Watercolours

by Adrienne Ferreira

  While Camille visited her father, Dom lounged around the flat devouring her discarded novels. Television was a wasteland, not worth switching on. Each morning the local paper arrived in the letterbox, its pages soft and crimped, and at lunchtime he dried it in the oven along with his frozen pizza or lasagne and then read it cover to cover, disappointed if he didn’t find at least one photograph of a dog on a boogie board in a flooded backyard or a football game being played in a mud slick. The unfolding drama of the weather held a particular fascination for him since his encounter with the Rotarians: after five straight days of heavy rain the paper reported that the Lewis was lapping at the fringes of the River’s Rest Caravan Park and Camping Ground and Dom imagined the owner running around in a flap, his Big Cappuccino forgotten. The local motels were already full thanks to the holiday crowd, and pretty soon there was an accommodation crisis, but true to form the Girl Guides and the Scouts responded by decking out their halls with donated air mattresses and school gym mats to lodge those forced to evacuate the camp site. In another article, Dom saw a photo of Gerard Roper out the front of the Roper Centre, looking across at the partially submerged vacant lot next to the car park. The area was low-lying and sandbags were being positioned as a precaution, Dom read. Shoppers were advised to use the side entrance of the Centre until further notice.

  But business wasn’t all bad: the video shop was doing a roaring trade. One front page featured a poorly lit photo of Bob Newey in his newsagency beside a row of empty shelves, completely sold out of his selection of cheap paperbacks and dreary jigsaw puzzles and anything useful for art and craft; families had quickly snapped these up, along with every umbrella and raincoat at Sinclair’s Produce. In particular, Dom enjoyed the letters page; everyone was fired up about poor street drainage, absent levees and the sluggish progress of the bypass works. Parents raged over the town’s lack of youth facilities and launched shots at the delays bedevilling Rotary’s long-awaited recreation centre, their complaints written with the zeal brought on by repressive weather, whingeing children and lack of physical exercise. On the odd occasion when Dom and Camille ventured into town for supplies they encountered groups of miserable tourists listlessly haunting shops and cafes, squabbling among themselves and making it clear that they held each and every citizen of Morus personally responsible for their ruined holidays.

  Not everyone was in a foul mood, though. Across the hall, Mavis was in great spirits, host to endless noisy games of Yahtzee, curry marathons and chutney drives. Her late-night video screenings of Cary Grant classics sent melodramatic soundtracks wailing through the thin walls and this more than anything encouraged Dom out in the evenings. It may have been a no-go zone for Mavis, but the bowling club was a lively retreat and Dom found its bistro good value. It also ran a selection of films on an old projector in the uncarpeted area reserved for physical culture and travelling cover bands, and in the holidays these sessions were packed. For their first public outing as a couple, Dom took Camille to the seafood buffet night, where they feasted on mounds of cooked prawns and crumbed calamari garnished with splayed strawberries. They stayed for the film, introduced by the club manager, a movie buff, who summarised the plot and talked a bit about the actors and the director before flicking off the lights. Despite being run off his feet, he was committed to this ritual and initially Dom had found it tiresome, but he soon learned to sit through it uncomplainingly because it saved on frustration later; if the oldies in the audience — a good proportion of it — were familiar with the storyline and characters, they could sit back and watch in silence without the need to question loudly, during suspenseful moments, just what the hell was going on.

  At night, in bed, he held Camille in a clammy embrace and tried to recall the last time he had felt such contentment.

  There were no quiet moments, only rain.

  Since the rain had made them prisoners indoors, Mira had been engaged in the full-scale, futile pursuit of drying. The bedding felt perpetually damp and the towels turned sour, as she found it impossible to air anything in the relentless humidity. Each boot and shoe lined up on the front veranda grew a grey-green fur. They took turns to shriek in horror when they came across leggy huntsman spiders that crept inside and hid behind doors and under cushions to escape the wet. On Wednesday when a monstrous specimen scuttled in and disappeared behind the bedroom wardrobe, Mira was forced to sleep on the lounge until it emerged a day later and George could capture it; she had been terrified of waking up with the hideous thing tangled in her hair.

