by Peter Rix
Tom, I’ve come all the way from my office to see you swim in your race, Jim said. You can still do that. For me?
Tom wavered.
I’m going to tell you a special thing about being underwater too, Jim said. I’ll bet those bullies don’t even know it.
What special thing?
Are you going to swim in your race?
What special thing? Tom insisted.
You swim underwater in the pool at home, right? You can stay underwater for a very long time.
I bet I can stay underwater even more than James, Tom boasted, even if his girlfriend watches.
Exactly.
But not with feet on top of my head.
That’s just it, Tom, his father explained. It only gets hard to stay under the water when you’re scared. That’s the special thing. If you don’t panic, you can stay down there for ages. With those boys, you could have dived down even deeper, like I showed you in the surf when you need to get under a big wave. Get away, then come up to the top. Do you understand what I’m saying?
Tom was all ears now.
And here’s what makes it special, little mate. Not many people know about it. They think they can’t hold their breath very long, but if you don’t panic, you use up less air – that’s how it works.
Tom edged closer on the seat, his eyes fixed on his dad, sounding out the words …
… when your dad talks to you like this, you can listen with your ears that you wash out every night so potatoes won’t grow in there but with your eyes too, and with your skin on your body and the hairs on your arms all standing up. You can listen to your dad like that. Tom’s father was saying these special things to him. Not to James, just to him. So he felt it coming up from inside until it didn’t matter any more about those other boys who were just ignorant about disabilities people, or about Down Syndrome, or about anything because his father was saying special words only to him.
A soaking-wet Tom hugged his favourite father and skipped off for his race. It was lucky Jim kept a spare shirt back at the office.
Newton, how do you know about Newport and the peninsula, Jim asked, if you’ve never been there?
Oh, I know about everywhere in Sydney. You can ask me all about Newport or Manly, the famous Shire, Kings Cross – everywhere.
How, though? You must get the information from somewhere.
I buy the newspapers, Newton told him. The Sydney Morning Herald, the Tele. Every day, I buy them.
You read the newspapers?
I read the newspapers. All the stories. With my street directory.
Your …?
A very nice present for my twelfth birthday, Newton said proudly.
A Sydney street directory?
My Gregory’s.
Let’s get this straight, Jim interrogated him. You read the newspapers, then you look at the street directory to see where the stories happened?
I read the newspapers and my street directory.
You can’t even have been born when Tom Carroll won his surf title, Jim said. So you’ve just read about him and remembered it. That’s amazing, Newton.
That is amazing, Mr Campion. And also, I do have one party trick. As if he were confirming the outcome of a major deal.
Oh, yes?
What is your date of birth, Mr Campion?
May fourteen, nineteen fifty-one, Jim told him.
That would be a Monday, Newton said without hesitation.
This is more like Tom’s friends, Jim was thinking. Very clever, Newton, he said. I can’t remember, so you could say anything.
Yes, it was a Monday, Newton said.
All right, let’s have a look in my diary, Jim said. What day was the third of March this year?
Newton’s answer came in an instant. Friday, of course, he said, allowing himself a small smile. Very easy.
You’re right, Newton. There has to be a trick to this, Jim said. How about the twenty-sixth of October, last year?
Wednesday, came the answer.
That’s very good, Newton. How do you do it? Okay, I’ll have to give you a harder one.
Jim searched his memory and came up with a date. James was born on a Saturday; Fran had gone into labour while they were watching a rugby match.
Okay, Newton, one more, he said. How about the sixteenth of July, nineteen seventy-seven.
This time, it took Newton several seconds. Saturday, he said, nodding his head.
This really is very good, Newton. How do you do it?
Mr Campion, I told you. It’s my party trick.
Yes, but Newton, Newton, look at me. Newton, now listen closely. Do you memorise them? Or make some kind of calculation?
I think, and then I know the day. Look, there’s Tom.
What?
But Jim was staring at Newton. This was different to Tom and the others. Here, there was method, surely? Analysis of information, computation, perhaps. Closer to the real world. This talent of Newton’s could be harnessed, couldn’t it?
