Head of the River

by Pip Harry

  I pick up the fancy place setting outlining the night ahead.

  Harley Grammar School

  Boat Club Dinner – Proceedings

  7 pm – Doors open

  7.30 pm – Guests seated

  Captains of Boats speech – Elena Popescu and Samuel Camero

  8 pm – Main course served

  8.30 pm – Presentation of year books

  9.30 pm – HGS boat song

  Close

  Laura stops by our table and puts her hand on my shoulder. ‘Ready?’ she asks. I nod and take out my carefully written speech, feeling the first shot of nerves since our race. The painkillers have done their job and I don’t feel too bad. Sam and I walk together to the front of the room and he’s introduced first. He takes the microphone and the room erupts in wolf-whistles and cheers and then falls silent.

  ‘I want to thank every rower for giving it their all on the Barwon River today. The racing was fast and fierce and every one of our crews put in a good showing. None more so than the girls’ first eight who we can now call Heads of the River. Well done to Leni and her amazing crew.’

  The entire room stands up and stomps their feet, including Dad. It’s a zoo. I smile, so happy and relieved.

  ‘Our boys had a tougher day out there,’ says Sam, a note of sadness in his voice. ‘In rowing, you don’t always get to go fast at the right time. We tried our best, but couldn’t produce what we needed when it counted. That doesn’t take away from the hard work my guys put in.

  I want to thank each of them for their dedication, but most of all Adam Langley, our six seat, who collapsed on the course today and is currently in hospital recovering. You’re a legend, mate, and we hope you get better soon. I’d like to thank our coach, Mr West, and express our gratitude for the chance to be part of the great tradition of rowing at our school. We will go our separate ways, but the club will continue and we wish it the best of luck and fast racing in the future. Finally, to the Year Nines, Tens and Elevens here tonight – good luck for next year and keep the flag flying high. We’ll be the ones cheering you on the bank.’

  I take the microphone from Sam. Down the back Dad whistles and starts up a chant.

  ‘Leni! Leni! Leni!’

  I was going to give a formal speech, but I fold up my bits of paper and decide to do something different. Something really not me.

  ‘I couldn’t have won the Head of the River on my own today,’ I say. ‘So I don’t want to give this speech on my own. I’d like to ask the winning girls’ eight to join me up here, as well as our coach Laura.’

  Everyone claps as my crew steps up from the table and crowds around me. It feels right to have them by my side. This is not just my victory.

  ‘This is how we won today,’ I say. ‘We stuck together through everything and found a way to work as one.’

  I hand the microphone to Penny next to me. ‘You first.’

  When we all finally finish talking and thanking everyone Rachel puts her arm around me and squeezes. ‘You’re a bloody legend, Leni.’

  Stuffed with pumpkin soup, some fancy meat dish called chateaubriand and chocolate baskets with berries, I look over the year book given to me and the rest of my crew. I’ve seen it before. Every page has my fingerprints on it. As part of my captain duties, I organised for the books to be put together and printed weeks ago and given out as a keepsake tonight. The hardbound leather book is full of club rowing photos, quotes, regatta results and official crew photos. Along with the school crest, the names of my crew are stamped in gold lettering on the cover.

  Harley Grammar School

  Girls 1st VIII

  Bow: M. Aitkin

  2. A. Bishara

  3. G. Johnstone

  4. J. Sweeny

  5. S. Hao

  6. P. Mission

  7. R. Wilson

  Stroke: L. Popescu

  Cox: A. Tanaka

  Coach: L. Muston

  I run my hand over the raised lettering and the names of the girls. My girls. I flip through the photos of the entire boat club. All of us training, rowing, winning, losing. It’s been an incredible season. I’ll never forget how much these past six months have made me grow up and become a leader.

  I read over the inscriptions from my crew. One stands out.

  Leni, You were amazing. We did amazing things.

  Love, Rach x

  I lean over and hug her spontaneously.

  ‘You’re amazing,’ I say.

  Sam gets up and announces we will sing the Boat Club Song and then wrap up the night.