  One morning they came into the kitchen to discover an invasion of tiny snails, which had hatched outside in an orgy of slime and somehow found their way indoors. Novi was delighted by these silent visitors and the lace patterns they left on the walls. Each morning Mira swept up piles of them in the dustpan and threw them into the bin but for a few days they were exasperatingly unstoppable and every wet crunch underfoot on a midnight visit to the toilet or an early-morning stumble into the kitchen elicited a stab of guilt.

  Varmint was a devil in wet weather; she took to galloping around the house, tail high, as though pursued by some invisible spirit. For entertainment she leaped onto the sideboard to send picture frames flying, or embarked on explorations of the house without placing a paw on the floor, taking dainty steps from lounge to bookcase to bench-top to sideboard, uttering shrill meows. Mostly she lay agitated across doorways, flicking her tail at each fresh wave of rain, daring anyone to step over her and shooting out a rankled paw if they attempted it.

  On the tin roof the downpour was thunderous. It provided a steady, deafening backdrop to the days and nights. Where is it coming from? they asked each other, incredulous with each new surge. When will it stop? Mira made brave attempts to defy the conditions. A fairy ring! she cried on Thursday, an announcement tinged with the desperation of cabin fever after days spent pacing restlessly and peering out of windows at her waterlogged vegetable plots. She and Novi stripped off and raced out into the midday torrent to make a wish and dance together in the circle of mushrooms while Varmint watched from the window, utterly convinced of their lunacy. But outdoor forays were few and far between. Starved of sunlight, they began to take on the pallor of fungus themselves.

  On Friday when she saw they were in for yet another wet day, Mira felt her anxiety rising. It was mid-morning, although it may well have been the afternoon, who could tell? At the bottom of the garden the bloated river rushed over itself like a million vile eels intent on dragging Morus out to sea. Hands on her hips, she stood at the sink and stared out across the yard, kneading her stomach to dispel the mass of worry that had formed there. More than the mountains of wet washing and the potential damage to her crop, it was the memories this sort of weather evoked that made her anxious. The last time it had rained like this her father was taken by the river. No, drowned in the river — she had to be careful how she put things in front of Novi.

  Poor Novi … when she saw those pictures of Papa her heart had leaped into her throat. What a thing to draw! And yet she couldn’t take her eyes off them, she kept returning to them over and over because he’d been rendered with such care; his moustache tidy, his eyes closed and his big hands resting by his side. It was almost as though he was simply lying down resting. Mira liked to think he had gone that way: peacefully.

  The storm that year had been devastating. It hit with the force of a cyclone and everything had been thrown into chaos. Up in the hills they’d been cut off from the town for days, enduring long stretches without power. The river had risen quickly until it was a foaming beast in the backyard, tearing through Mira’s lower plots and threatening to destroy the business, the house and all its contents. All she could do was stand by and watch, mesmerised by the force of it, seeing the procession of sodden debris adrift on the relentless tide and feeling just as powerless. By day five Morus had been declared a disaster zone. All emergency services had been occupied lashing tarpaulins over torn roofs, evacuating families and livestock or sandbagging to t
ry to prevent further damage. Mira had tried calling her father. When she couldn’t get through on the second day she started to worry; it was unlike him not to be in touch to see how they were holding up. Eventually she’d braved the weather and ventured up to the winery, but he wasn’t in the house or the sheds or even out in the groves. Her father had disappeared. Overwhelmed with emergency calls, the police had assured her he would turn up, but by then dread had her in its grip. Where on earth would he have gone in weather like this, with his trees and vines and equipment to safeguard?

  Two days later his body was discovered. It was another day before the floodwaters had retreated enough for Mira and George to make it into town to identify him. She remembered how the female police officer had placed a hand on her arm before she stepped into the morgue, a warning to prepare herself. Mira trembled now to think of it. Poor Papa! It was him, and yet it wasn’t. There was no life there, no spirit, just a mottled grey carcass, all bloated from the river. His wounded flesh looked bloodless as old meat.