The special-class race was the fiasco it was destined to be. Tom lined up against Amit, Virginia and two others who looked normal but only agreed to enter the water fitted with life vests; swimming included hand-hauling along the lane ropes. They all missed the start, except Amit, who jumped a foot in the air at the gun but landed safely back on the blocks. Tom held his racing stance for three seconds until Mrs Fraser administered a decisive push in the back. Then he was off, halfway down the pool before any of the others were in the water.
Tom had one thing right; he could have competed well enough against the rest of the school. He had always been a useful swimmer, loose-limbed and graceful. He and Jim had spent hours in the pool when he was learning, getting the breathing sequence right, building strength in those low-tone muscles. Look at him go. He’ll be under thirty-five seconds for the fifty metres – not bad for a kid with a disability.
Tom’s got this! Jim was on his feet. Go, Tom, go!
Ten metres from the finish, Tom stopped swimming and waved up into the stand. Hey, my favourite father, I know the special thing.
No, Tom. Not now, not now.
But then Tom ducked into the next lane to give Virginia a lesson. I can show you, like my dad taught me.
The ache above Jim’s eyes had threatened all morning. The glare from the pool hadn’t helped.
Are you feeling all right, Mr Campion? Newton asked. I understand there is a first-aid box available for minor illnesses like sunstroke, or injuries such as bruises, superficial cuts and abrasions.
No, thanks, Newton. I’m fine.
They sat for a while waiting for Tom, but he had disappeared off somewhere, no doubt giving his friend a swimming lesson.
Let Tom know I had to go back to work, will you? Jim said finally.
I’ll let Tom know you had to go back to work. Mr Campion, would you like me to tell you another interesting thing about Tom Carroll?
Go on, Jim said.
Tom Carroll was world champion twice, in nineteen eighty-three and nineteen eighty-four, Newton told him in an even voice. But, Mr Campion, I was already seven years old, so I was definitely born.
Ten
Andy Mayfield anchored the Stambridge senior fifty-metre relay team; Munich Olympics potential, the head swimming coach had assured him. But, of course, Andy never trained and soon gave up swimming for riding a board. Jim never had Andy’s speed in the pool, but he did best over the longer distances. Slowing through the river town of Bulahdelah, Jim checked the dashboard clock and made calculations. The extra driving, a short visit to Sutton’s Lake? He had made good time and could still get to Port for dinner. He left it late to swing hard right across to the exit lane – an indignant horn blast chased them off the highway. Campbell sat up.
I’m turning off here, Jim told him. I hope you make it.
The boy collected his pack and tapped on the passenger window. Thanks for the ride. And for the, um, talk.
He was a nice kid. Yeah, sorry to get on your case, Jim said. Who knows? Maybe
I’ll see you in Port.
Ha. Not unless you’re going to hit the bright lights of the Flying Dolphin Resort. But thanks anyway.
Jim accelerated back onto the bitumen. It was a release to be the only vehicle on the road after the constant highway traffic, steering fast into the bends as the scenic route showed off the coastal hills and valleys. He had been on this road only once before that he could remember – that weekend camping at Seal Rocks with Andy and Fran, years ago. It seemed to take longer now, more steep, winding sections than he recalled, and by the time he passed the Seal Rocks sign he was convinced he must have missed the lake turn-off. He was looking out for a place to throw a U-turn when a low shape dashed from the scrub right across his path.
The big four-wheel drive registered no impact, but he could not miss seeing in the rear vision the animal spinning away into the gravel. He pulled over and ran back fifty metres to find a long-haired terrier of some sort, on its side in the verge, eyes closed but breathing like one of the family’s dogs lying flat out in the sun by the pool. He lowered himself cautiously then reached out, his hand heavy on the warm body. There was no response. He ran back to fetch an old tartan picnic rug kept in the vehicle, rolled the dog onto it and positioned the body carefully on the back seat. There was not much blood, at least.
