The girl singer has long jet-black hair hanging in greasy tendrils all around her pale face. She looks sour and unhealthy, but . . . she is belting it out as hard and furious as a jackhammer. I find myself lost in admiration just watching her move about the stage, working the crowd with that aggressive, raspy voice and couldn’t-give-a-shit attitude. Zoe and I give each other our hey-this-is-cool look and sidle up towards the front to find a space for ourselves near the wall. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, booze and excitement.
When the band’s signature tune starts – the one that has been getting quite a bit of local airplay – the atmosphere cranks up a dozen notches, and the crowd loosens up. The rush of crazy-good feeling I get at this point almost blinds me. It’s why I’m here. Why we’ve come. For this moment when the music suddenly breaks out of its cage and comes yelling at me through all my senses. It boils over and rolls down from the stage into the crowd, burning everyone in its path. I love it. I love the sharp wild guitar riffs. I love this girl’s voice and the hard drumbeat underneath it. I love the way it gets me feeling careless and defiant and loose within just a few minutes. And I love watching other people around me get like that, too.
Everyone is dancing now. We’re dancing where we’re standing.
Don’t call me baby! Make me wait.
Don’t give me no reason to play it safe.
No! No! No!
The crowd screams out the song like it’s their very own anthem, fists punching the air, light-hearted and aggressive at the same time.
Oh don’t call me baby! Let me call you.
I promise I’ll call you honey ’cos you make me so so so blue.
The singing is passionate, wild, like everything in the world belongs inside those words. For a few moments, it’s kind of true, those ordinary words mean . . . everything. The music is holding out its skinny pockmarked arms and pulling us in to where it’s hot and dangerous, and hard to move about and . . . I love it. I love it so much.
Don’t give me no reason to play it safe.
Zoe and I are shouting the words out and laughing along with everyone else, and we’re both sweating like wrestlers. It feels so good.
You can tell when a band is special. These guys have a jumpy, rough feel, but they’ve got that something extra that is hard to put a finger on. I reckon other people can feel it too. They won’t be doing the pub scene forever, is my guess. They’re on their way to something bigger and brighter and the rest of us are happy to be seeing them right now, before they take off for another orbit altogether. Well, that’s the way it feels anyway. The number finishes and I edge my way through the roaring crowd back over to Zoe.
‘Good, eh?’
She nods without turning around, transfixed by the stage.
‘Want another drink?’
She shakes her head. But when I move off towards the bar she grabs my arm and pulls me back.
‘I want to be up there!’ she screams in my ear, above the noise, motioning towards the stage with her thumb, to where the lead singer has picked up a guitar and is tuning it. ‘I really fucking want to do what she’s doing, Rose!’
‘Me, too,’ I laugh uneasily, but I know Zoe is not joking. She means it. She is deadly serious. Whereas for me, being a musician up there on stage is just a wild longing because I know I don’t have it in me – I know my limitations – for Zoe, the fact that she isn’t up there is a sharp thorn in her side. It is at this very moment actually causing her grief. I squeeze her wrist, turn away and make my way to the bar, trying not to come down too much. But I can’t help it. I feel sour. Much as I love Zoe, sometimes she is just too much, with her insatiable longing for . . . just about everything. Tonight happens to be one of those times. Can’t you just love the band without wanting to be the band? I want to scream at her. But I won’t do that. I know it’s the rejection from the guy in the country bringing her down. Tomorrow she’ll be okay.
The set finishes and the band announces a break. I buy another drink and make my way back through the crowd. When I see Zoe talking to a few old mates I decide to take myself outside.
‘I’m out here, okay?’ I call to her, heading for the door. I don’t know if she hears me or not because she’s already turned away.
