by Peter Rix
Eighteen
Jim almost missed Wassford. He was halfway through town before he realised this was it. He wondered as he drove in, How does a place get like this? Like an itinerant’s camp – stuff everywhere, rusty and broken, rubbish left lying around?
When the narrow ramp onto the one-lane bridge was blocked for a minute by a couple of utes heading in opposite directions, he resisted the temptation to give them a honk and waited there, listening to the jokes tossed from wound-down windows like empty beer cans.
Eh, cuz, can’t go on like this, can we?
Set a lights, y’ reckon?
Lights’d fix it, eh. Or a copper.
Give them fellas somethin’ useful to do.
He parked near the sports oval then walked back over the bridge to ask for directions. Russell had drawn a sketch map of the tracks upriver, but which road to take out of town was not clear. The general store and pub were the only places with any signs of life. He stood on the opposite side of the road. The buildings had not been renovated like so many had around the country. No new corrugated awnings, no bright new timbers and posts for the wide verandas. He and Fran had stayed in a place like this once, in a pub as dilapidated as this one.
It was the year Jim’s father died. On arriving back in Sydney, they’d collected Tom from the respite care house and broken the news. He went into his statue routine for days, almost catatonic, until the morning of the funeral. As the crematorium curtains closed on the coffin, Tom buried his face in Jim’s chest, shrieking, fists pounding. Make them stop it, Dad! Please, please, make them stop it!
At home, Jim and Fran raged, too.
Of all the stupid ideas, Fran!
She had encouraged Tom to attend the funeral, taken him calmly through how the service would go.
You were right about one thing, Jim said. It jolted him out of it, all right. Well done.
She hurled back, So we should have left him out of it? And have him spend how many years terrified about where his gramps has gone?
It degenerated from shouting into a dull and bitter distance that neither had the energy to bridge. Jim retreated to the bedroom to pack a suitcase for a business trip, and Tom was suddenly there, in pyjamas, tear-streaked face.
I still love you, Dad, he sobbed.
I know you do, mate. It’s all right. Let go of my leg now.
You won’t come back. I saw it on my TV show.
Yes, I will. I promise. Come on, you can help me pack.
He turned it into something they could do together.
It’s just a few days, Tom. I don’t need all those socks.
But these are your Mickey Mouse ones I gave you.
All right, fine. Stick them in.
That set off the tears again. If you don’t come back, how will I know who to love?
This is stupid, Tom. Of course I’ll come back.
If you don’t, Dad, take my advice. I’ll jump into the pool, right down in the water under water, and I won’t ever come up.
A month later, Jim and Fran left Tom with her mum and took off for a week. No plan, no reservations, just driving each day until they stopped, never more than one night in the same place, hardly even talking. Their last night found them in a small town at dusk, the only accommodation the Railway Hotel in a back street opposite the disused rail line.
Jim persuaded the publican to open up one of the rarely used bedrooms above the bar, and Fran sweet-talked the man’s wife into fixing a meal. They found a rickety card table and set it up on the timber balcony overlooking the street. The air was cooling, but it still carried the dust of the day. The town seemed almost deserted, with just the occasional walker passing through the patch of light from a streetlamp opposite. They cleaned up in the shared bathroom along the hall. Their dinner arrived.
A mixed grill. What a surprise.
He was disappointed to get no smile from her.
Neither felt much like eating, but the meal took on the uneasy role of go-between, offering up the small contacts – the pouring of wine, passing of bread – that might bring them together. He swapped his green beans for her bread roll. The words came slowly, between mouthfuls. A young girl on a bicycle broke the tension, the sound of her wheels on the gritty road. She may have been ten or twelve, T-shirt and shorts, long, skinny legs and bare feet, pedalling fast. As she flashed through the band of light, they caught her face for an instant, concentrating but exhilarated, too, by her speed through the falling night.
