Water Under Water

by Peter Rix

  Fran believed that loving Tom was in his gift. His for the taking. But between giving and taking love, the latter was by far the more difficult. For him, at least. To give love is a matter of behaviour: a father cares for his children, worries about them, guides them through their crises, puts their interests ahead of his own. He had done all that, but in her eyes it left him well short. He had never been able to take for himself what it was to love Tom. This is what he had known for nineteen years; if the love for a child does not come to you of its own accord, it will not be there for the seeking.

  He pushed away from the tree and climbed back into the vehicle. There was this, too. What Fran did not know, what he had never been able to tell her, was that he had lost the right to accept Tom’s love on the very morning of his birth. It was that final phone call, after his parents, Fran’s mother and the chairman; Andy always had answers.

  Oh, Christ, Jim. How could it happen? How’s Fran taking it? I can’t bear to think …

  But it was Andy, and of course he had the answer. It came stiletto-sharp, as Andy’s always did, and more devastating still for its concealment in his stumbling rush of words.

  There’s no chance, Jim … ones like this … in nature, don’t … is there a chance, wouldn’t it be better … I mean, the baby will … survive, I suppose?

  Jim had stepped back from the phone booth, the telephone thrust away to distance himself from the treachery but gripped tightly too as if to ward off the hope that surged through him. It was hope, and it did not matter how many times he had replayed this scene; it never changed. His first attempt to return the instrument to its cradle ended in a loud clatter. The woman in the next booth frowned her disapproval.

  For years, he’d blamed Andy, and he wanted to even now. But for what? An answer to a question that should not, could not, be asked? But Andy was not the child’s father, was he, grasping at rescue like the drowning man who in desperation condemns both himself and his rescuer. Nor was this simply a vague yearning but a fully formed, articulate hope. Was it possible? How could it happen? Why should it not happen? Not just for that moment either, but for days, weeks of looking at the baby for signs of … of what exactly he could not have said: weakness, vulnerability.

  He’d received the news that the newborn’s heart was fine not with relief but with resignation. There was no denying it: if Tom’s birth changed his life, then that phone call showed him the man who would lead it. Even so, through all the years of carrying the knowledge in his heart, there had been many times when he might have found himself in Tom. This trip had brought them to him from the depths of memory and guilt – a question on the beach, a whispered ‘I still love you, Dad’, the tiny piazza in Rome, the eighteenth birthday party. And, way back, that one Christmas morning in the pool at home.

  But how could he ever have claimed the boy’s love? No day had passed when he was not treated to a living, loving reminder of his crime. What kind of father is it who wishes his baby son dead?

  The van bounced away from Tom with Newton on the back seat like a dead person, even though he was only unconscious and would come alive again later. Rusty the dog didn’t come alive again, and neither did his gramps or his uncle John, so he couldn’t be sure of it, even if Russell said so.

  The van appeared then disappeared between the trees, then Tom saw it again and then it was gone. Tom stood still, listening hard to the engine noise, which wasn’t like seeing the van with your eyes but was better than nothing at all. Russell did the gears to make the van climb the last hill onto the road, and Tom could hear it going faster. Then it was just a sound that might have been an aeroplane in the blue sky or the wind or nothing at all. Then there was no sound in the clearing except for the river. Tom looked at Kaylee’s watch.

  Now its seven-two-two, he said. Then it will be eight, then nine. After that is when they’ll come back. We just have to wait for my dad. It’s easy.

  Tom sat on a rock and thought about cooking sausages. He was still thinking about sausages, wondering where he could find a wire thing to cook them, when Amit ran very fast back into the clearing, and he didn’t have any eight sticks at all.

  Aaahhhhh! Amit screamed. Aaahhhhh!

  Amit yelled and ran. First, he ran towards Tom, then he ran all the way around the fire place in a circle, back past Tom and along the track towards the road where Russell drove the van with Newton on the back seat. Amit ran from side to side between the trees, round and round on the path. This was definitely the most crazy he had ever gone. He was mad as a brumby in a branding yard; Tom’s dad knew all about horses too. Amit kept on and on screaming and yelling until one word stuck its head up out of the scream: Aahhhhh, SNAKE!

