise, James said. Demise means dead, he told Tom.

  I can remember Tiger the cat, Tom said. Last year when …

  Last year! James flicked a pea at him. Eight years, Tom, you loser. Nearly eight years since that cat died. What are you?

  A loser! A loser!

  Their dad didn’t like this game. Do you have to make it worse, James?

  James did a wink.

  Then his dad said, Time carries things away from you until they’re gone. That’s what it means to forget.

  His dad knew everything, but this was a different one. All of the times that had been now before were not really gone; they were still there, just under where now is. Even talking with his brother, Tom could feel them. Eight years or just last week ago, that big, slinky tabby prowled past his legs. Here, puss! Tom heard him purr. Then Tom went into the place in his brain where Tiger the cat was a real tiger or even a lion. It was a jungle down there under the table, dark and dangerous, but Tom wasn’t scared of any wild animals, and then he was on an outing to the zoo with his Independence Group and he climbed right into the tigers’ cage to feed them his sandwich so Virginia would know he was the bravest one. Beneath the table, Tom slid his fingers through the soft, secret fur under Tiger’s chin.

  Tom was here at the meeting place too early, that’s what his dad would say. The real problem with time, Tom thought, was the ones that hadn’t come yet. With those ones, you could be waiting for a long time when you thought it would only be a short time. Like for his eighteenth birthday. Or you could be early or late. For work, or bowling, or at the meeting place. Between early and late, early was still the best one. No one got angry with early. Except sometimes his dad. His mum said, No one will mind if you’re early, but his dad said, Being too early makes you look stupid, and the
re’s no reason for it, Tom. Why don’t you look at your watch? Remember I taught you how to read the digital numbers? You haven’t lost your birthday watch, have you? With his dad, it wasn’t really about early or late.

  Tom had to wait at the meeting place. Tom was good at waiting, for his group or his dad or his TV program. Tom knew about waiting. Not like Amit. Amit went crazy if he had to wait for even a minute or an hour. Tom spread his stuff out on the ground: his backpack, his supermarket bag for his train tickets and his special sports bag that his mum bought him for ten-pin bowling. Tom waited, but then he got tired of waiting so he just sat. Sitting was easier than waiting. With waiting, there was still that thing with time – it could make you feel worried in your stomach. Sitting had no hours and minutes in it. You just sat. Tom kept his special camping rain jacket tied around his waist so he wouldn’t be a potato-head and leave it at the meeting place.

  You can’t rely on the weather at this time of year, his mum had told him when he was packing his stuff for the river trip. And good campers are always prepared for rain. Mums know lots of things but not about having rain jackets tied around you. Tom felt the train ticket in his pocket. He would not put it in the shopping bag, not yet, just in case. If you have a brain that doesn’t work so well, then rain jackets and teasing and early and late are all around and you can’t tell if it’s the real world in this place where you are or if it is only the world inside your brain. When your dad says there’s no need to panic, that’s when you have to stay calm. Sometimes, you can do jokes and teasing to be the special hero. Or you can just try to be brave, like your big brother says, and hope it will be all right in the end.

  Three

  The day Jim Campion left Sydney to follow Tom’s group up the coast to Wassford started with one of those special mornings the city serves up; he’d felt the drop in temperature during the night and woke to find a chill sou’wester had blown the city smog way out over the Pacific. Late May, and the southerly groundswells were coming through with the offshore winds, just as they should.