You just better be home before dark, said Fran, mimicking her own admonition to James in the old days. It took the breath from her. She shook her head slowly and looked out over the rail tracks to the flat, scrappy fields beyond. It was an awful place, bereft, but they were together, quietly watching the night, and there was some kind of respite in that.
It’s been okay, this week, Jim said quietly. We’ll be all right. He put his hand on hers, but she would not look at him.
I don’t know if we will, Jimmy, she whispered. I can’t think that far ahead. Not even past this night. I’m so tired, sick at heart. That’s what it means, doesn’t it? I have no idea where we’re heading.
She was right. It did seem that they had run out of future. For the first time since they’d been together, he felt there was nothing he could offer her. He looked down at the deserted street. It was as if not just they but the street, the town itself, had given up. She came and stood behind him, her hands on his shoulders.
Fran …
No, she said quietly. Maybe you’re right. We just have to keep going. But not tonight. I can’t think any more. Not tonight.
She took his hand and pulled gently until he stood, then led him into the room. They faced each other in the dark. She reached to undo the buttons on his shirt. They had not made love for months. He felt he had missed a step somehow but began, too, on her shirt. Her fingers were more nimble, and it was hard with his arms reaching around hers. She had his shirt undone, her hands resting flat on his chest, while he still struggled. Together, they watched his fingers.
It’s a nice shirt, he said, smiling at his clumsiness.
Believe it or not, Tom chose it. You know how he loves to buy presents. Much more conscientious than James.
Jim left off fiddling with the buttons and rested his chin on her head.
She spoke quickly. His presents are always a surprise, she said. Blank Lotto coupons, discontinued nail-polish colours, then a pretty shirt like this, right size and everything.
He pulled the birthday shirt out of her jeans to get at the last button. They kissed, tentatively, and he reached behind to unhook her. The night was oppressive, yet they leant into each other for the comfort it offered. Starting together again, they undid belts, and he lowered her onto the bed. In the early days, they had delighted in undressing each other but had somehow lost the habit, and for years their lovemaking began with them on opposite sides of the bed, coming together, already naked, under the sheets. Now, they began, faltered, then began again, with the nervous energy of strangers. He touched the places he knew well and that she wanted him to, yet it seemed he was discovering her for the first time. Her hands and mouth were new to his body, too – holding, stroking, clutching fiercely until their passion left them spent, sweaty and a little embarrassed.
They lay quietly and talked of small things, the details of their lives – coffee shops and yoga classes, surfing and reading, friends – minutiae that once had been the daily fare of their marriage. But not for years. And through it all, until they fell asleep, he knew the night for the temporary reprieve it was, and that morning would find them again.
The Wassford pub seemed as good a bet to Jim as anywhere for information. There were several men lounging on the veranda, but they made a point of ignoring him. The door to the bar was closed, and it took a moment to discover that the handle turned counterclockwise.
The air inside the bar was a beery fug. A dozen men occupied positions at the few tables. It was like some B-grade movie set: the se
ntry drinkers on the veranda and then this rent-a-crowd; the resentful look on the barman’s face. Jim ordered a schooner. He hardly ever drank beer these days. Maybe it showed; the barman let one corner of his mouth twitch. The beer came with too much head.
I need a bit of local knowledge, Jim said. I’m meeting a group rafting on the river. I’ve been told they’re camped a couple of kilometres above a rapid called … Devil’s Steps?
Stairway.
Oh, right. Anyway …
Hey there, my would-be rescuer!
The call came from the back of the bar. It was the doctor. Jim acknowledged the raised eyebrows from the barman and took his beer over to where Jeremy Farmer was sitting. At the table with him was a small, wiry man.
This is Lionel Sharnley, our esteemed schoolteacher, Jeremy said, pushing back an empty chair with his foot.
How are you? Jim said. Thanks.
Jeremy related the story of their meeting down in the gully.
Lionel shook his head. Come on, Doc, he said, you got to learn to let all that stuff go.
That’s exactly what I was doing, Jeremy protested.
