by Jessie Cole
‘Yeah, maybe. But, Mema, this isn’t that remote.’
I shrugged. I had no answer to that. ‘What do you like about it so much?’
He started moving around the kitchen, checking out all the things in jars. We always had everything sealed up to keep the insects out. The pantry door fell off a few years back and we hadn’t got around to fixing it yet. There were a few shelves above the bench too, so most of our food was on display.
‘I’m not one of those guys who’s glued to a screen twenty-four-seven or anything,’ he stated. ‘I mean, I hardly even update Facebook.’ He sounded frustrated to be talking about it, even though he’d brought it up. ‘It’s not … my life. I just need emails for work. It’s how my whole job runs.’
I was thinking about how panicked Hamish had been on that first afternoon when he realised he’d lost his laptop. I knew he must have been in shock from being trapped in the car like that, but standing in the pouring rain, sodden and mucky after the cow birth, he looked like his whole world had washed down the drain. As though the computer was everything he had.
‘And, you know, I work to a deadline. They sent me all the way out here, and when I get back into town I’ll have to work out how to retrieve all my data. I’m not stupid, I back up really important things, but not everything. I had so much stuff stored on that laptop, stuff I’d collected for years. It’s just … annoying.’
He was still looking at the pantry, distracted by a jar of flour with obvious signs of life. Must have had weevils or something. He peered at it but he didn’t comment. ‘Will I be able to buy a new laptop in town, Mema?’ he asked over his shoulder.
‘I don’t know, maybe. You’ll have to ask.’
I tried to imagine what it must feel like to have everything that was important to you inside a small machine. It was hard to get my head around.
‘Email is just such an instantaneous form of communication,’ he said, almost like he was talking to himself.
‘More than a phone?’
He stopped perusing the jars for a second and turned back to look at me, thinking. ‘No, I guess not. It’s just you don’t have the time to talk to everyone, and so you send people things and they can read them when they want, you know? When they have time.’
‘So, it’s not instantaneous then?’ It didn’t make that much sense to me. ‘’Cause they might not read it straight away?’
‘But they probably will. They just might take a little while to get back to you,’ he said. ‘Usually, you can be pretty sure they’ve read it.’
I wasn’t really seeing it.
‘But if you called them, you’d get to speak to them, and then you’d know for sure. Right?’
‘But you’d have to go through all the small-talk parts of having a conversation. It’s time consuming when you only want to tell someone one thing.’
I didn’t much like talking on the phone, so I wasn’t going to argue with that. Hamish walked across to the window and looked out over the rolling hills. It was always beautiful after the rain and I waited for him to say so.
‘I can’t believe I lost my laptop and my phone,’ he said instead, squinting out at the view. ‘That’s a first.’
The whole time Hamish had been stranded in our little farmhouse in the pouring rain he’d hardly complained at all. This was the most I’d heard him speak. He had a way of choosing his words carefully, like he was weighing things up in his head. Most of the people I knew just blurted out their thoughts, but Hamish was different.
I didn’t know what to do with him there. Normally in the mornings I might help Mum in the shed, throw a few mugs for the markets, muddle about in the vegie garden, or just clean up a bit. With the sun out I wanted to get on with things, but I wasn’t sure how, especially since he’d finally started talking.
‘When I get out, I’ll get back online and there’ll be one thousand emails waiting for me. And it’ll take me forever to sort through them.’
‘To do with work or what?’ I was trying to think of something we could do for the day.
‘Yeah, mainly to do with work, but other stuff too.’
‘And you can’t be away from them for a few days otherwise they bank up?’ I asked. ‘That’s why you’re getting stressed out?’
He was pacing around the way Anja’s dad did when he needed a drink. Our ratbag cat was perched on the back of the couch, and even from the kitchen I could see his tail flicking from side to side as though he was listening.