  ‘This song has been sung at every Harley Head of the River dinner for over a hundred years,’ he says. ‘Tonight I’d like to dedicate it to Adam Langley, who should have been here with us tonight.’

  My crew links arms as everyone stands up to sing. The entire room filling up with voices low and high. Old and young. I catch Dad’s eye across the room and he smiles at me. This is what he meant when he said rowing brings people together. Makes them loyal and bonded for years after their races end.

  Long live Harley Grammar and our lasting pride

  The love of the river, that nothing divides

  May the good old dark greens never weaken or break,

  Till the coxswain calls out ‘easy oar, easy mates’.

  Down the Yarra we glide,

  True friends at our side.

  This fellowship nothing on earth can divide.

  Fair play and hard rowing, by these do we steer,

  To triumph unbeaten, our victory clear.

  From our heroes of old,

  To the novices bold,

  Our courage in racing is untarnished gold.

  Here’s to the eight and here’s to the four,

  And here’s to the boys and girls strong to the core,

  And here’s to our school, dear to our hearts,

  And the Head of the River, where we made our mark.

  Cristian

  On Sunday I get up early and know I can’t drift around the house like a lost sock all day. I have to do something. In the kitchen Mum has tea on and Dad is listening to a Romanian radio station. They look up when I shuffle in and sit at the table.

  ‘Would it be okay if I went out?’ I ask them. ‘I want to visit Adam in hospital.’

  They share a look like it’s not the best idea. I get it. There’s no love lost between Mitch and either of my parents.

  ‘You’ll have to get permission from Adam’s family,’ says Mum. ‘I think I still have Belinda Langley’s number. I’ll dig it out for you.’

  She gets the number from her phone and scribbles it down for me.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll call her now.’

  ‘He’s at the Alfred, isn’t he? Want some company?’

  ‘Nah, I’d rather go by myself.’

  I leave Leni a note and let her sleep. She’s completely wrung out from racing and had a late night at the boat club dinner. She’ll be annoyed she missed out, but it’s too much for both of us to go and I don’t want to drag her out of bed.

  At the hospital I walk into the main entrance and ask for Adam.

  ‘Adam Langley. He’s in ICU. Level four. Are you immediate family?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have permission from his immediate family to visit?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, pop up and speak with his Unit Nurse Manager first. It should be okay.’

  In the waiting room, I see Adam’s brother Oliver. I know him from the river. Two years ago he rowed in the crew above me. He was Captain of Boats in his final year.

  ‘Cris,’ he says, standing up. He’s fatter and taller than Adam, but they have the same freckled face and intense blue eyes. I don’t know what to do so I shake his hand. He smells like stale coffee and body odour. Like he
hasn’t showered in days.

  ‘Mum told me you were coming in this morning. It’s what Adam would want.’

  ‘Can I see him now?’ I ask.

  I’m impatient to see him. To talk to him about the fright he gave us. To tell him to hurry up and get better.

  ‘The nurses are doing some checks. Mum will come out in a minute.’

  ‘Where’s your dad?’ I ask. I’m steeling myself for an encounter with Mitch. He may not want me here.

  ‘He’s gone for food. The grub here is terrible.’

  A nurse in scrubs approaches me. ‘You’re visiting Adam today?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes. I’m his best mate, Cristian.’

  ‘Have you ever been to an ICU unit, Cristian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, then there’s a few things you need to know. Be prepared to see lots of lines, tubes, wires and monitoring equipment. Some of it will beep and make loud noises. That’s okay. It doesn’t mean it’s an emergency. We’re just keeping a close eye on your friend. Adam isn’t conscious, but feel free to touch and talk to him. He may be able to hear you. Wash your hands with gel before you go in.’

  I scrub my hands with antibacterial gel from a dispenser and sit down with Oliver in a plastic chair, listening to the sound of beeps and alarms going off. The quiet bustle of nursing staff attending to the sickest of the sick. The smell of disinfectant is overpowering.

  ‘How is he?’ I ask.

