Head of the River

by Pip Harry

  I look at a framed photo of Dad’s crew sitting in the grandstand after winning worlds. The nine of them look so young. Dad has sideburns and long hair. His biceps bulge and his legs are massive. He’s wearing a green singlet studded with the Australian crest and he’s looking off camera with a slight smile. The others are grasping a trophy and have medals slung over their necks. They’re a tight group. Mates.

  ‘The friends I’ll keep until the day I die are oarsmen,’ Dad tells Leni and I. ‘If it wasn’t for rowers I would never have made it out here in Australia. They took me into their hearts. Into their homes. That’s why I want you to row. You’ll meet people who’ll stick by you no matter what. Who will show you more kindness than you can stand.’

  Right on cue, Adam calls. Ads is a mate I’ll have forever and always. I know it.

  ‘Your sister is doing my head in,’ he says, without even saying hello.

  I laugh because Leni does everyone’s head in. She’s a slippery fish. Hard to pin down and even harder to catch. Adam doesn’t stand a chance.

  December

  Four months to Head of the River

  Leni

  We’re walking towards school for Dad’s boat-naming ceremony. It’s been a perfect, blue-sky day, which is tailing off into a warm, still summer night. Dad’s dressed in his best pants and shirt, Mum is in a pretty floral sundress and sandals. The plan is to go out for a special dinner afterwards. ThaiTanic, kids’ choice. The school has displayed the new eight on the front lawn in front of the chapel. The pearly white fibreglass is gleaming – untouched by scuff marks, mud or rust. Mum holds my hand and Dad’s as we walk as a family over to it. Cristian is a few steps behind.

  On the bow Dad’s name is printed in block letters, Vasile Popescu.

  ‘Dad! It’s totally awesome,’ I say. Excited for him.

  Dad runs his calloused, knobbled fingers over his name. I’ve never seen him cry, but he’s looking misty. He looks at me and then at Cristian. I can tell his heart is bursting, like mine. Not everyone gets a boat named after them. It’s rowing’s highest honour.

  ‘This is night to be proud of your name. Where you’re from,’ Dad says.

  ‘We are, Dad,’ I say.

  Popescu. Usually I had to spell it out to people. Then answer the question: where are you from?

  ‘When I came here I had nothing,’ says Dad. ‘So far from home. So homesick. To me, Australia was Opera House, kangaroos, sheep. I didn’t speak language. Had no friends. I start again. This,’ he gestures to the boat and thumps lightly on his chest, ‘shows me I make something of my life here.’

  ‘Come on, Vas, let’s get you a champagne,’ Mum says, squeezing his arm.

  I hang back for a few seconds, soaking it up. To get into the ’92 Olympics Dad trained for three hours, then worked all day at a factory job, then trained again for three hours, then went home, ate, slept and did it all again the next morning at 5 am. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he told me when I once tried on his old team jacket, its bottle-green sleeves hanging past my skinned knees. ‘But nothing worthwhile ever is.’

  My parents are swept up in the crowd of rowing parents. Tonight, the mums have swapped their regatta outfits for swishy cocktail dresses. The dads for suits and ties. Standing next to them Mum’s outfit now looks drab and worn. I notice Dad’s jacket strains around his bulging tummy. It’s missing a button.

  Everyone wants to talk to Dad. Tonight he isn’t the crazy European fix-it guy on the old bike. He’s the star of the show. The guest of honour. VIP. People get him beers and fancy canapés and want to chinwag about the season ahead. About the old days too – Barcelona and was he really mates with the Oarsome Foursome? Mum doesn’t try to tip in her own resumé. She lets him take the full ray of the spotlight. The way she does with us.

  Cristian and I stand together on the soft lawn as the sun starts its slide behind the sandstone chapel building, listening to the tinkling of champagne glasses. Adam joins us and I’m pleased to see him. We’ve spent so much time apart that I may actually be starting to miss him. He looks so handsome tonight. He takes my hand and I don’t wriggle away.

  ‘You look pretty,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Everything’s all set for the party at mine later,’ says Adam. ‘You guys are coming, right?’

