Wildlight

by Robyn Mundy

  She overtook him. ‘Looking sharp.’ She shrugged off her shirt to tie around her waist. He took in her bare arms, a pale strip of midriff. He thought to caution her about the leeches but this was her island. He didn’t want to sound like anybody’s parent.

  She chatted as they walked, the trip to the States with her cousin and their family. Stephanie—even her name seemed assured in the way of someone whose world was infinitely large. She probably had a list of old boyfriends. She probably had one now. Ski lodges, America. Tom had been as far as Melbourne. A fifty-minute flight. Tom’s big night out, Frank still referred to it with a knowing wink. You could never own up to any of that. Christ. The thought of it. He and Frank trashed, reeling down a street at who knew what time? Happy eighteenth, little brother.

  *

  The restaurant Frank chose for his birthday overlooked the river and Melbourne’s city lights, each setting a parade of silverware and glasses, enough urban chic and posturing to make Tom tense, despite telling himself it didn’t faze him. Next to Tom his mother looked as stiff as her shoulder-padded jacket that faintly ponged of mothballs. Only Tom was attuned to her discomfort, gaiety dutifully fixed upon her face. Melbourne was his mother’s second home, she’d grown up there, but this wasn’t her—she was happiest at home, overfeeding Tom on pasta.

  The waitress with the accent tried telling them about the specials on the menu, the rock lobster from Tazmeenia. Frank cackled. Probably caught the bastard m’self.

  People behind swapping weary looks.

  It wasn’t the fancy surrounds that made Tom wish the night away; it was a lifetime of Frank’s benevolent dictatorship. The whole weekend on me. Tom would have opted to stay with his mother, on Aunt Fina’s fold-out lounge, not stuck with Frank, two brothers padding about a shiny sterile apartment in Melbourne’s CBD.

  On the boat, at work, Tom accepted his brother’s control. There it was the order of things. But in a fancy restaurant—if Frank could just turn the volume down, let other people be. Tom slugged down beer in a frosted glass. He switched to wine, despite his mother’s frowns.

  You never, Frankie, Aunt Fina shrieked on the drive home. A hundred dollar tip on top! Frank waited until their mother waved goodnight and closed the leadlight door. He drove back into town, parked in the underground lot around the corner. Two tablets rested in the flat of his hand. The boys go out and play. There was no opting out with Frank.

  The wall of music in the nightclub turned porous, the bass thrumming inside his chest. Tom gave himself up to the press of overheated bodies, shooters lined up at the bar, floating on the dance floor with a girl whose name he never asked.

  Reeling down a back street. They stopped to relieve themselves against an abandoned storefront, its roller shutters a stench of urine-stained graffiti.

  Tom had never stepped inside a tattoo parlour, was too far gone to think straight. Fuckin’ blood brothers, Frank told the artist, sketching a crudely drawn outline of two entwined anchors.

  Tom sobered with the pain, at least enough to walk outside when it was done and draw in cold air. He guzzled water while the artist worked on Frank. His brother ranting about Forrest Brothers: the fleet of boats they’d own one day. Even trashed, Frank knew how to score a bargain. Matching shoulders, two for the price of one.

  Where to, gents? The taxi driver’s voice metallic through the speaker.

  At Frank’s directions Tom dropped his head in his hands. What?

  Eighteen, Tom-Tom. Your rite of passage.

  The house looked no different from his aunt’s, no telltale light to guide the way.

  Tom’s preconception of a sex worker was scrubbed away at the line-up of women in the dimly lit lounge. The first, middle-aged and overweight, he assumed was the receptionist until she threw Frank a loaded smile. The face of the Asian girl, Willow, they called her, looked pitted and hard. But it was her shoe, tapping her disinterest beneath her cheongsam that made Tom wither. He wanted to escape that place, the mocking gaze of women. Her, Frank nudged Tom toward the strawberry blonde—a flouncy top, her makeup unable to conceal her freckles. Melody. Only now did it occur to Tom that they were made-up names. A hallway lit with naked pink lights, the air a cocktail of stale smoke and incense, a chaser of bleach.

