‘Mum,’ I mutter through gritted teeth, ‘that road is four or five kilometres back’.
She tries one of her oh-isn’t-life-so-funny smiles, but I don’t play along. She can’t be serious!
‘Well . . . it’s up to you, darling, you’re the driver.’
‘Okay,’ I snarl under my breath, ‘I don’t want to.’
There are a couple of silent beats while they both take that on board.
‘All right,’ she suggests brightly, ‘so what about I drive Travis back and you stay here and have another swim? That will solve everything.’
My mouth falls open. Yep. She actually wants to take this inconsiderate nobody back to a turn-off five kilometres away! I shake my head, slam on the brakes and wait until the traffic behind me has cleared before doing a sharp, screeching U-turn in the middle of the main street. No way! After the Lorne ‘disappearance’ I won’t risk another one. Mum has never driven this van and it has a few idiosyncrasies that take a bit of getting used to. Besides, Charlie-boy might use the opportunity to steal it! He’d tell himself he had a right, seeing as his own car was pinched. I’m so angry about the present situation that all my neurotic thoughts about last summer just dissolve. Wild Dog Road? Well, why bloody not? It’s not as though the place is infested with rats or bogeymen, is it? I know for a fact that Ray is overseas so there is no chance of an embarrassing face-to-face encounter.
‘Thanks, Rose,’ Mum says quietly, ‘Travis has too much to carry in this heat.’
Oh poor Travis. But I don’t utter even a word. Since when did hitchhikers expect a ride to the front door? Whose trip is this again? Hold on tight, Rose. Hold tight. As soon as we’re out of the main drag I gun the van back down the road towards Wild Dog at full speed – which in my van means a fraction over the speed limit. But I’m filled to the eyeballs with this greasy, furious feeling that has my blood just off boiling point. I swear I’m going to throw a party when we finally cut this guy loose!
About five kilometres back the way we’ve just come, we turn left and head up Wild Dog Road – a steep, windy dirt track leading up into the hills behind the town. It’s slow and tortuous and at some of the steepest points the van really starts to struggle. But what can I do at this stage? I keep an anxious eye on the temperature gauge, hoping that the engine won’t get too hot and give out. Then I swear for the millionth time that I have to do one of those mechanics courses that are advertised in the local library. I’m sooo sick of not knowing the first thing about engines.
We’re well off the main road now. The upside of this little journey off the coastal highway is that, after about ten minutes of climbing, almost every twist in the road gives us a sensational view down the coast. It’s dairy country. We pass herds of docile cows feeding in the high paddocks, and milking sheds that shine in the sun like silver matchbox toys. The occasional little house or cottage nestled in amongst bushland or in an open paddock reminds me of the illustrated books I read as a kid. Some old crone might fly around the corner on her broomstick any moment! Even in summer the countryside is green and luxuriant. But the occasional car or farmer’s ute coming down the other way keeps most of my attention pinned to the road. Careering over this steep drop would be nasty in the extreme.
I take the odd glance in the rear-vision mirror. Charles Manson is at least now alert. I assume he’s going to tell me to stop any minute, that we’ve reached our destination. But on we go, kilometre after slow kilometre. The van begins to shudder with every gear change as we round the tight little curves and bounce through the gouged-out tracks and potholes of last winter. Twenty minutes in and we come to a fork in the road. I stop the van.
‘Which way now?’ I ask sharply.
He is frowning, chin in hand, staring out the window pretending not to hear.
‘Do we have far to go?’ I ask loudly.
‘Don’t think it’s far.’ He is biting his lip and frowning hard at the intersection. One fork is a sharp turn, heading higher up the mountain, and the other follows the ridge towards the coast for a while, before getting lost again in the hills. I know this last bit. It’s been a while but I’m pretty sure it leads down to the house where . . . never mind. Keep in the now. Stay present.
Then, with a jolt, I realise he doesn’t have a fucking clue!
‘You have no idea, do you?’ I ask stonily.
‘It’s been a while since I’ve been here,’ he admits. Then his face suddenly lights up and he points to the fork leading higher up. ‘But I think it’s up there.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘No, I’m not sure,’ he says in this bored, surly, don’t-give-me-a–hard-time voice. ‘I’m not totally sure, okay? As I said, it’s been a while.’