  Oliver shakes his head. ‘Not good, Cris, not good at all.’

  Adam’s mum comes out of the room. I haven’t seen her in over a year. She’s lost weight and changed her hair colour. She hugs me, tightly. I spent a lot of time around her kitchen bench when I was younger. She was funny and warm. I never could understand why she was with Mitch and it didn’t surprise me when she left him.

  ‘Cris, you made it. It’s so good to see you. You ready to come in?’

  She takes me into the room and I nearly sink to my knees when I see Adam. He’s hooked up to a machine that’s breathing for him. Every space on his skin seems to be attached to a tube or wire. I have no idea what to do.

  ‘Do I sit on the bed?’ I whisper.

  Adam’s mum smiles and pulls a chair over to the side of Adam’s bed. She takes Adam’s hand and places it in mine. His skin is warm.

  ‘Talk to him,’ she says. ‘Tell him how great he raced on Saturday. What mischief you boys are going to get up to this year. Big Year Twelve boys. I can hardly believe it.’ She backs away, closes the door behind her.

  I look at Adam’s face. It’s peaceful and still. Then I start to talk.

  April

  One week after Head of the River

  Leni

  It takes a few days for the blood tests to come through. By then, I’m already in bed. My neck swollen, my throat so raw it hurts to swallow. Even taking a shower requires extreme effort.

  ‘Infectious mononucleosis,’ says Dr Chang on the phone.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Glandular fever, otherwise known as the kissing disease, though you can get it from sharing water bottles or eating utensils. It’s spread by infected saliva.’

  I think of kissing Adam and Sam. All the saliva we swapped in our little love triangle. Of the water bottles I casually shared with my crew.

  ‘I’d like you to take a fortnight off school and six weeks off your training.’

  ‘Six weeks?’ I’d miss nationals, state selection. The AIS trials. In terms of my rowing, this was a disaster.

  ‘I can’t. Not now.’

  ‘Yes. If you don’t rest, you’re in danger of getting even more ill. By rest I mean no rowing, running or heavy socialising. Stay at home, keep your fluids up, eat healthy food, sleep. Come back and see me in two weeks and we’ll see how you’re doing. Put your mum on, I’d like to talk to her too.’

  I hand the phone to Mum and go to my room to lie down, again. I turn my laptop on to check Facebook and see that Adam has posted a status update. I smile and sit up, excited. Cristian went to see him a few days ago and said he was still unconscious. His condition had obviously improved.

  Hi everyone,

  I’m Adam’s brother, Oliver. Early this morning my brother died, peacefully, in his sleep. We are so incredibly sad and heartbroken by this terrible loss and feel like a piece of us is missing. I can hardly breathe. My family can hardly breathe.

  I’m sure you all know that Adam was an amazing bloke with a bright future ahead of him. Thanks for all your messages, they are helping us come to terms with this tragedy. I wanted to say – I love you, Adam. You were an amazing little brother and we will miss you forever.

  0 Likes 117 Comments

  I bury my head in my pillow and scream. I only stop when Mum comes into my room and holds me in her arms.

  Cristian comes home early from school. He drops his bag heavily in the hallway and runs into the kitchen, crying. Mum grabs him and hugs him and so do I. We stay like that, a little triangle of grief, until Cris pushes us away. He paces up and down the kitchen.

  ‘No, no, no,’ he says. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’

  ‘Sit down, Cris,’ Mum says. But he doesn’t.

  She puts the kettle on and goes through the motions. Spooning out the dry tea-leaves, filling the pot, leaving it to steep. She has been through this before. Countless times. The death of a child is part of her world.

  I look at Adam’s Facebook page, now an online memorial to him and the best place for any updates from his family on the funeral plans. Funeral plans. I can’t believe he’s gone. Completely gone.

  ‘Cris, come here,’ I say. He’s making me jumpy with his pacing.

  We sit together at my laptop as Mum puts tea in front of us. She stands behind Cris, her hands on his shoulders. He’s shaken to the core. We both are. I feel scooped out and hollow. Shocked.