Back in the driver’s seat, he looked around. Not a house in sight, but two hundred metres further on he came to the Sutton’s Lake sign. Jim followed the road over the ridge until it dropped down beside the lakeshore. He slowed past a small set of shops but did not stop; he’d try Andy first. It had to be the right road, and Andy’s place was on the water, the letter was clear on that. It was just a matter of checking the numbers. The house was just as Andy had described. Jim pulled into the driveway, deciding to leave the dog in the car – really, what chance Andy even still lived here?
Halfway across a wide timber veranda, he heard a scraping sound and followed the deck to that side of the house. A figure was sprawled in a battered cane chair tipped back against the wall, reading. A deep tan, thinner, lines around the eyes and mouth, hair close-cropped, almost shaved, but incredibly, almost impossibly …
Andy! Mate, you look … I can’t believe it. Standing there, hands out in front like he was holding the bundle in the blanket, as if the gesture might explain.
His old friend ambled along the veranda.
And g’day to you too, Jimmy, he said, smiling. It’s been a while. As if it were weeks.
Andy, I’ve hit a dog.
They walked quickly to the car. Andy opened the back door and reached in over the seat for what seemed too long a time then lifted the bundle clear. He turned away from the sun, as you might to shield a baby’s eyes, then laid the animal on the grass, stroking the matted fur, fingers splayed, teasing out the straggly coat like a comb. He spoke without looking up.
She’s dead.
Oh, shit. It was breathing … Is it from around here, Andy? I mean, do you know? It ran straight under the wheels. If you know who it belongs to, I’ll go and …
It seemed too absurd, finally coming here and then this. But the rush of words seemed only to compound his guilt, and for some moments Andy stayed down on his knees, crouched low as if to screen the body, as if Jim were a passer-by who had intruded upon a scene of private grief. Jim stepped back as Andy gathered the dog into his arms again. He slid one hand to lift the small head, his thumb absently scratching behind the dog’s ear as if the animal might suddenly revive, as if at any moment there might be a faint wag of the tail. Andy turned to Jim as he spoke. This is not what you were hoping for, eh? Not how you’d expected it to be after all this time.
He dropped his eyes to the dog. Haven’t seen her around here.
Jim said, A stray, do you reckon?
Andy ran a hand along the dog’s side. No collar, but she’s in pretty good nick. Dumped, maybe.
Jim shook his head at the thought.
It happens, Andy said. A cute little puppy for Christmas, then she nips someone or gets too much bother to look after.
Bastards. Still, at least …
Jim knew as soon as the words were out. He hadn’t meant it to sound hopeful.
Always best to hit a dog no one wants, eh? Andy said.
Christ, Andy. All I mean is at least some poor kid or old person isn’t going to be upset.
You’re right, Jimmy. Of course you are, Andy said quietly.
He held the dog to his chest and looked down at the blanket on the grass as if he might have forgotten something. Just me being quick on the draw, he said. You’d remember that, eh? We’ll bury her round the back.
Here?
There’s a hibiscus. It gets the first sun in the morning.
Jim began to suggest they should try to find the owner, make enquiries, do the right thing, but Andy said it wouldn’t make any difference to the dog, and people who didn’t look after their pet didn’t deserve any consideration anyway. He was already heading down the side of the house. Jim followed. It was wrong to just dodge the responsibility, but he was relieved, too; the last thing he needed was complications on this trip. Andy laid the small body in the shadow of the tall shrub and wandered off to fetch a shovel. Jim started after him.
Can I give you a hand?
You’ll just get your good gear dirty.
So he waited there on the grass. The evening air ruffled the dog’s fur. He wanted to move away, but it was as if Andy had left him to keep guard, as if abandoning the animal now would only add to the indictment. He hung back too, as Andy drove the shovel into the sandy soil and began to dig. After just a few minutes, the hole seemed already too large for such a small body, but Andy kept on. When he paused in the digging, Jim said, Come on, it was my … let me do some.
Forget it, Andy said. Have a wander. There’s beer in the fridge inside.