  Tom went still like a statue. Snakes slither through the long grass. The clearing had more long grass than any other kind of grass. He hopped up onto his rock, but then he fell off and then something brown and snaky jumped up next to his hand.

  A stick. His eyes saw it was only a stick. His brain that didn’t work so well said, It’s just a stick but I’m going to make you yell anyway. Tom yelled and jumped back onto his rock. I’m not stupid, Tom told his brain, but you are.

  Amit’s brain was working. His brain told him, when it comes to snakes, above the grass is better than in the grass. He jumped onto another rock. It was hard to balance on the rock, and his brain could only think about one thing at one time, so he stopped screaming.

  I think the snake bit my leg when I was having a pee. I want to go home now. I didn’t have to come on the river trip if I didn’t want to?

  Then Amit saw about the van and the others.

  They had to go to the doctor with Newton, Tom said. My dad will be back soon.

  Snake, snake, snake, Amit wailed.

  Tom could hardly believe it. The snake bit you? Tom stared across the grass. What if the snake was still stuck on Amit’s leg? I can’t see anything.

  They stood on their rocks.

  I feel sick, Amit said. He bent forward and chucked up a big spew that pushed him backwards onto the grass. Some of his spew fell onto his rock, so he forgot about the long grass and walked over to another rock. Instead of climbing up high, where the slithering snake couldn’t reach, Amit sat on the rock, then he put his head into his hands and groaned like a sick person. Tom stood on his rock. He was the leader. His eyes looked hard at the long grass, then he ran to Amit. At least now they were together.

  Do you know why in the surf it’s always safer to swim with a friend? Tom’s dad asked James when they were at the beach. That way, his father said, with a serious look on his face like he was only trying to teach his son a few home truths, if a shark comes, there’s a fifty per cent chance it will take your friend and not you.

  His brother laughed, so it was definitely a joke, but it still seemed like a good idea, especially if it worked for snakes, too. But this was different because the snake had already bitten Amit. Tom didn’t want to put his face down there near Amit’s leg, but he had to look. He asked, Which leg did the snake bite?

  Amit pointed. Tom looked. Shark bites like you see in the newspaper have blood and teeth marks, but Amit’s ankle had no teeth marks or blood at all, because snakes have teeth like needles. Tom thought hard. Yes, yes, he said, with his victory punch. I’m a first-aider. We have to do a course at my work. It’s the rules. They give you a certificate. I’ve got Band-Aids in my backpack.

  He took a step towards the tents. The snake might be there.

  Tom looked at Amit like he had never looked at him before in all the time they’d been best friends. Snakes are poisonous, he told Amit. We went to the holiday ranch, and my dad said snakes can make you die in a minute or an hour. If you die, Amit, tell Sammy I’m sorry about laughing when he couldn’t ride his bike properly.

  Amit began to make a noise like he was a wailing ghost, and he kept wailing even when Tom said he had to stop so he could think. Amit wailed and wailed. Tom looked at the leg with the snakebite. Tom thought about his uncle who died of cancer that
ate him away from the inside, where you couldn’t even see it. When his family went to visit Uncle John because, We hope he’ll be all right but you never know what’s going to happen, Tom looked very hard to try to see the cancer, and then his uncle died. Tom didn’t want to look too hard at Amit’s leg in case he made Amit die, so he looked at Kaylee’s watch instead.

  They won’t be back until nine-thirty. That’s more than a minute or an hour. I need my dad to come back now.

  Manoeuvring down the rough, narrow trail, Jim had almost missed the sign – an old length of four-by-two nailed to a tree, the arrow pointing into the scrub: Devil’s Stairway. Some paddler had painted horns above the lettering, flames below. He pulled off the track and parked the vehicle. A rough path took him a hundred metres down towards the river, then a few minutes bush-bashing brought him to the rapid.