  She undressed herself without any of the clumsiness he felt in unbuttoning his own shirt. She had him pegged for the virgin he was, eased him down, straddled him and produced a condom. She guided him, her eyes disengaged from her smile, the motion of her body as fluid as a seal. It was over in seconds. Tom sat at the edge of the bed, sobered and unsure of what to do. He spied a small bin and reached for the tissues. He poured a glass of water that tasted of old pipes. Should he thank her? Ask about money? Did people tip? He collected his shirt, took out his wallet.

  Your brother paid for forty minutes. You can stay.

  He didn’t turn to face her. And what?

  Whatever you like.

  He laid his body down beside her—resignation? obligation? Closed his eyes. The raw flesh of his tattooed shoulder throbbed needle hot beneath his weight. Tom felt desolate and brother-bound and on the verge of weeping. She took his hand, a curve of belly, a warmth of thigh.

  *

  The Light Keeper’s Tree was so armoured with plaques that the trunk and larger branches appeared to sag with the weight of all that pressed tin and history. Most were small crimped sheets bent to hug the tree’s curve, others were mounted onto wooden backings like baiting notices. Tom had been up here before but never stopped to read them properly. A pattern of pinholes through tin spelled out the name of each keeper, his wife and children, the record of their service inscribed with hammer and punch.

  Stephanie searched for her grandparents. Tom looked through weatherworn inscriptions; you could determine the era by the thickness of rust. ‘Here,’ he called before he registered the graffiti scratched across the name.

  John Cole. Mary Cole. Gretchen Cole

  September 1969–May 1973

  She knelt on the ground, used the sleeve of her shirt, and then her fingers, in a futile attempt to obliterate the words ADULTERER BURN IN HELL crudely gouged in tin against her grandfather’s name. It was like something from his mother’s bible.

  Tom touched her shoulder. ‘Some vandal. Doesn’t mean anything.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s as old as the plaque. It meant something to someone.’ Her voice was tight.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tom didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘The whole reason we’ve come here is to help Mum get over Callam.’

  Callam? Tom waited for an explanation.

  ‘My twin brother. He died. In Mum’s mind everything about this place is perfect. This would send her over the edge.’

  He wanted to ask about her brother but something told him not to. ‘Perhaps she won’t come up here.’

  Steam rose from the forest floor as they hiked the final stretch of undergrowth to the summit of the island. They passed by a grove of tree fern. All around them was a waxy carpet of fronds. Through the foliage Tom pointed out Flat Witch and Big Witch Islands, the Hen and Chickens. Stephanie circled through the bush, peering out. Tom checked his clothing and his socks for leeches. In damp like this you only had to stay still for a moment. He spotted a pair of fine black threads advancing in waves across his boot. He saw a head lift, the sweep of a tail, double-ended sensory receptors that searched the air, guiding the leech until it found bare skin and suckered on. Tom flicked it free.

  They started down the hill. ‘Your brother. Was he sick or something?’

  ‘An accident.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She seemed to want to say something more but then she shrugged it off. ‘You don’t need to be sorry about everything.’

  ‘It must affect you. All of you. Not only your mum.’

  ‘My brother became . . . difficult.’ Tom waited for more. ‘Growing up we were like this.’ She cro
ssed her two fingers. ‘It changed the year he died. He got weird. Drugs, maybe. Stealing. I don’t know. No one does. What I do know is that at some point you have to let it go. You can’t keep asking yourself why.’ She walked on, her shirt catching on a branch and unknotting from her waist. She looked irritated when he passed back her shirt. ‘What?’ she said to him.

  ‘I lost my father when I was three days old. He died of asbestosis. I can’t help myself thinking about him. What it would be like now. What he’d make of me.’

  Her face softened. ‘He would have loved you, Tom. How could he not?’ He felt himself blush. ‘I’m really sorry about your father. It isn’t fair,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I don’t care about my brother. That I don’t wish it was different. I want to live again, not be held down by it. That’s what I’m saying.’

  Tom found the path off the track that led to open slopes, an undulating sweep that looked as soft as pasture.