I boil over at this point and . . . lose it altogether.
‘Well, how come you’re not sure?’ I scream at him furiously. ‘Why didn’t you say so before you let us drive up here?’
‘Now, Rose!’ Mum tries to intervene. ‘Just keep calm . . . I think . . .’
‘Listen,’ the guy yells over her, one grimy finger jabbing the air, two inches from my face, ‘and listen hard, you uptight little bitch! This is very hard for me! Very hard. I’m going to be seeing my kid for the first time in two years! It’s a difficult situation and you’re not helping!’
What! I am shocked at the incredible audacity of him talking to me like that, calling me a bitch when I’m doing him the biggest favour ever! Driving him all this way out here. My mouth falls open and I am momentarily struck dumb. But not for long.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I sneer sarcastically. ‘Why don’t you get out now and see if you can find some nice person who is willing to help you!’
‘Look, I appreciate the ride,’ he says, in a more subdued way. ‘Don’t think I’m not grateful.’
‘Oh? Now why would I think that, Travis?’ I spit back, my hands itching to grab his scrawny little neck and squeeze the life out of him.
‘You gotta understand,’ he pleads in his best I-am-the-victim whine, ‘this is a complete freak-out for me.’
‘But it’s not my freak-out,’ I say, my voice still dripping with acid. ‘Not mine. I have plenty of my own, thank you very much! Your problems are not my problems! Can you get your head around that one, Travis?’
‘Rose, please . . .’ Mum puts her hand on my arm, ‘there is no point shouting and fighting like this.’ Her voice is thin with distress and a sliver of concern breaks through my fury. There are sweat marks under her arms and beads of moisture on her forehead. My sisters will kill me if Mum arrives drained and upset. ‘We’re here now,’ she begs, ‘so let’s just see this out, please . . .’
The guy leans over the back seat and taps her on the shoulder.
‘I want to apologise for speaking so . . . rough like that in front of you, Patsy,’ he says gruffly. ‘You’re a real nice lady . . . and I want you to know I really do appreciate everything you’re doing for me.’ Mum nods and smiles faintly. He sits back and gives me a blank stare. ‘It’s up there,’ he says stonily, pointing to the sharp upward climb again. ‘I’m ninety per cent sure now.’
‘Right,’ I snarl, and push the van into first gear.
Ten minutes later we are crossing a cattle pit and pulling into a driveway that I thankfully don’t recognise. For a while there, it was beginning to seem like some kind of nightmare. Part of me half–138 expected we would end up at the same place as last summer for a rerun of events.
At the end of the drive is a simple cream wooden house set behind a white picket fence, dwarfed by six huge pine trees. I look in the rear-vision mirror and Travis is nodding grimly.
‘This it?’
‘Yeah,’ he mutters, ‘this is it.’
A shed and garage are visible further back behind the house. It’s all so squat and little and neatly set out that once again fairy tales come to mind. I pull the van up in the cleared space in front of the house and about five barking dogs immediately rush from all sides and surround the van. They don’t l
ook particularly ferocious.
‘Kelpies.’ Mum is trying to be jolly. ‘Your favourites, Rose.’
‘Yeah,’ I reply, but I don’t smile. I refuse to be pleased with anything.
Travis slides his door open and gets out immediately and, groaning a bit, stretches in the sunlight. The dogs stop their barking as he bends to pat them, then he pokes his head in Mum’s window.
‘I’d really like you to come and meet my kid, Patsy,’ he says gruffly, not bothering to even glance at me.
She turns to me. ‘We’d better get going, I suppose . . .’ she says carefully.
‘Go ahead inside, if you want,’ I mutter, hating the fact that she’s asking my permission. It makes me feel like the Gestapo. It’s pretty obvious the invitation hasn’t been extended to me and that’s fine. I don’t want to meet his brat. Anyway, I need a break before heading down that winding road again, so I turn off the engine and stay seated behind the wheel, watching both of them walk towards the house. Travis holds the gate open for Mum and, as she passes through, he turns to give me a cold stare before following her up the path to the front door. I stare straight back and then lift my middle finger.