  This was the place, the three stages: two small steps and, just where the path came onto the river, the final two-metre vertical drop onto a narrow ledge, and at the far end a deep hole of clear water. The gorge at that point was a gash in the hillside. Smooth sandstone boulders guarded the opening to a wide, calm section below the rapid, and a mass of blackberry covered the flats on the far bank. Along the slow drift to the next bend, a pattern of silvered trails marked the surface as the river gave up the last vapour whiffs of night air. From his position on the rocks above the third drop, he saw that upstream the flow was faster than in the pool below, and, as it caught the morning rays, more like lava than water over the first two steps. There were no birds yet, or perhaps they were quietened by his presence, the only sound a low whispering from a stand of she-oaks below the rapid.

  The Devil’s Stairway – hardly satanic in this dry spell. No sign of the watch. If Tom had stood on these rocks, it might have fallen onto the ledge at the base of the drop. Or maybe it had been washed into the pool. Stripping to board shorts, he clambered down to the water. The morning air chilled his goosebumped skin, the scratches and bruises from yesterday’s scramble through the scrub raw and aching. The flow over the fall was no more than a liquid curtain, sheer and transparent up close as if it had been hung with precision, creating the illusion of water behind glass flowing upstream. No chance a raft would even make it over. He looked first along the ledge at his feet, picking his way carefully across the few metres of slippery rock. No sign of the watch. Try the pool? How deep? A few metres – a good test of his lung capacity.

  As he manoeuvred to make a safe dive, one foot jammed for a moment in a crack. To free himself, he turned to face the fall, reaching for handholds above his head. His foot came free with a lurch. He lost his balance, and instinct flattened him chest hard against the rock face. The river washed over his body, and the rush of cold drove the air from his lungs. It was instinct, too, to throw his head back clear of the water, gasping, the mirrored wall inches from his face. He stood, arms stretched high to keep his grip, sucking air through water.

  The watch could be anywhere. A new one would be just as good, anyway. And, if he found it, what would it be but another Tom-task completed? The watch was not what he was here for, not what he was searching for. But what else could he do? Last night, he’d had nothing to offer against the boy’s frustration at his disability. When it came to Tom, what else had he ever been able to offer but the practical?

  The river’s breath brushed his cheek, and, as if in submission, he bowed his head into the fall. He stayed there. How long? One minute? Two? He could hold his breath longer in the surfing days, but already he was at his limit. Then came a murmuring like voices from another room, and inside the beginning of cold fear, but warmth too, icy, numbing, burning. Remove the obstacles – between river and sea, surf and pool – and water will find its other.

  Finally, he lifted his head and looked to the tops. Had the storm clouds whipped the southerly into the valley? There was nothing, just the morning finding voice, birds, and the uppermost feathers of the she-oaks fluttering in the atmosphere above the running stream. He made two futile dives into the pool then climbed up onto the boulders above the rapid, head thrown back for the sun, mouth open to taste the river, unfamiliar on his tongue; when you have spent a lifetime by the ocean, the absence of salt in fresh water always comes as a surprise.

  The water streamed from his body, glistening pathways over his face and chest and belly and arms and legs, falling to form small sunlit pools on the hard surface of the rock. He crouched above the rapid, gripping hard at both shoulders to stop the shaking. He sank lower, the muscles softening in thighs and back, slipping free to melt into the sandstone. Searching …

  Christmas morning with the boys in the pool. It was heading to be a scorcher, the stockings already emptied, wrapping paper everywhere.

  He called the boys from their trophies, a quick dip before breakfast. Come on, James, Tom.

  I can’t swim, Daddy, Tom said.

  I’m going to teach you.

  In this time right now?

  Right now. First, I’m going to teach you how to be underwater.

  When children learn to swim, it is not the fear of being in water they must overcome but the fear of the water being in them. See how they clamp mouths and eyes shut to lock the invader out. It took time with James. Not Tom; he had it from that first morning, his Christmas-present floaties worn with pride the entire day.

  Jump in, Tom. No, the water won’t hurt you. Look, take it into your mouth, let it flow in; you won’t swallow it. Open your eyes. Let it come.