You know what I mean, Lionel insisted, as if Jim wasn’t with them. Trouble with you is, you’ve got no idea how far you got to go just to stay in the same place.
Jeremy shrugged then described the road above the town that led to the upriver camping spots.
Of course, what the experienced groups do, he said, is have one vehicle up there and another down near the bridge where they pull out.
Yes, great idea. I could hike in, Jim said. How long would it take me?
Depends how fit you are, Jeremy said. Three hours to the Stairway, then maybe another hour.
Lionel had remained quiet through this. There’s some rough bits, he said. You have to take it careful. He looked doubtfully at Jim’s slacks and slip-ons.
I’ve got all the gear, Jim assured him. In his mind, the plan for making a dramatic entrance at the campsite was already taking shape. Hiking boots, good backpack, he said.
Fair enough. Maybe I’ll check with Doug, he said to Jeremy. See if there’s any weather about.
It looked clear when I came in, Jim said. It should be all right.
He was keen to set off, but it would be impolite to leave just because he’d got what he wanted. He nudged his empty glass. Can I get you a beer?
I don’t think that’s necessary, Lionel said.
No, of course, Jim stammered. I wasn’t …
Jeremy winked and waggled a finger at his friend. Take no notice, Jim. Someone told him his mob have a dry sense of humour.
It seemed even more impossible then to just get up and leave. Jim asked about the history of the town, about life in the valley, the river, sport.
Jeremy provided the basics then was happy to defer to Lionel for most of it.
Jim asked Lionel, How do you like our Cathy’s chances in the Olympics?
He felt like a fool, but Lionel just shrugged his shoulders and let him off the hook. He launched into a story about the fashion parade his daughter and her classmates had put on the previous week. Just another typically proud dad. While Lionel yarned, the doctor scribbled hiking directions to the Stairway rapid on a page from his scrip pad.
They left together in the end, Lionel and Jeremy turning right to walk home out near the edge of town. Jim’s car was the other way, back past the oval and over the bridge. They paused on the veranda, empty of patrons now. There was not much to look at, the deserted street resigned to Saturday afternoon.
Have a good walk, Jeremy said.
Lionel looked concerned again. Does your group up there know you’re walking in?
No. That’s the point. It’ll be a surprise. My son … these kids’ll get a real kick out of it.
Getting into shorts and boots had a solid feeling to it. Jim saw himself emerging out of the bush into camp, Tom caught off guard for once, then ecstatic, punching the air.
Like the swim earlier that morning, the rhythm of the hard walk settled him, tramping the long flats, scrambling past rapids, the release that came with physical exertion. He was not as fit for it as he’d have liked – hiking used different muscles to the pool – but the hard breathing, the aches that took hold in thighs and calves, they were part of it too.
The river course had worn deep along that stretch, and the banks rose steeply, tangled with blackberry between clumps of casuarinas on the flats. Successive floods had deposited then undermined the willows that lined the bends. He struggled past one that had collapsed into the stream. It seemed important somehow to keep the water in sight, to stay within an almost-defined boundary of the river. Most of the paths wanted to push him higher up; twice he took those then turned back as soon as he hit a wider track up on the ridge. Others weaved their secret ways to hidden swimming holes or lookout rocks. It was a beautiful place. This was good, what he was doing. Good for Tom, and for himself. Maybe he would have something to tell Fran.
It was difficult to see this as a rafting river, though. Hardly enough water to connect the small eddies to the flows above and below, most of the rock shelves and vertical drops no more than wading pools or dry altogether. The rafters would be doing as much pushing as floating. He glanced at each section of river as he passed, then turned back onto the paths, pushing on upstream. He was tired now, taking more breathers than was ideal if he wanted to get to them before dark. He checked his watch every few minutes; he should have been at the main rapid by this time.