  Adam’s putting on an ‘end of the world as we know it’ pre-Year Twelve Christmas party. Everyone’s been talking about it incessantly for weeks.

  ‘Of course,’ says Cristian. ‘Got dinner with the parents, but we’ll come later, won’t we, Leni?’

  ‘Yeah. Can’t wait, Adam.’

  The last thing I feel like doing is going to a Langley party, but as the official girlfriend it’s expected that I’ll be there.

  ‘Dad’s loving this,’ Cristian comments.

  ‘What’s not to love? I say. ‘Wait until we get to the speeches.’

  Cristian

  I’m watching Dad soak up his moment of glory. Everyone wants to be close to him. He’s surrounded by people clamouring for his attention. Mum’s been squeezed out to one side. It makes me realise what a hero he is. I’m always embarrassed by him, always trying to block him out or avoid him at the sheds. Why? He’s a hundred times the man I am. He got his medals the hard way. Up at dawn, out on the water, smashing it up and down until his fingers bled and his back gave out. What have I done? Given up on my body and let that shifty gym rat push pills into my hands.

  Looking at my family name on the bow of the boat, I’m so proud of Dad – and so ashamed of myself.

  ‘Hey, Leni, I’ve gotta piss, I’ll be back before the speeches,’ I say, taking off.

  I try to walk off the guilt, breathing up and getting away from the crowds, but I’m sinking in regret. I wander past the new boat, gleaming so white and clean. I never think of boats as beautiful, but this one is.

  Sam is standing next to it, running his hand over the curved fibreglass skin. Tenderly, like it’s the back of a girl he wants to sleep with. It’s obvious how much he loves this sport.

  ‘Hey, Poppa, you must be proud of your old man tonight,’ Sam says.

  Sam earned his place in the firsts the same way my dad snatched his seats. Through relentless discipline and mental toughness. I was a weakling compared to them both. I didn’t even deserve to be here.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a bit of a legend.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  Later, Miss Rutlege, our Head of Sport gets on the microphone.

  ‘Could I gather everyone around the Vasile Popescu for the official naming ceremony?’ she asks.

  I hang back from the crowd until Dad finds me with his eyes and waves me over to him. He’s holding a small hammer to break open a flow of celebratory champagne.

  ‘Come son!’ he shouts. ‘I want my children around me!’

  I stand by his side as he represents good, honest sportsmanship and hard graft. If only he knew what his son was doing. He’d take that hammer and bring it down over my knuckles.

  Leni

  Dad smacks the champagne bottle several times with a hammer, but nothing happens.

  ‘Come on Vas, put your back into it!’ shouts Westie.

  Dad flexes his muscles and goes again, harder. This time the glass breaks and bleeds bubbly liquid from its stocking casing over the side of the boat.

  He laughs and hands the hammer back to a student.

  ‘Come on up here, Vasile,’ says Miss Rutlege on the microphone. She looks down at a set of reading notes. ‘Officially, I’d like to name this eight the Vasile Popescu and wish it all the best of luck on the water in the coming season. For those of you who don’t know Vasile’s story, he came out to live in Melbourne in 1989 after the fall of the Communist rule in Romania to marry his Australian wife, Jodie, also a highly accomplished oarswoman. They had two children, Cristian and Elena, both of who
m are valued members of our Harley rowing squad. Vasile’s rowing history is extremely impressive. He rowed for Romania at the Seoul Olympics in 1988. He was then selected in the Australian team and rowed at the World Championships in 1991, winning gold, and at the Barcelona Olympics in 1992, winning silver. He is our valued boat caretaker and a respected coach of the senior thirds. Please welcome him to say a few words.’

  Dad walks up to the microphone. Everyone’s ready to hear his wisdom. Bask in a little of his reflected glory. I start to panic for him. He should have written a speech. How come I didn’t tell him to write a speech?

  Maybe it’s the beer or the excitement or maybe Dad looks out and realises how many people are hanging on his every word. But he is silent for a long time. The only sound coming from the PA is feedback. Eventually he mutters an embarrassed thanks and then starts speaking in hybrid English-Romanian. Nobody can understand him. It’s gibberish. I feel a push at my back from Adam and somehow I’m taking Dad’s place at the microphone, and giving the speech for him.