  Stephanie laid her shirt down and parked herself beside him. He caught sight of her back. Five black leeches collared her midriff, bulbous as fingers, latched like mussels to a rock. Girls and leeches. Not a happy combination. ‘How do you feel about leeches?’ he enquired.

  She gasped, shot to a stand. She twisted in an effort to inspect her back. ‘Get them off. Please. Now.’

  ‘They’ll bleed.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ She shook her hands but didn’t squeal. ‘Just get them off.’

  He picked each one off and flicked it at the bush. Each wound streamed with blood from the anti-coagulant. ‘Last one. Stay still.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  He laid it on his hand.

  ‘The size of it.’ She poked at it. ‘That’s my blood.’

  Tom chucked it away. He checked her back. ‘You’ve performed a community service. That will keep a leech going for months.’

  She beamed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mum will never come up here. She’s petrified of leeches.’

  Tom produced a Mars Bar from his pocket and held it up before her. She went to take it but he pulled it away.

  ‘I’ve lost blood,’ she cried. ‘I’m anaemic.’ She was trying to reach around him and he wanted to put his arm around her, hold her, but it occurred to him that she might not think of him that way, that she might just see him as a brother. He handed her the Mars Bar and she broke it in two.

  If Tom blurred his eyes and searched the horizon he could make out the speck of Pedra Branca, the white rock a sanctuary for seabirds. Out there, the Continental Shelf formed a vast underwater terrain, deepwater troughs that enticed fishing trawlers and big-game fishermen. Reef breaks delivered glass waves as tall as a building and lured a new breed of hunter: big-wave surfers. They were all the talk around the boats. Surfers who forked out for a nine-hour boat ride, to take their chances against fifteen-metre death-pit waves. They were all beholden. Them. Him. Frank. The ocean ruled.

  The coastline ran away to South East Cape. Around that corner a more genteel world awaited. ‘We’re headed up to town tomorrow. Tanks are nearly full.’

  He felt thrilled to register her disappointment. ‘You’re coming back, aren’t you?’ she said.

  ‘For sure. Later in the week. Or next week, depending on Frank. Depending on weather.’

  ‘I’ve been listening to the boat talk on the radio. How much a kilo Asia’s paying for live crays. What everyone’s getting at the dock. Jules, Jake, Lee, Bluey, Rodgey Dodge. Go the Jake,’ she put on a voice.

  ‘That lot never shut up. Some choice conversations.’

  ‘According to Dad it’s rounding out my education. His, more likely. They all seem so chummy. Everyone looking out for one another in a blokey kind of way. I keep expecting to hear you, your brother’s name.’

  ‘We don’t have many friends when it comes to fishing.’

  ‘Why?’

  Tom’s gut tightened. But the words were out. ‘It’s just Frank’s way. He can be difficult, like your brother.’ He’d opened a wound he couldn’t fully stem. She’d see it. Not now or tomorrow, but at some point she’d figure it out.

  ‘Dad says after being here he’ll never complain about the price of crayfish. The hours you put in. The conditions you work in. Dad says you and Frank earn every cent. Honest, hard-working lads.’

  Tom ruffled her hair. ‘Your dad’s okay.’ Flyaway strands caught the sun. He drew his arm around her shoulder. She laced her fingers through his hand. He pulled her close. Her hair smelled of almonds and apricot. Her head rested on his shoulder. Exhilaration pounded in his chest. He looked out at a groomed ocean, a depth of deceit.

  11

  The wind squealed like a terrified child. Steph braced herself, angled her body as she rounded the corner after leaving the weather office. She was ready for the onslaught. She made her way down the path to the house, mindful of her footing. The screen door of the laundry caught a squall and flew back on its hinges. Steph struggled to close it.

  She peeled off her waterproofs and towel-dried her hair. She hung her clothes on the inside line to drip on the linoleum. The windows shook, translucent with salt, the Needles a blur of sea spray and mist. A squall raced across the ocean and laid down the waves. You could barely see halfway to the Cape.

  Steph put the kettle on. She searched the kitchen cupboards. The smell of mould seemed worse when you first opened things. She tiptoed to the pantry to fetch more Milo.

