Almost Grace

by Rosie Rowell

  When the notes finish, disappearing into the waves, Spook takes my hand. His eyes search for mine. ‘Grace,’ he says in a voice that makes my stomach swoop and dive. He lets go of my hand and brushes a clump of salt-heavy hair from my face. ‘That’s your song, y’know. You have the soul of a bird – you’re a searcher.’

  I lean into him. The difference in our ages means nothing. I have never felt happier than in this moment. I feel my heart take off and soar high above the endless ocean.

  Louisa is on the deck when we arrive back. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘For a surf – sort of,’ I reply, glancing at Spook. When I look back at Louisa, I can see her mind working. ‘It was very cold,’ I add pointlessly.

  ‘I heard you leave,’ she says with an ill-disguised accusation in her voice. ‘Brett and I are going to the garage to buy more charcoal. Helen and Theresa are coming over later.’

  I have to shield my eyes from the sun as I look up at her. ‘Cool,’ I say lightly. Helen and Theresa love Louisa because she is exotic but similar, but they have no idea what to make of our friendship. I feel severely autistic around them. ‘Ask them about themselves,’ is Mum’s solution to shyness. ‘People are dying to talk about themselves, especially men.’ But I can never think of the right question to ask.

  ‘Why are you irritated?’ I ask her when I get to the deck.

  Louisa’s arms are crossed. ‘You could have left a note.’ She lowers her voice. ‘We know jack-shit about this guy, Grace.’

  No, you can’t ruin this, Louisa. Not after the best morning of my life. I take a deep breath. ‘I didn’t want to wake you. I’m sorry you were worried.’

  ‘He is a complete stranger, Grace, with no fixed address,’ Louisa continues, exasperated.

  I try to tease her out of it. ‘I’m not exactly kidnap material.’

  Louisa is about to say something else, but Spook appears at the top of the stairs with both boards. ‘Could you grab more beers while you’re out?’

  Louisa frowns at him. ‘It’s Sunday – I doubt you’ll find anywhere on this entire coast selling alcohol.’

  ‘The Shop and Save on the other side of the location2 will. Tell the Chinese manager Wan what you want and he’ll take you around the back.’

  Louisa lets out a short laugh. ‘That’s so dodgy.’

  Spook shrugs and cracks a crooked smile. ‘This is the wild, wild West Coast, baby.’ He pulls a wallet from his pocket. It’s made of beaten-up blue canvas, the sort ten-year-old boys buy in surf shops. ‘Drinks are on me today. Get a bottle of tequila too –’ He inclines his head towards me – ‘for the fresh-airian.’

  I look down to hide a smile.

  Louisa looks at the wad of notes in Spook’s outstretched hand. ‘No, really.’

  ‘I insist – it’s the least I can do for our future president.’

  To my surprise Louisa laughs and takes the cash. ‘See you later,’ she calls.

  I walk inside, trying to figure out Louisa’s wild changes in attitude. Yesterday morning she was positively begging Spook to stay; five minutes ago he was an untrustworthy stranger, but now he’s OK. Somehow he manages to wrong-foot her at every turn.

  The thought of Helen and Theresa’s imminent arrival spurs me into going for a run. God forbid they arrive before Louisa returns. The wind has picked up by the time I’m back on the beach. I start at my normal pace but my ankle hurts to the point that I’m forced to adjust it to a fast hobble. The beach is littered with washed-up branches of seaweed. Kelp flies hover above them in little nuclear clouds. A handful of walkers dot the sand in the distance. After this morning I feel as if I have more claim on this coast. It has dug itself into me. Ahead of me three girls in bikinis run across the sand into the water. They jump up and down, screaming at the brain-freezing temperature. I smile. Eventually one of them ducks under a wave. Less than a moment later she emerges shouting. Her friends cheer. Louisa pops into my head. On this endless stretch of white sand, on this coastline that has withstood the most violent storms, with the salt-saturated air like a double espresso running through my veins, I feel that I can fix anything.