It must have been the total absorption that allowed it to sneak up on him. The flurry in the undergrowth above the path could have been an animal taken fright at his presence – even small birds make a racket in dry growth. But no bush creature produced that crack of snapping branch – he had stumbled over a couple himself. He was being followed. He’d become aware of it in stages, like when you know something but only later become conscious of the knowledge. Another hiker? Kids?
It annoyed him. He’d set out to do this by himself. The last thing he’d thought of was having to accommodate others, especially out on the trails where people expect you to be pleasant, where they stopped to swap experiences, asked or gave directions, wished each other a great day. Stupid, doing this, really; Tom wouldn’t have known if he’d got a lift most of the way and hoisted the backpack for the final few steps around the last bend. There were the sounds again, above him on the slope now. It was the annoyance that made him leave the main track, pushing into dense bush to keep to the line of the river.
There it was again. It? He? Them? No closer, but still there, like a deliberate attempt to maintain a not-quite-out-of-hearing distance. It was only natural to stop every few paces to listen. He tried closing his eyes. Did it sharpen the hearing? The urge was ridiculous, as too was his sniffing the air, feeling the breeze, as if to summon up some innate, long-lost capacity to mark the stalker’s presence. Some of this was private land; he’d studied the maps. He was trespassing technically, but others must be too, all the time. Anyway, why not confront him? The drinkers on the pub veranda hadn’t been too keen having him around – one especially, eyes buried way back in his skull, a great helmet of black dreadlocks. There had been news stories of marijuana plantations back in the bush up this way, heavily guarded.
What now? The other was on the move, fast through the scrub. The sounds reached him one after another almost in a pattern, passing above and across, in front of the path down towards the river. More than one of them? Trying to head him off? What the hell was going on? The prickling on the back of his neck was absurd. It all caught up with him, as if he were reaching some kind of limit. Everything about this trip had been at him, like a game where they won’t tell you the rules. All right, have it out then, pursue the pursuer, forget the scrub, charge headlong, ignore the blackberry that snagged his arms and legs, tore at his face. He yelled his own challenge into the bush.
Come on, then, come on!
More noises on the path behind. He ducked and spun to face his tormentors
. No one, just his own crashing through the undergrowth. There, to the left, an almost-covered path veered away downhill. He crouched, his backpack snagged for an instant, then he slipped through, fell, recovered and broke free of the scrub onto a bare rock ledge above the river. Standing on a boulder on the opposite bank was a figure in a blue baseball cap, the peak pulled low to hide his face. Under one arm, he cradled a rifle.
He and the blue-cap stared at each other from opposite sides of the gully.
I knew you were there, Jim called across to him. Right from the start, I knew. But it was a struggle to control his breathing.
A grin from under the cap. Bush fella, eh?
He raised the rifle deliberately, pointing upriver, taking his time, then swung back again so that the face peering through the rifle’s telescopic sights came into clear view. Just an old man? It could not have been him back there, moving so fast. Where were the others? Jim whirled to confront the dark figures slipping in behind him. Afternoon shadows. On the rock ledge – a club, a rock. Anything?
Reckon you knew from when I wanted you to, eh?
Jim called across, his voice betraying his uncertainty. People in town know I’m out here, you know. He felt the hollowness of the challenge even as he made it.
Reckon they do, the blue-cap said. That’s good, then, eh?
Jim could not take his eyes from the rifle. Had he even seen one before, like this, held by someone who obviously knew how to use it, ten metres away, fifteen at most, a sitting duck? The laugh hit him like he had been shot.
Hey, this scope jus’ for watchin’ the birds.
The old man held the rifle out in front like he was making an offer of it. He bent to place it on the boulder, then slipped to his haunches.
Why were you following me? Jim demanded.
The blue-cap pointed downriver. That Lionel, he said, grinning again, he reckoned you might be short of a gallop.
Lionel?
You want a long walk, that’s good, the blue-cap said. Tomorra but. Not today. Dark gonna beat you. Get y’self lost, hurt. Maybe rain later, too. Best head back to town, stick to the fire trail, quickest way.