Outside, the day is fading fast and my spirits rise to meet the still, clear sky. I love night-time in this street. The buzz, the lights, the crowds of people all dressed up looking for action. I lean up against the brick wall of the pub and look around. It’s good out here. Cool and fresh. Gladness about being just where I am hits me. I forget about my absent father, freaked-out mother and drama-queen sisters, take a swig of beer and plunge downwards into the memory of that walk home from the party with Nathaniel Cummins, the night before Dad’s bombshell. Singing, holding hands, the heels of our shoes clicking against the quietness of the early morning.
Inside, the music begins with the crescendo of a full-on scream and then pulls back into a raunchy, slow number.
I’m trying to find you. You said you’d come.
I’m looking for you babe . . . don’t do a run.
The girl’s voice, low now and sultry, thick and sweet as treacle, reverberates inside my head. I push my face up into the sky and let a few hot, secret tears of longing leak from the corners of my eyes. Even when everything else has turned to shit, there is still music.
‘It is you!’
The voice has caught me completely unawares. I jump and he laughs. Here I am looking up into the darkening sky, crying, thinking of him, and he appears, as though summoned by my thoughts. Creepy. He’s standing about two metres away, sweaty and slightly breathless as though he’s been running. Impossibly handsome in jeans and an old T-shirt with holes, he’s carrying a tennis racket and ball, of all things. He bounces the ball onto the footpath.
‘Oh, hello!’ I say, gulping, hoping it’s too dark for him to see.
‘What you doing?’ he asks, bouncing the ball really hard and frowning. If he’s seen my tears then he’s pretending that he hasn’t, which suits me fine.
I wave behind me at the music. ‘I’m here with a friend,’ I manage, casually enough, ‘to see a new band.’
‘What band?’
‘Bye Sky Babies,’ I say. ‘You heard of them?’
‘You know me, Rose.’ Nat leans up against the wall. ‘I know nothing about real music. I only play doof doof, remember?’ He is still bouncing his ball and looking at me. Referring to his party where I had a go at him about his choice of shitty music makes me feel embarrassed.
Then he walks over to the roller door and into the backyard. He stays there a few moments, listening.
‘They sound okay,’ he calls back to me with a smile. ‘Your friend the one singing?’
‘No,’ I laugh. ‘She’d like to be though.’ There is a pause between us. I’m feeling hideously shy to be caught like this. It’s hardly believable that I actually pashed this guy last Friday! How did I have the courage for that? What happened? How did it all come undone so quickly? I suddenly don’t understand anything that’s been happening over the past week and it makes me feel very thick.
‘You been playing tennis?’
‘How did you guess?’ He grins and begins smacking the ball into the air, then dives around trying to catch it with his racket before it hits the ground.
‘Won too!’
‘So the smokes haven’t caught up with you yet?’
‘Whoa!’ he laughs. ‘Nasty!’
‘Just asking!’ All the stuff he’s doing with the racket makes me feel a bit easier because at least he’s not looking at me.
‘So, Rose, you never told me that your old man was a QC?’
‘You never asked,’ I say, wondering why he’s bringing that up now and how he found out.
‘Pretty neat for you,’ he says. ‘Are you . . . close?’
‘Well,’ I say quickly, ‘he’s my dad.’
‘I heard your parents split up,’ he says lightly, still bouncing the ball. My whole body stif
fens in surprise.
‘Where did you hear that?’ My tone is unintentionally sharp.
He stops hitting the ball and looks at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ He smiles hesitantly.
‘It’s okay.’
‘My old man told me,’ he explains, after an awkward pause. ‘City law circles are tight. Stuff like that gets around quickly. Sorry, again.’
I nod and say nothing
‘Must be hard?’
‘Yeah,’ I breathe out.
‘So how is . . . your family doing?’ he asks after a while.
‘Okay,’ I say, tentatively. I can’t work out if I resent him asking these questions or if I actually like it. I suppose at least he’s being forthright but . . . it’s unnerving too. Do I want to discuss Mum and Dad’s split-up with Nat Cummins? I don’t think I do. In fact I’m sure I don’t. ‘Mum’s taking it pretty hard,’ I add, trying to sound as though the whole situation is cool and doesn’t have much to do with me. He frowns.