  By the time I’ve turned around, the girls are back lying on their towels. A couple comes into view, walking side by side, holding their shoes in a clasp behind their backs. You can tell they are middle-aged by the way they walk. Even though they are surrounded by huge sea and sky, they are both looking down, as though they are having a serious conversation. Or maybe they’ve seen it so many times they don’t notice it any more. The woman is wearing a red costume under beige Bermuda shorts. She stops, bends down and picks something up. She shows it to the man, then pockets it. It makes me look down. Dotted along the sand are mussel shells, but unlike I’ve ever seen before. These are the perfect shade of blue, as if the sea has gently rubbed them down to reveal their hidden beauty. I can’t believe I’d not noticed them. I search until I find two unbroken ones and take them back for Louisa.

  There is no sign of Louisa and Brett when I get back. Spook is spread out, fully clothed, on my bed. The only sound is the rattling of the wooden window-frames in the kitchen. I put the shells on Louisa’s bedside table, and make a cup of tea. I wander back into my room. Spook’s sleep is so deep that he could be dead. I sit down on the bed opposite and watch him. What is it that makes him thirty-five? His skin is more leathery and lined, with little blood capillaries scattered about his nose. His upper arms are thick and strong, that must be the surfing, but his belly is decidedly flabby.

  ‘Are you going to eat me?’ he says, his eyes still closed.

  I jump back, spilling the tea.

  ‘Now I know how a trapped gecko feels.’ His eyes crinkle up at the sides and he starts laughing.

  ‘Isn’t the whole point about geckos that they don’t get trapped? They drop their tails and run.’

  ‘So that’s where I went wrong.’

  I want to lie down next to him and rest my head on his upper arm. I’ve never seen such a solid arm. Mum’s arms are yoga-toned and bony. I could happily fall asleep on an arm like Spook’s. With a jolt I realise I’m staring at him; he’s waiting for me to say something. ‘Shower,’ I manage at last.

  Louisa has dragged mattresses out onto the deck. Helen, Theresa and Louisa are stretched out across them. Brett and Spook are suspiciously absent. I imagine them at the other side of the house, away from the ‘oh my gods’ and the diet talk. As I step outside I’m convinced that the laughter coming from the mattresses stops abruptly. Helen is a hockey player. Her breasts, which have a life of their own on the hockey field, spill out from her blue bikini.

  Theresa, sitting on a separate mattress, has a baggy white T-shirt over her green bikini. It looks fantastic. She looks up. ‘Hi, my love.’ The ‘my love’ thing has been going on for about a year. They call everyone from strangers in the street or little Grade Sevens to the school secretaries ‘my love’. Instead of saying goodbye, they say ‘love you’, and ‘love you more’. It drives me crazy. Louisa never says it unless they are around.

  Helen looks up from the magazine on her lap. ‘Oh my god, you look like a supermodel in those shorts.’

  Louisa smiles. ‘See, I told you – Agyness Deyn from top to toe.’

  Theresa frowns. ‘Is Agyness Deyn still considered a supermodel?’

  Helen thwacks Theresa with the magazine. ‘Seriously, Grace, you’ve got it – see, it’s here on the front cover: “Hollywood goes gaga for the thigh gap”.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s possible to be a healthy weight and have a thigh gap,’ says Theresa, flicking through the magazine.

  ‘Of course it is, my love, it depends on your body type,’ replies Helen. ‘Unfortunately for me it’s not possible to have a thigh gap.’ She shrugs. ‘It’s not in my bone structure.’

  ‘What?’ Louisa laughs. I smile. Helen can pull a laugh out of any situation.

  ‘Didn’t you know?’ Helen continues, wide-eyed. She bats her hand. ‘Ag, if you’re fit and healthy, who care
s?’

  ‘Right on, sister!’ says Louisa and high-fives Helen. Her voice is louder, her smile wider since Helen walked up the stairs.

  The wind has picked up. Every now and then it delivers a sharp gust, as if making up for its late start.

  ‘Come and sit with us,’ says Louisa to me and I realise I’ve been hovering like a moron while this inane discussion has been carrying on.

  ‘Nah, I’ll sit at the table,’ I reply, and turn, but not before I catch the look of exasperation on Louisa’s face.

  Theresa pulls out a plastic tray of carrot muffins.

  ‘I love those,’ groans Louisa. I look down at the two carrots I’ve brought outside.