  ‘A fit seventeen-year-old dropping dead of heart failure?’ Mum muses. ‘This is a tragedy.’

  ‘Why did it happen, Mum?’ I ask. I should be in bed, but I can’t sleep. I’m confused. Adam was so strong. So young. It didn’t make sense.

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Mum. ‘Adam may have had a pre-existing heart condition. It’s hard to say.’

  Cristian and I scroll through Adam’s Facebook page, hoping to add our own comments. There’s nothing else for us to do.

  In total shock. Miss you Ads

  Rachel xxx

  Devastating news. So so sorry and sad

  Aiko x

  Oh no. no. Not my beautiful nephew.

  Susan

  Big hugs and love to all your family, you are in our prayers

  DX

  Very sorry. Very sad. Too Soon.

  Nick

  Hundreds of comments have been sent from all over the world, all of them dripping with loss.

  I type out one of my own.

  Adam,

  I love you. I’m sorry I never told you that.

  Leni x

  Cris tries to type one out, but he can’t. Instead he drops his head to his knees and howls. Punches the table with his fist.

  I close the computer screen. We put our arms around each other and cry.

  Cristian

  In my room I take out my phone and go to my contacts page. Adam is the first name on my list. I’d often call him by mistake when my phone was in my back pocket or I dropped it. There’s a thumbnail photo of his face next to the number. I press it and hold the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hi, It’s Adam. Leave a message or send me a text. Bye.’

  I hang up and dial the number again, and again, and again. On the sixth call I leave a message.

  ‘Adam. It’s Cris. I don’t know why I’m calling, I know you’re not there but I needed to hear your voice again. Guys aren’t supposed to say shit like this, but I love you,
mate. I’ll miss you.’

  I hang up, undress and put on my zootie.

  There’s only one way I can stop this hurt.

  Dad pulls me off the ergo machine in the garage. I’m sweating, crying. A wreck. He wrenches the handle from my hands and forces me off the seat. The floor below me is puddled with sweat. I’ve been here for two hours, revving the handle like a robot. Pull, recover. Pull, recover. Pull, recover. Counting strokes, watching the kilometres tick upwards. I was almost at 20 ks. I wasn’t intending to stop.

  I crouch on the floor, totally exhausted, still not feeling any better.

  ‘Dad, I need to tell you something,’ I say. ‘Adam took steroids too and other stuff. We did it together.’

  Dad doesn’t look surprised.

  ‘Of course together. Your mother and I, we already knew in our hearts.’

  ‘That’s why he died? The drugs? Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?’

  Dad throws a towel over my shoulders, rubs my arms dry.

  ‘Cristian. We make this right. I promise you.’

  Adam’s funeral is held at St Paul’s Cathedral in the city. It’s the only church big enough to hold everyone. There are hundreds of people here. Maybe even a thousand. This is what happens when someone dies too young. The community comes out in droves to protest the unfairness of it. The cruel snatching away of promise and a future. Leni insists on coming to say goodbye, even though she’s sick as a dog. I don’t think Adam was the love of her life, but she’s cried for three days, because she lost a friend, too.

  ‘We’ll take Leni inside to sit down,’ says Mum, squeezing my arm. ‘Are you okay to do the guard of honour?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Take Leni inside before she passes out,’ I say.

  Dad and I stand in a guard of honour as the coffin arrives. All the oars from the boatshed are here. Sweep oars and sculling blades, fibreglass and waterlogged wood. Some painted, some plain. They cross over each other, forming a long, sad hallway. The coffin is pulled out of a black hearse. Adam’s brothers – Oliver and Matty – and four of their cousins steady the weight of it on their shoulders. As they make the slow walk down the guard, I feel like I should step aside. Could I have stopped us going to that dodgy gym? What if I’d said no to Adam’s plan to get us back in the firsts? Would Adam have had the guts to go through with it alone? Right now, it’s pretty hard not to wonder why I didn’t die, and Adam kicked on to eighty. Who decides these things?