‘It’s not the worst thing, you know,’ he says suddenly. I look at him sharply.
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are worse things than two people splitting up.’
‘Such as?’ My voice sounds defensive, even to me.
‘Such as two people hanging in together when . . . it’s all gone.’
‘My parents weren’t like that,’ I snap impatiently. I’m sick of people pontificating about things that they have no idea about. ‘There was love.’ A sob rises in my throat. ‘They were great together. We . . . had the best family.’ I turn away, embarrassed by the passion that has seeped into my voice. But for some reason, I need him to understand this. My parents’ split is not just another separation. I want him to know how tragic it is but I can’t get any more words out. The swell in my chest and throat makes me feel as though someone has slipped a straightjacket around my body.
‘Well, my parents are just like that,’ he says quietly. ‘And they’re still together.’
There is an awkward pause.
‘They don’t get on?’ I ask after a while.
‘They don’t even like each other!’ he says. Then he stops mucking around with the ball and looks at me straight. ‘I wish they would split. I’d like my mum to have some kind of life.’
‘Your father . . .’ I begin.
‘Dad is never there,’ he says sharply. ‘I’d love to see my mum happy.’
I don’t know where to look or what to say. Other people might have conversations like this all the time, but not me. I’m not only confused but filled with curiosity too. How could he possibly want his family to split up? His honesty moves me, but my throat is stuffed with cotton wool and my limbs are made of wood.
‘Your mum will get over it,’ he says, beginning to bounce the ball again. ‘In a year she’ll be laughing again. I promise you.’
His words make me laugh myself, because it is such a ridiculous thing for him to say, but also because, for just for a few moments there, I believe he knows something that I don’t and . . . it’s such a relief. Your mum will be okay. A huge stone dislodges itself and rolls off my back as I go over his words. She will get over it. Nat has just told me so, in very simple terms. As if he knows. As if it’s something obvious. No one has been as confidently positive as Nat is being right now and it’s . . . reassuring.
‘Well, she’s in pieces now,’ is all I can manage. ‘We’re pretty worried about her.’
He nods and we’re both quiet. I want to change the subject.
‘You want to check it out?’ I offer, waving at the roller door.
‘Yeah,’ he grins at me, ‘why not?’
So we walk back into the pub together and stand watching the band with Zoe. So loud now that talk is impossible, but I don’t mind.
When it’s all over and we’re outside again, Zoe looks at Nat inquiringly. So I quickly introduce them.
‘Good to meet you.’ Nat smiles warmly, holds out his hand.
Zoe looks at me to ask how come I’ve suddenly appeared with this hunky stranger.
‘Nat lives near me.’
‘Oh.’ She grins, her eyes flashing with mischief. ‘So she just saw you passing and hauled you off the street, huh?’
‘Yep,’ Nat jokes and gives my shoulders a quick squeeze, ‘and I couldn’t resist.’
We all laugh. But his brief touch has set off a mass of electrical impulses down my limbs. Every nerve ending seems to have charged up with a fresh bolt of excitement that leaks out into the air like laughing gas.
‘So what did you think of the band?’ Zoe is flirting now. Flashing her beautiful eyes coquettishly. She is wearing a low top and her breasts bulge out. Her come-on attitude is a little embarrassing until I see that Nat seems to be enjoying it. Embarrassment jumps sideways into jealousy before I’m even conscious of it happening. Zoe suddenly looks so attractive with her bright smile and blonde hair. I must seem insipid next to her. Maybe he’s forgotten about what happened between us at the party. Are we just friends now? Maybe he . . . likes her? What exactly is happening here?
‘I was an outer suburban boy for too long.’ He laughs into Zoe’s eyes. ‘I know nothing about music.’ He turns to me. ‘Right, Rose?’ I nod.
‘Well, we’ll have to do something about that,’ Zoe giggles, without taking her eyes off him for one second.
‘What have you got in mind?’