There are chooks, brown and white, having little fights with each other as they peck and scrabble around in the dust for whatever it is they’re looking for. There’s a fish pond set behind the fence, amidst a well-tended garden. I stand with both hands on the top rail, amused by two sleek cats sitting on either side of the pond, moving their heads slowly from left to right, mesmerised by the bright goldfish swimming about. As the quietness settles over me, I start to feel calmer. It’s a lovely little place and I’m sorry for the kid who is going to have to leave it to go live in Sydney with that jerk.
I take myself slowly back up the track to the cattle pit. Two of the dogs are following at a safe distance. When I stop and click my fingers to call them closer they wag their tails but maintain a wary distance. Even dogs are scared of me. I cross the pit and walk out into the middle of the road we came up, clasp my hands behind my head and slowly turn on the spot, breathing in the peculiar mix of pungent smells: gum leaves and grass, diesel fumes, cow dung and dust. His house was further down and along the track a way. But these hills and this view bring up memories so raw that they hurt. I don’t want to think about it all again, but I do. I can’t help it.
So what was the precise sequence of events that brought me to him? How were they first stacked up, one on top of the other like bricks in a wall, with no cement?
I walk back and cross over to where the dogs are still waiting. This time they let me pat them and for some silly reason it makes me glad. I bend and rub them behind their ears and tell them they are the nicest dogs I’ve seen in a while, but that they had better not give me fleas or they’ll know about it.
Last Summer, Apollo Bay
It was my first long trip in the van and I was proud of myself, excited to have made it at last. Zoe’s instructions were not all that easy to follow and I’d missed a couple of turn-offs.
I’m late but I’m here. At least I think I am. I stare across at the house nestled between a few big peppermint gums. There is a garden and a paling fence all around. Trees and birds. Not exactly the romantic little run-down shack I’d heard about over the last four years. Nice. But when I see the word Serendipity written on the gate leading into the property, I know this has to be it. I cross the cattle pit, pull up outside the front of the house near a couple of old cars and look around. I jerk in startled surprise when I see a lone guy peering suspiciously out from under the bonnet of a car at my approach. No sign of Zoe. She promised she’d be waiting for my arrival with flags and balloons and bated breath, so maybe this isn’t the right place after all. The guy is dressed in oil-stained work clothes, an old flannel shirt over jeans and big boots. He straightens up and, still unsmiling, leans one arm against his car and watches me get out. The Sex Pistols are blaring out from speakers inside.
‘Hello,’ I say tentatively, moving across to him. ‘I’m Rose, Zoe’s friend.’ He has a thin face with a long, beaked nose and heavy brows over the same almond-shaped green eyes that make Zoe’s face so intriguing. He’s probably in his mid-forties and he’s very good-looking in a lean, weather-beaten, cowboy kind of way. Short sandy hair, flecked with grey. He is thin with well-defined muscles and tanned skin.
‘Well . . .’ he says in a lazy, slightly amused tone, ‘Rose. It’s good to meet you at last.’ He rubs his oil-covered hands on his trousers and holds out his hand formally and we shake. ‘I’m Ray. Zoe will be back soon,’ he says, walking over to the house to open the door for me. ‘Come in.’
‘Thanks,’ I mumble and walk past him through the door and into the music. The Sex Pistols are crap, but I sort of like them anyway.
Once inside I can’t help smiling. I’m in awe. The music is loud and the big central lounge room is lined with original rock posters from the sixties and seventies. Not only all the big bands like the Stones, Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead and the Who, but lesser-known artists like the Dooby Brothers and Crosby, Stills and Nash. It’s completely covered in these very cool old posters, some of them frayed, torn and dirty but . . . oh, trust me, it’s impressive. Very. Even the ceiling is covered. The stereo takes pride of place on a wooden cabinet. Two huge speakers blare from either side of the room. The track ends with a long clashing chord and almost immediately The Cure starts up, with one of my favourite tracks from their late eighties album Disintegration. Suddenly I’m in a trance. There is no tomorrow. This is cool. I’m really intrigued. Zoe told me her dad was into music but I had no idea it was so . . . over the top!