  It was horrible to think of it, even now. She stood at the window unable to get the image out of her head and hardly noticed when George bustled into the kitchen to make coffee. When he saw her expression he came and wrapped his arms around her. Together they watched the rain in silence for a while. Its power was hypnotic, like staring into fire or thunderous surf.

  ‘Morus is going under, my love,’ he said, moving back to the stove, where the coffee had finished spitting. He filled a thermos and added milk. ‘King tide’s due tomorrow, the radio said. River’s set to meet it head on. We’ll be cut off for sure. I’ll take Novi down to Sinclair’s in a minute and stock up.’ Mira was stricken. He came and gave her a squeeze. ‘We’ll be right!’

  Tossing some slices of lemon cake into a tea towel, he grabbed the thermos and launched himself out the back door. From the sink Mira watched him slosh across the overgrown lawn and escape the dripping clutches of morning glory to disappear inside the shed. George’s interest in the boat had fired up again, he was spending every spare minute working on it, but try as she might she just couldn’t share his enthusiasm. This weather — it was getting her down. As for Novi, he was holed up in the shed, too; she’d barely heard a peep out of him all week. Rattling around in the empty house with nothing but the rain for company gave rise to desolate thoughts. She was needed less and less these days, she realised; by Novi, by George. Even the cat found her presence irritating. And her father would never need her again.

  I should have had more children, she thought, I would have loved a huge brood. She knew she’d have been good at it, too, raising a big, bustling family. If only those little boys had lived …

  Don’t dwell on it, she told herself sternly. Sidestepping a saucepan collecting drips, she reached for her father’s old cookbook and flipped it open. Briskly, she turned to the contents page, concentrating on the list of dishes and tried to put sad thoughts out of her mind.

  I don’t mind the rain. There’s work to do and in this weather I can spend all day in the shed without anybody complaining I should be washing windows or playing ping-pong or whatever it is normal boys do in the holidays. Stacked beside the workbench is the latest batch of supplies I ordered with Eleanor’s credit card. The plastic wrappings glint yellow under the light bulb, challenging me to test the stuff inside. The parcels give an interesting new smell to the place, too. Pastels smell of iron, like blood, or green, like damp rocks; acrylics smell rich and fake. The smell of some oil paints reminds me of my own body: salt, or the metallic smell my palms get when I catch the bus. Then there are bright colours that have no smell at all and seem less beautiful because of it.

  Right now I am modelling koels out of clay. I like the feeling, sliding my hands along their smooth necks and tails. Miss Morrison will help me fire them in the kiln next term and then I’ll glaze them black and shiny with a red ring round the eyes. It was Dad’s idea to poke a hole in the bottom so we can put them on metal stakes and stick them outside in their natural habitat. Soon I’ll have koel sentries stationed all around the garden. Out of its plastic, the clay smells like the riverbank when the sun is on it. Right now it feels as if we’ll never see the sun again.

  Since the exhibition the pressure in my chest, the urge to draw, feels different. It doesn’t hit me rough and tumbling like it used to, like waves that want to smash me or drag me under. Now it’s steady, automatic, like breathing. Maybe it’s because I’ve realised that the cicadas aren’t separate but a part of me. Ever since I found my new perspective I hardly notice the feeling. It’s as constant as rain and never-ending.

  Dad bursts through the door with morning tea. We chomp cake together in silence, listening to the rain. He’s been keeping me company in here a lot lately. Each morning we make a run for it across the garden and inside he switches on the light and the radio for some music and we get to it, me on my birds and maps, him on his boat bits. He jokes that with another big flood on our doorstep he’d better get us afloat, but I can see he’s got the bug again. I think it’s the same one I have but in him it seems to come and go. Last month he made the frames for my exhibition pieces in record time. He’s always asking about what I’m learning in art and sometimes I look up and find him watching me work. I don’t mind. Time passes easily, here in the shed with Dad.