Zoe shrugs her plump shoulders and wiggles her hips to suggest all kinds of possibilities. ‘Why don’t you come out with us some time and we’ll show you?’ she adds in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning in close to both of us.
‘That would be cool,’ Nat says immediately, smiling at her and then turning to me. ‘I’d love to do that.’
‘We’ll show you the funky places,’ she gushes, ‘the hot bands and the cool people. Tell you what, Nat, you’ll never look back.’
‘You’re on!’
We break up soon after that on the understanding we’ll all go out when Zoe and I come back from the coast. I notice the quick flirtatious last look Zoe throws at Nat and it unnerves me. Do I tell her about Nat and me now? But . . . what is there to tell? It’s not as though he belongs to me.
Road Trip
It’s the hottest part of the day and we’re on the last stretch to Apollo Bay. My T-shirt is sticking to the back of the seat and my jeans are way too hot. Mum has been quiet for ages, leaning her head against the side window. I can tell she’s not sleeping because she occasionally fiddles with her hair, examines her nails and sighs. I want to ask her what’s up – it’s not like Mum to be so subdued – but I don’t trust myself. I would probably end up saying, ‘It’s your own fault,’ if she said she wasn’t feeling well. As soon as we were out of Lorne the little creep in the back lit up the first of three fags in a row. The spectacular trip along the Great Ocean Road was ruined by his acrid tobacco stink.
Every now and again I sneak a glance back at him. He is leaning against the side window behind me, eyes closed and arms crossed around a few of the bigger parcels, as though he’s scared someone is going to take them from him. A few more parcels are beside him on the seat. All that has to constitute more than just a few things for a kid. Mum has probably set him up for the next year.
We pass Wye River, Kennett River and Skenes Creek, through the rolling hills and big overhanging pines into Apollo Bay. It’s a strange feeling passing the turn-off leading up to the beach house of last summer. Wild Dog Road. I suppose my heartbeat quickens a bit, but I don’t let myself slow down. It’s my only defence against all these memories trying to crowd into my head like a pack of uninvited party guests. Do what has to be done, the book says, and the rest will fall into place. Okay . . .
We’re almost in the main street now and on the left is a huge sprawl of lawn leading down to the wonderful wide bay. I can see white-tipped waves bobbing gently across the deep blue of the ocean and they make me think of toy boats and party hats, of all the ha
ppy-kid things of childhood. Okay. Bring it on. On the right the string of shops: supermarkets, cafés and take-away food joints, mixed in with real-estate offices, pubs and pinball parlours. The whole street is packed with holiday-makers. Four-wheel drives vie with sports cars for sought-after parking spots. Caravans, sedans and bus loads of Japanese tourists glide past like huge predatory birds. Kids in bathers, with bright towels wrapped around their middles, lick on ice-creams as they casually stroll across the street, just as if there isn’t a car in sight.
‘Where do you want to be dropped off ?’ I ask. We’re crawling along behind a tourist bus and I’m anxious to get rid of the hitchhiker at long last so we can vacate this town at the first opportunity. He wakes up, startled.
‘Oh.’ He shakes his head. Then when he sees where we are he groans. ‘Sorry. I went to sleep.’
‘So, where?’ I ask again.
‘Man this is really embarrassing,’ he mumbles, ‘but we’ve missed the turn-off. It’s back a bit. Sorry. I should have told you before.’
‘How far back?’ I snap.
‘Er . . . it’s called . . .’ he rummages in his pocket, ‘Wild Dog Road. There is a turn-off about three kilometres along . . .’
I grimace with disbelief and try not to panic. Is this fate? Then I turn to Mum. Fuck fate! I don’t have to do this. But Mum sighs and turns away from the look I’m giving her, gives a little shrug as if to say some things can’t be helped. I thump the steering wheel angrily. Does she seriously want me to go back, in this heat? To put ourselves way out for an unpleasant little jerk who couldn’t even stay awake to tell us where he wanted to be dropped off ? Come on!
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