  ‘They’re low fat,’ says Theresa.

  ‘And if you break them open you release some of the calories,’ says Helen.

  Louisa laughs. She seems to laugh at everything Helen says today. Why does she turn into a dumbed-down version of herself around Helen and Theresa? I sit at the picnic table, working away at a splinter in the wood. I had a dream once where I was picking at a bulbous lump on my big toenail. The nail peeled off. Underneath it a mucus-covered black beetle was living in my nail bed. I had another one soon after where I was scratching away at a scab on my knee. Under the scab my grandpa’s war medals were buried in my skin. Rory would froth with excitement at hearing those dreams.

  Brett appears with a pair of speakers and laptop. As he connects them up the music starts with a loud bark. I imagine the released calories hovering in front of the speakers, bumping into each other in fright. Brett lies back on the mattress, resting his head on Louisa’s lap. ‘Which one of us will be the first to die?’ he asks with his mouth full of muffin.

  ‘You’re hungover, Brett, not dying,’ says Louisa. She licks her fingers. ‘But seeing as you ask: Grace will die first.’

  ‘Why do you get to decide?’ I ask, which gets a laugh out of Helen.

  ‘You’re starving yourself. It’s the logical conclusion.’ Louisa fixes me with angry eyes. Is this because I won’t sit with them? Theresa shoots me a triumphant look.

  ‘You only see things from your point of view.’ I wish I hadn’t left those shells next to her bed.

  ‘What’s the other point of view?’

  Helen and Theresa have gone silent; their eyes dart between Louisa and me.

  I pause. ‘This is a ridiculous conversation.’

  A little later Spook emerges. His hair is wet from a shower. He’s wearing the same baggy board shorts but a different T-shirt, from the pile on the back seat of his car, I imagine. ‘Afternoon, ladies.’

  ‘Hiya, handsome,’ replies Brett in a falsetto voice. Spook picks up his surfboard and wanders over to my table.

  Helen sits up, thrusting forward those whoopee-cushion breasts. ‘We met the other night.’

  ‘We did,’ says Spook and winks at her. Theresa’s interest has picked up at the sight of Spook. How long will it be before this gets back to my mum?

  Spook rests his board over the table next to me. He takes out a battered credit card and starts scraping away at the wax.

  Theresa turns to Brett. ‘When are you off? Where are you going?’

  Brett yawns loudly, and sits up, leaning on his right arm. ‘I’m going to surf the seven seas. And Louisa will be waiting for me in our beach hut, wearing a sarong and pansy3 shells for a bikini.’

  Louisa laughs. ‘In your dreams. There are no pansy shells in my plans. My plans feature a big house, a ring and a BMW cabriolet.’

  ‘Sounds fun. Not,’ says Brett.

  ‘It’s going to be awesome.’

  Helen and Theresa laugh. ‘Is the BMW a deal-breaker?’ asks Helen.

  ‘It is,’ says Louisa. I look at her. Since when did social workers drive cabriolets? Only in Louisa’s head do the two go hand in hand.

  Brett gets up, crosses the deck and leans against the railing. His legs are skinnier than mine. His torso is so lean that it seems vacuum-packed. He picks up Spook’s binoculars from the table and scans the bay. Four tankers dot the horizon.

  ‘Another fucking beautiful day,’ he says, looking out.

  ‘You mean “Oh God, not another fucking beautiful day”,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s the quote, from the film White Mischief.’

  ‘I’m not quoting.’ Brett’s confusion makes Spook laugh. He replaces the binoculars on the table.

  I pick up one of my carrots. As a snack they are unbeatable. They last for ages. The chatter on the mattresses picks up again.

  ‘What you’re doing to that carrot is actually pornographic,’ says Spook without looking at me.

  I smile. I feel Louisa watching us across the deck. Her comment about me starving myself still stings. She made me sound like a freak. ‘Something happened while we were coming back from Lambert’s Bay yesterday,’ I say to Spook, too softly for Louisa to hear. ‘We were almost hijacked.’

  Spook stops scraping.

  ‘But actually it felt more like they were chasing us.’

  ‘What kind of a car?’