‘Wow!’ I say when I read the 1973 poster advertising a Van Morrison concert in London. ‘Did you actually go to this?’
Her father looks to where I’m pointing and nods but says nothing. He remains expressionless as he goes over to the turntable and turns the music off, creating a sudden sharp silence. Then he points to one of the old armchairs.
‘You want to sit down?’
It feels as if I’ve been asked to sit down for an interview.
‘No, I’ve been driving. I’m okay,’ I say, going over to the big front windows that look out over the sea. ‘Great view.’
‘Yeah. It’s not bad.’
The room is messy, but not overly so. The floor is on different levels. There is a big, comfortable lounge setting around a television, and a few other easy chairs set down in one corner. Up higher is a big table and chairs. A little home office in the far corner. Desk. Filing cabinet. Phone, fax and small computer. A pinboard stuck to the wall. Zoe’s father heads towards the double doorway leading out to a small kitchen.
‘A drink?’ he offers.
‘I’m okay,’ I say shyly. ‘I’ll just wait here. You go back to work if you like.’
‘I’m going to make a coffee,’ he says, glancing over at me as he reaches for the coffee plunger. I feel him take in my bare legs in the too-short denim skirt, the pink tank top pulled tightly across my chest, and my long hair pulled up at the back of my head. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘Then I’ll have one, too.’ I pick up a Doors album cover, and walk through to join him in the kitchen. I wish he hadn’t turned the music off but I’m too shy to say so. ‘1969,’ I say, putting the album cover on the table. ‘Recorded live in front of twenty-five thousand.’
He’s leaning over the sink, his back to me, and it gives me a spurt of satisfaction to see him stop what he is doing as he takes in what I’ve just said. He turns around slowly and looks at me again.
‘Not as good as the studio version, though,’ he says seriously.
‘Don’t agree,’ I shrug.
He grins and turns back to fill the kettle.
‘But I know,’ he says, still grinning.
‘How come?’
‘I was there.’
‘You . . .’ I’m lost for words. ‘At the concert where they recorded it?’ He nods and I shake my head, tongue-tied with awe. ‘So how was it?’
I ask eventually, laughing a bit.
‘Ah, not bad.’
‘Just not bad, eh?’ And we both laugh.
‘So, Rose,’ he hands me the mug of coffee and sits down at the table, ‘Zoe told me you did well in the exams. What next for you?’
‘Law,’ I say without hesitation, coming away from the window and sitting down at the opposite end of the table. He smiles and shakes his head.
‘Just like Dad?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘That van won’t fit,’ he jokes.
‘So, what sort of car should I have?’ I pretend to be miffed so I don’t have to look back into those oddly watchful eyes.
‘Some girly European shit-box!’
‘Well, thanks a lot!’ I can’t help laughing. ‘But I don’t have that sort of money.’
‘Your old man would buy one for you, wouldn’t he?’ he asks with a sly smile, like he knows all about my family being well off and that he kind of approves and disapproves at the same time.
‘Nah,’ I shake my head with embarrassment, remembering Dad’s cheque still pinned to my wall. After everything that happened, it hadn’t felt right to cash it. ‘Anyway, Zoe and I are going surfing. We need the van for our boards. Hasn’t she told you yet?’
‘Yeah, she’s told me,’ he shakes his head and looks into his coffee, frowning, ‘and I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘What do you mean?’ His tone disconcerts me, it’s like he knows something I don’t.
‘Well . . .’ he drawls slowly, ‘there is a new bloke on the scene. And you know Zoe. Everything else has to fit around that.’
A new bloke? I take a sip of my drink, my mood suddenly edgy and poised to spiral downwards. I know Zoe rang Nat and they went to hear a band on Saturday night. She asked me to come but I couldn’t. I figured she’d tell me if anything happened. She always has in the past.
‘So, the new bloke got a name?’ I try to make my voice light.
‘I’ll bet you anything he has,’ her father shrugs dryly, ‘but I don’t know it.’ He turns to the window, listening. ‘That’s her now.’ He smiles when he sees that I hear nothing. ‘I’ve got good ears for an old rocker.’
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