  Jim held the boy high above the water, squirming, squealing in his arms.

  Ready, Tom? Here we go. One … two … three.

  Tom screwed his face tight. Brilliant sun danced on the surface, lighting their faces, then dived deep to flash intricate steps on the pool tiles. He took them down, braced his grip, anticipating the boy’s fear, ready to shoot for the top. The water closed over them, shutting out sound, the others on the pool deck. He released air, and they were on the bottom. Tom’s feet were on his father’s bent thighs, his hands on his shoulders. How long could the boy hold his breath? Inches from his father’s, Tom’s eyes, unblinking, staring. They stayed there, together, watching the hand that moved slowly, slowly through the water. A boy’s beautiful hand, a boy who would swim like a fish, like a sea creature. Then his father’s hand came into view, and they smiled to see the two hands meet, fingers touching, then gripping hard, hanging on tight.

  Perfect summer, Christmas. Underwater, the two of them, Tom’s eyes wide open, one hand holding his father’s, the other stroking his dad’s face like he was touching him for the first time. Underwater, the world above was shut out so he could almost believe they could start again. Underwater, they seemed so close to how they should have been. And Tom, normal, whole.

  Part of me.

  But underwater all that time? How long? Two minutes? Five? Impossible.

  He didn’t need air. We didn’t.

  How could he stay down there for so long?

  I don’t know. It was … it was as if he could stay there forever, if only …

  If only?

  If only I stayed there with him.

  Tom needed his dad to be with him, but his dad wasn’t there, so Tom had to do something clever and brave by himself. His dad would want that. He said a message into his mobile even with no phone card and no reception: Dad, the snake bit Amit, and I don’t want him to die because it’s too long to wait. We need you to hurry back to the camp to help us.

  Tom looked at his phone. Please, Dad, I’ll do anything. It doesn’t matter about finding my watch. Just come here quickly for Amit.

  Tom knew his dad wouldn’t hear his voice until he came back to the camp, but he still felt better after he left the message. Then he thought about his dad. His dad always said if you really want something done, do it yourself. Tom and Amit could walk to Wassford for the doctor, but it might take more time than a minute or an hour. And you have to keep patients still and quiet; it said so in the first-aid course. Amit was still wailing,
and he kept standing up and sitting down and walking in little circles while he wailed. Tom looked around the clearing. He could not keep Amit still and quiet in the tents, not if the snake might be back there. He turned to the river.

  Hey, Tom, Russell had yelled when they got back from rafting yesterday. Give me a hand to drag the raft off the van roof. It’s best to leave them well above the water. We’ll tie it to this tree, high and dry.

  Tom looked at the raft they’d left high and dry. The water was lapping against the raft. It must be like the tide rising, like at the beach, although his dad really didn’t know either how the moon makes the water come up. Russell’s stick would be way under the water now if Tom hadn’t rescued it. The raft rocked as the river bumped against it.

  Tom’s brain worked.

  Hallelujah, his dad said. Tom’s brain works.

  Amit, Amit! Tom yelled. If we take the raft, we can go down the river to the bridge. That’s where the town is, and the doctor. After he fixes Newton’s head, he can fix the snakebite so you won’t die.

  Amit stopped wailing, and he shook his head from side to side lots of times. We must not go in the water, that’s what Kaylee would say.

  Kaylee didn’t know about the snake. This is a different one now. It’s up to us.

  I don’t have to go in the raft if I don’t want to? That’s what my mum said.

  It’s easy. We just sit until it bumps into a rock, then we push it off. I can do that. You can sit still and quiet because you’re the patient.

  I don’t have to go in the raft if I don’t want to.

  Amit began to wail again, but Tom was already running to unloop the rope from the tree. This was his good thing now, much bigger than finding a Macca’s. It could be a special part of the speech at his twenty-first. He trotted back to the fire with the end of the rope in his hand. He had to drag Amit to his feet and help to hold him up when they staggered down the slope.

  It’ll be all right, Amit. I’m a first-aider and a rafter.