  ‘This is a great honour for Dad and for our family,’ I say. My voice sounds too bright and polished. I don’t want this moment. It’s not mine to take. ‘Dad’s career as an oarsman is so inspiring and Cristian and I hope to row in his boat, possibly to victory in the Head of the River next year.’

  Everyone claps when I say that. All their hopes raised.

  I turn to usher my dad back to the microphone, hoping he’s ready to take over, but he’s slipped away. I search the crowd but can’t see him. Mum’s also vanished. Cristian makes a cutting motion across his throat as if to say, ‘Enough. Stop, Leni. Stop trying to make everything perfect.’

  ‘Thank you, Elena,’ says Miss Rutlege. ‘Now to another order of business. Your outgoing rowing captains, Gill Kentwell and Paul Rosen, will now announce the new Captains of Boats.’

  Where are my parents? I’m desperate for them not to miss the rowing captain announcement. The announcement I’ve waited years for. I search the crowd for them.

  ‘Where are they?’ I whisper to myself.

  Gill’s talking and everyone’s looking at me. Why are they looking at me?

  ‘There she is! Leni Popescu, the new girls’ Captain of Boats,’ says Gill. ‘It’s quite a night for the Popescu family.’

  Even though my insides feel churned up I keep smiling and faking it.

  The announcement of the boys’ captain is next and I hold up crossed fingers and give Cris a smile. He doesn’t smile back.

  ‘Alongside Leni is our new boys’ Captain of Boats for next year,’ says Miss Rutlege. ‘I’ll ask Paul to name his successor.’ Paul Rosen takes the microphone and I silently repeat Cristian’s name in my head, willing my brother to walk up and take his rightful place beside me.

  ‘The next Captain of Boats is a rower with enormous potential,’ says Paul. ‘He only took up the sport a year ago and is already rowing in the first eight. Congratulations, Samuel Camero.’

  Hearing Sam’s name, instead of Cristian’s, feels like a punch to my throat. I can’t imagine how Cris feels. All my joy at being named girls’ captain drains from my body. The other rowers pat Sam on the back as he makes his way to the microphone, grinning. I ignore him and see Cris pick his way out of the crowd, pushing through the clapping, wolf whistling idiots in the first eight.

  Cris looks like a thunderclap as I approach him, slumped against the gym wall.

  ‘Cris, I’m so sorry you didn’t get … ’ I start.

  He glares at me, his face stony.

  ‘You had to win, didn’t you?’ he snaps. ‘Bloody golden girl strikes again. Is there any way you could make me look worse? Straight As, Captain of Boats, stroke of the first eight.’

  ‘I wanted this for both of us,’ I say, hurt.

  ‘Nah, I don’t even think that’s true. You want all the glory. Nice job highjacking Dad’s speech by the way. Good one.’

  Stung, I go to defend myself, but Cris is already leaving. He strides across the lawn, ripping off his blazer and kicking a rosebush as he walks out the front gates. Scattering the petals across the bitumen.

  It should be the best moment of my life. Sam Cam and me – co-Captains of Boats. A photographer has us pose together with a pair of crossed oars and Dad’s new boat behind us. He stands us back-to-back like some cheesy catalogue photo, arms folded over our chests.

  ‘Congratulations, Leni,’ Sam says as we smile for the camera.

  I should return the kudos, but I’m angry at how this night has turned out. It should have been glittering and it ended up lumpy. All I can think is how gutted Cristian is. How he had a go at me for making him look bad. Do I do that? Soak up other people’s glory like a sponge.

  ‘First you take my brother’s seat in the firsts? Now you have his captaincy too?’ I say. It’s not fair of me. I’m taking my disappointment out on the nearest target.

  ‘I’m hardly going to turn it down,’ says Sam.

  ‘That’s it guys, thanks,’ says the photographer and Sam and I push apart.

  ‘Hey, what’s with the attitude? I thought we were ­officially friends now,’ says Sam. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing. Enjoy your moment. Congratulations, I guess.’