No, I’m fine. Thanks.
Reluctantly, Jim left him to it and glanced around the garden. He shouldn’t have let Fran talk him into this. It seemed an age before Andy gathered up the body and positioned it in the grave. He shovelled the earth back until there was just a mound you could hardly notice.
That should settle in a few weeks, he said. He stayed on his haunches. I guess that’s it, eh? It feels like there should be something more… I’ve met a few Kooris up here. They seem to have death worked out better than us. More practice, maybe.
Jim held his hands out. I’m sorry, mate, he said. I don’t know what to …
Andy worked the soil smooth with his hands. That’s all right, he said. I’ll come down here later.
He stood, said something Jim didn’t catch, briefly laid a hand on his shoulder and gestured to a track at the end of the garden. Jim hesitated at the grave then followed along a rough path through a stand of white gums. He came out onto a narrow beach at the edge of a small lake – a few hundred metres of glassy surface then a sandy point and beyond that he could just make out a choppy ocean swell. Late-afternoon shadow from the western ridge brought the cool touch of air over water. Jim was glad of his suit coat. He looked around. He and Andy had seen plenty of systems like this up and down the coast in their surfing days, stretches of water in behind the beach, lakes, estuaries and sand flats, buffer zones between land and sea, absorbing the pressures exerted by two massive forces.
Andy was always pointing the finger. The system works perfectly, Jimmy, until we stuff it up.
Andy acknowledged Jim with a wave then pushed away from the tattered paperbark he’d been leaning against and stepped into the water. This was pure Andy Mayfield – just what Jim should have expected. The Dynamic Duo twenty years on, Campion in white shirt, tie, pinstripe suit, uncertain on the grass verge, and Mayfield with T-shirt and ragged cut-down jeans, barefooted, up to his ankles in the lake.
I thought you might like a couple of minutes alone, Andy said.
He pointed across the lake to the sandbar and the surf beyond. This is where I come when it goes bad. Watch.
The lowering sun caught the narr
ow strip of sand on the far side, and as if Andy had flicked a switch the scene was transformed. The sandbar was illuminated as a single horizontal stroke, vivid white beneath the cloudbank on the horizon. As always, Andy had timed it perfectly. The day bled its last colours onto the mirror surface of the lake: pastel pink, lavender, shiraz. Beyond the bank, a dark strip of ocean marked the divide between land and sea. As they watched, a set broke against the point and a brief spatter of whiter-still was flicked onto the canvas.
Beautiful, eh? Andy said. But see how low the water is? This is an enclosed lake. There’s just that sandbar between us and the mighty Pacific. It’s the only one for miles, but that doesn’t suit us at all. We can’t have the holiday houses flooded, can we? He pointed to where the lake had been opened to drain. Just last week, he said, in they came with a dirty great excavator to chew up the beach.
You can’t blame them for not wanting the lake in their lounge rooms, Jim said before he could stop himself. As if they were still point-scoring undergrads in the cafe between lectures.
The lake was here a long time before the houses, Andy chided him.
This was the Mayfield of old, ever ready to take up arms. As though they had stumbled back into the familiar territory of the Tempe pub or Manning Bar. And, somehow, rising to it was a kind of relief too.
Giddy up, hobby horse, Jim said in a stage whisper.
Andy spun to face him, then grinned.
You betcha. Just ask the local real-estate blokes: Mayfield? That greenie ratbag.
He squatted to inspect a crescent jellyfish at the water’s edge. There were dozens pulsing in the shallows, more dulling above the waterline. Jim watched him scrunch his feet into the wet sand, reach down to scoop the slippery thing into his hand and hold it up, childlike. It was nothing, and yet for one moment it could have been the two of them way back; Andy, the afternoon lake, the jelly disc quivering on his open palm. Campion and Mayfield, as if they were not separated by two decades of everything set hard. It was the trip, of course, but Andy too. In the old days, wherever he was, whatever he did, Andy always seemed to be in the right place. In the clear. And, for that one moment, it seemed the offer might just be open to Jim.