  When my neck gets sore or my hand cramps up or it feels like the maps will never be done, I go for walks along the river. Carefully, because I know better than anyone how it could grab me at any moment, I watch the water tearing past, carrying a thousand sticks and leaves and bits of rubbish. Somehow it makes me feel calm to see all those small things caught up in the flow, rushing madly along with nothing they can do to stop themselves. I know how they feel.

  After morning tea Dad and I drive down to Sinclair’s to stock up on supplies: candles, kerosene, loo paper and cat biscuits. We also find some garden stakes for my bird sculptures. We have to go the long way round because there’s this sort of marsh blocking the entrance to the Roper Centre and half the car park is under water. Not that this has stopped anyone. Inside Sinclair’s it’s busier than I’ve ever seen it. The place is crawling with damp people in a shopping frenzy, all of them trying to prepare for the storm they say is coming tonight. I look for Mr Roper to see whether he can still manage one of his smiles for me after his fright at the exhibition, but he doesn’t even notice I’m here. He’s flat out along with the rest of the staff selling tarpaulins and rope to customers. Even Eleanor is too busy to say hello. My father heads off to look for wood sealants and I make my way down to the back of the shop. The rain on the high roof is an explosion that never stops. I wonder if the river will swallow the whole town this time and if Sinclair’s ends up under water, what will happen to all the stuff. Would the beans and peas and lentils in the hessian sacks sprout and become a jungle? Could the forklift travel fast enough to make it to high ground? Would all the polished leather saddles and tennis shoes lose their squeaky-clean smell, drenched in all that river slime?

  I wander down the aisle of detergents and dry chemicals until I reach the stack of drums with their flames and skull-and-crossbones warnings. Tapping my knuckle softly on the black drums I wonder why these ones don’t have labels, and what’s inside them. I imagine them all bobbing around in the floodwater, fizzing and foaming like a giant science experiment. I decide to ask Dad to buy me some gumboots.

  On the radio they’re saying the town might see a repeat of the flood of 1990. They’re saying not to drive through floodwater, and to watch out because some power lines have blown down. Rain like this forces snakes out of their holes, too. They’re warning everyone to stay out of the river.

  They don’t have to tell me.

  The drive up Serpentine Road was slow going. Furrowed with slurry and drifts of loose gravel, the road was dissolving in places. Dom prayed the Falcon wouldn’t slide off into the gorge. The conditions were worse than he’d expected but he pushed on, his nose to the windscreen, the arthritic wipers flicking
feebly at the rain.

  He felt bad he hadn’t dropped in on Novi yet. He hadn’t even spoken to him since the exhibition; for a week he’d drifted through the blur of rainy days overcome with lust and laziness. Now the radio was saying Serpentine Road was about to be cut off, that all the creeks and tributaries were full and the Lewis was expected to reach flood level overnight. Dom knew he’d miss his chance if he didn’t go today. He didn’t want to let Novi down.

  He drove at a crawl. The tyres slid on every bend. His palms were slick and they were beginning to ache from clutching the wheel. It was almost impossible to see; switched to high, the Falcon’s demister fan was deafening but made no impact on the condensation fogging up the windscreen. Dom flicked open the glove box and groped inside. To his relief he found a crochet-trimmed tea towel and cleared a patch on the windscreen. Peering through it, he was startled by a couple of impressive waterfalls he hadn’t even known existed.

  He turned down the Lepidos’ driveway and pulled in close to the house. With no umbrella to hand he splashed through a sheet of water on the lawn and ducked under one final spill, thanks to a section of decrepit roof guttering over the veranda steps, arriving dripping at the front door.

  Mira yanked it open before he had a chance to knock. Her face looked haunted. ‘It’s so good to see you!’ she cried, pulling him into a hug that squeezed all the breath out of him.

  Dom took off his wet boots and left them with the untidy army of mouldy shoes by the door. Inside, he followed Mira down the hall. The place was an obstacle course of pots and buckets collecting drips. Out of nowhere a grey blur darted between his feet and he staggered, socks skidding on the floorboards. He reached to steady himself on a couple of clothes horses, his hands grasping at a host of slippery satin bras before his weight collapsed one of the frames.