  I walk away and hear Sam shout, ‘Say it like you mean it!’

  ‘Captain Leni!’ Adam says, grabbing my waist from behind as I try to leave the scene and find my fractured family. ‘Ready for a massive party later?’ He kisses my ear. ‘Let’s get crazy.’

  I should be excited. They’ll be a dance floor over the pool. DJ. Catered. Everything too much money can buy. I can’t do it. I don’t want to hang out with a bunch of people who don’t really know me.

  ‘I don’t feel like it. I’m so tired. I might find my parents and head home.’

  Adam sighs, drops his hands from me like I’m hot.

  ‘Why do you always put me last?’ he asks.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘You do. I’m so far down the list of your priorities I might as well not bother.’

  ‘Maybe I can come later, with Cris,’ I say. We both know I won’t.

  ‘Nah, it’s too late. Forget it. Do what you want, Leni. You usually do. Tell you what. Let’s forget about us too. It’s not working.’

  As he walks away I wait for the feeling of relief to come, but all I feel is a knot of hurt working its way up to my throat.

  Has Adam just broken up with me?

  Cristian

  I’m sitting on the banks of the Yarra. It’s dark and there are booze boats floating up and down, full of pissed office workers having Christmas parties. Cheesy music blaring. I’m drinking too. By myself. Leni is Captain of Boats and I’m captain of the loser squadron. I’m finishing up a six-pack I got from the slack bottlo down the road from school. Making myself numb. You only get one chance to be a rowing captain and I blew mine. It’s not like I didn’t need it on my exit letter. Leni’s got her uni plans stitched up. She’ll be a doctor. I’ll be, what? I don’t even have a preference.

  I feel awful because instead of congratulating her, I snapped at her and stormed out on her big moment. Told her she was a golden girl. I only said that because I felt like Captain Evil.

  My phone rings. Adam. I pick it up.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Where are you? Come to my party. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Can’t do it, comrade.’

  ‘Why not? Get off your arse and catch a cab. I’ll pay for it when you get here. Where are you anyway? Still out with your parents? Is Leni with you?’

  ‘Family dinner was cancelled. I’m at the river. By myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno. Maybe I’ll have a swim.’

  The black river meanders past. I imagine falling into it and letting the water rush up my nose. Sinking into the mud on the bottom.

  ‘Don’
t be stupid. Penny’s here. She looks hot and she asked me where you are. I reckon it’s going to happen for you two lovebirds tonight.’

  I should go home to bed and sleep it off. I’m not in the right headspace to go to a party. But the thought of seeing Penny changes my mind.

  ‘Penny’s there?’ I can hear the keenness in my voice.

  ‘Yes, loverboy. She’s in my back garden wearing a mini skirt she really has the legs for. You do know Nick has a crush on her, too. You best get here before he cuts your grass.’

  ‘I’ll be there in twenty.’

  ‘Atta boy.’

  I lie back, close my eyes and feel my body lose touch with the ground. My insides whirl and spin. It’s like being on a whizzy ride. I think about Penny taking me into her long arms. Letting me kiss her. Letting me touch her soft skin. Letting me undress her. Letting me inside her. The last thought gets me off the riverbank and lurching towards the nearest tram stop.

  As is tradition with Langley parties, everything is laid on. I check my name off the guest list with two bouncers stationed at the front gates and wander into the enormous house. There’s a marble staircase and posed glamour shots of the master and mistress of the house. Ugly, but no doubt priceless, art hangs on every other available wall. Kitty, aka MILF, is greeting guests, sipping from a pink straw dipped into a mini bottle of Moët. She’s changed and is now dressed like one of the schoolgirls in a short, bejewelled kaftan that shows off her shapely brown thighs.

  ‘Cristian!’ Kitty says warmly. She clasps me in a booze-soaked embrace, a little unsteady on her heels. ‘Let me look at you.’

  Kitty stands back and gives me a once over, like I’m a show dog. I’m surprised she doesn’t check my coat and behind my ears. She’s immaculate. Frozen, botoxed brows, an unlined forehead and make-up that looks sprayed on.