  ‘Is that you, Steph?’ her father called from the bedroom. He was propped on his elbow, his hair mussed from sleep. ‘Everything all right?’ He cleared his throat.

  ‘All good.’

  ‘What’s it blowing?’

  Her mother stirred.

  ‘Fifty-five, gusting sixty knots.’

  He gave her a didn’t I tell you? look. ‘Have trouble getting up there, getting back?’

  Her father had got out of bed at five-thirty, had offered to accompany her. ‘I was glad of the handrails.’

  ‘I bet you were. Looks filthy out there.’

  Steph had been wishing Tom back—every day she’d been looking for the boat. Now she wanted to feel sure he was still in Hobart. ‘Where do the boats go in this?’

  Her father spoke too brightly. He knew she was worried. ‘They’ll be holed up behind one of the Witches. Some sheltered bay. Fishermen are used to this kind of thing.’

  Her mother raised her head from the pillow. ‘Everything okay, Stephie?’

  ‘It’s early. I’m going back to bed.’

  ‘You’re all wet. Dry your hair. I’ll get up and make you a hot water bottle.’

  ‘Go back to sleep. Both of you. Please.’ Steph hated fuss.

  She found her favourite mug and added extra Milo. She filled her hot water bottle with the remainder of the kettle.

  Her father was sitting up in bed, staring out the window. It would all be a blur without his glasses. He looked plaintive. He probably thought no one had remembered. She went in and kissed him. ‘Happy birthday, Jamesie.’

  ‘So it is. Thank you, sweetheart.’

  Mum patted his sleeve. ‘Forty-five,’ she muttered into her pillow. Her mother would cook him a special breakfast when she woke. Steph would save her present until then.

  Steph climbed into her bed. She laid the hot water bottle against her stomach to ease the cramps. Other girls her age were on the pill. Their periods lasted three days. Her mother didn’t see the point. Not until you’re . . .

  Sexually active?

  Steph, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were planning?

  Hardly something you could plan for. Not here.

  She studied the high ceiling, the rust stains circling the nails. Steph’s eyebrow mirror and everything metal on her mantlepiece was already spotted with rust.

  Steph kept a framed photo of Gran standing in front of the pink azalea outside her porch. She fussed over that plant like an old companion. Steph still made the annual Easter pilgrimage to stay with Gran in Canberra. It was their special time
together. She studied the photograph with Lydia at Disneyland, two cousins screaming like lunatics, a tornado of hair reeling down Magic Mountain. Sammie and Tessa. The three of them piled on top of one another in the snow. Just the one small photo with Callam, her chasing him though the shallows when they were little kids. Everything was simple in the old days.

  Steph tried to blank it out but the sombre image moved before her: a wooden coffin polished to glass, ornate brass handles like something from the pages of a gothic novel—the last thing Callam would have wanted. If they’d included Steph, asked her opinion, she could have told her parents what her brother would have chosen for himself. She and Callam had seen them on cable: happy boxes. Superheroes. Star ships. Motorbikes. Pandas. Balloons. Any picture you or your loved one wanted. When she and Callam were little kids, in the water wearing masks and flippers, they’d hold their breath and dive. They’d turn and twist and roll, make squeaks and underwater singing sounds. Callam used to wish he was a dolphin.

  *

  Her father sounded groggy. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly ten o’clock, sleepyhead. Steph and I thought you were going to sleep away your birthday.’

  ‘Looking out there it’s not such a bad idea.’

  Steph stood beside her mother at the bedside, rain hammering the window. Mum held a tray decorated with sprigs of tea-tree, a bowl of homemade yoghurt and dried cranberries, toast and coffee. Steph’s birthday gift rested on the napkin.

  ‘You manage the nine o’clock weather?’

  ‘She had me go with her,’ her mother said. ‘We were like two old drunkards, staggering arm in arm against the wind.’

  ‘I can well imagine.’ Her father sounded hurt. All the times he’d offered help and Steph chose her mother instead. ‘What’s this, then?’ He shook the small gift. He wiggled his little finger into the lip of the envelope and drew out the miniature card. For Dad, Steph had written. Now that you’re the outdoors type. Her neatest print. Love, Steph xxx.