  ‘It was old and black. Maybe a Golf?’

  Spook puts the credit card down. He walks around the table and stops in front of me. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It came up right behind us. The driver and passenger were pointing and yelling at us. Then they sped away.’ The story sounds silly. ‘Louisa didn’t want me to tell you, but it’s your car.’

  Spook chews his lip, hands on his hips.

  ‘Do you know them?’ I ask.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’ he laughs.

  I shrug. ‘Louisa thinks it was just some stupid guys but they seemed to recognise your car.’

  Brett turns the music up, interrupting Spook’s answer. Spook puts the credit card down. He leans backwards and massages the base of his spine. ‘This music is kak4. I need to stretch my legs. Do you want an outing?’

  ‘Sure.’ I get up. Louisa stops mid-sentence and looks at us. ‘See you in a little bit,’ I say. She turns back to the others without commenting.

  Baboon Point’s streets are narrow; some more like tracks than roads. Chunky slabs of tar give way to gravel and shallow pot-holes in places. Sandy, stubby grass verges act as pavements; their thirsty tendrils reach out to each other across the road. As we get further away from the mattresses, I feel my mood rise. They will be discussing us of course, but I don’t care.

  Some of the houses we pass look like heavy Lego blocks, built within a metre of their boundaries. They glare down on their smaller bungalow or clapboard neighbours. Most of them are locked up, waiting for the holiday season to start.

  The wind has been gathering ferocity – the ‘tender hills’ from this morning look dusty and bare. There is no place to hide when the wind blows on this coast.

  Spook is barefoot. Now that I think of it, the black boots in the living room have remained mostly unused. ‘Don’t you wear shoes?’

  ‘Not often,’ he replies.

  The wide-eyed ocean boy Spook from this morning has withdrawn. I want him back. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Wherever I need to be.’

  ‘Yes, but where are your things?’

  Spook bends down, picks a duiweltjie5 thorn from the sole of his foot and throws it away. ‘Bastards,’ he mutters. When I’m sure he’s not going to answer my question he says: ‘Soon after my ma left, my dad took me to the observatory for my birthday. I lay there in one of those reclining dentist chairs, little laaitie that I was, looking up at the heavens. I was scared, I started chunking6. My dad had to take me out.’

  ‘Why were you scared?’

  ‘I realised how totally insignificant I was. Parents always tell their kids, “You’re my special boy.” I understood that day that it’s all crap. You’re not special. We might as well do what we feel like because there is no reason to anything.’

  ‘Wow. Have you considered a career in motivational speaking?’

  Spook laughs. ‘But when you accept the randomness of it all,
you’re free.’

  We reach a crossroads. The streets are empty save for the ADT 7 security guard on his bicycle.

  ‘Do you want to go further?’ Spook says, glancing down at my throbbing ankle.

  ‘Sure.’ It’s exercise.

  We walk on, turning right or left in unspoken agreement. ‘You know why it’s called Baboon Point, right?’ Spook says.

  ‘Because of the baboons?’

  ‘No. The silhouette of the rock face at the tip of the point looks exactly like a baboon.’

  ‘So it’s literally Baboon Point.’

  ‘That’s how they roll on this coast.’

  ‘Do you ever see the baboons around? Everyone seems to make such a big deal out of them.’

  ‘Nah, they’re crafty buggers. They wait until they see you drive off before they come and wreak havoc.’

  ‘If it weren’t for those ADT guys riding around you could camp out here for months without anyone knowing,’ I say.

  ‘Not any more. These days the houses have CCTV.’

  I swivel around, trying to spot a camera. ‘Where would you go if you wanted to disappear?’

  He gives me a sharp look. It takes a moment for his face to soften. ‘Karoo maybe. Are you planning on disappearing?’

  ‘I may have to if my mother doesn’t leave me alone.’

  The word ‘poaching’ has been spray-painted on the stop sign in front of us. Someone else has crossed it out and sprayed the word ‘graffiti’ under that.

  ‘Can you believe those poaching syndicates involved Chinese triads and everything?’ I say.

  Spook grunts.

  I’m talking too much but his silence is making me nervous. ‘I had no idea someone could exist without a proper job.’