‘It’s just, I have a deadline and I’m already behind. But I’m not stressed.’ He stopped pacing and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Well, maybe a little jittery. I can’t believe it’s sunny and I still can’t get out.’
I didn’t know what to say about that. It was just a fact of life. Rivers rose and then they fell. The timing was unpredictable. The old dog sighed at my feet.
‘I guess it’s also that I’m missing out on things I need to know about. News and information. That kind of stuff.’
I put on the kettle for tea. It seemed a logical step. ‘What kind of information?’
‘What’s happening in the world. You know. How do you find out what’s happening in the world, Mema?’
‘Sometimes we listen to the radio, or someone buys a paper.’
He glanced around at me standing at the kitchen bench. ‘Sometimes?’
‘On occasion.’
‘Right.’ He sounded deeply disappointed, as though that was the worst response he could imagine.
The truth was, the world outside didn’t hold much interest for me. Hearing about conflicts in faraway places seemed pointless if there wasn’t anything I could do. I knew there were all sorts of things happening out there ’cause sometimes I heard the news, but if everything was always shifting, if the world was in a constant state of change, I didn’t really know why keeping up to date mattered.
‘Why do you need to know?’
‘What do you mean?’ He was starting to sound frustrated. ‘I like to stay informed.’
I thought about this. Being informed. ‘But does it change the way you live?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the decisions that I make. In what I’m willing to support.’
I wasn’t sure about this—if he was talking politics or just the painstaking choice between quinoa or spelt, biodynamic milk or soy—which products were the healthiest, least destructive buys. That stuff is part of old hippie lore, and we’d always been careful, but I wondered if that’s what Hamish meant.
‘Do you mean voting? Or what you buy?’
He shrugged. ‘Both, I guess. Plus, I need to be informed for work. Informed about current issues that might affect my work.’
‘Like what?’
‘Environmental issues. Stuff like that is always changing. New scientific discoveries. I need to keep on top of it.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s what I do for work. It’s part of my job.’
‘I thought you said that you were some kind of consultant.’ I had no idea what being a consultant meant.
‘Yeah, an environmental consultant.’
Clearly, I had missed that part of his job description.
‘Companies pay me to assess the environmental impacts of their proposals, that kind of thing.’
‘So what are you assessing now?’ It was a world so far out of my experience I wasn’t sure what to ask. ‘Something around here?’
Hamish rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s a bit hard to explain.’
It wasn’t much of an answer. I waited for him to say more but he didn’t. Hamish often left a silence where someone else would try to fill the gap. It was a bit unsettling.
‘Try.’ I guess I liked hearing him talk.
‘You know how there’s a sugar mill on the outskirts of town?’
I nodded. It was a gigantic construction, always blowing out smoke. Been there since before I was born. It was on the other side of town from us, so I rarely
went past it, but I always marvelled at the preposterousness of it, industrial and smoke-coughing, right against the forest-covered mountains.
‘Well, there’s been this proposal to turn the sugar waste into power, green power.’ He tapped his fingers on the table. ‘You know how they burn the cane fields?’
‘Yeah, if the wind is blowing our way, sometimes we get some ash.’
‘Well, instead of burning the cane in the fields, they’ve converted the mill so they can burn it there, harvesting it for power. In theory it could power the whole town, maybe even the whole district.’
‘That sounds good,’ I said, and it seemed a neat enough solution.
‘The company I’m working for wants me to check it out. They’re thinking of investing. They want to know how much it will cost and all that stuff, but I’m more interested in if it will work. How much power will it use? How much will it create? Is it really green? I’ve got my own agenda, see.’
‘Agenda?’
‘You know, all these ideas. I’ve got a billion ideas.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, but you know how it is. Hard to get them off the ground. Ideas are like arseholes, everybody has them.’
That was a statement. But I wasn’t sure I did know. I didn’t really feel like I had ideas. We sat in the quiet, waiting for the kettle to boil. I probably put too much water in ’cause it seemed to take forever.
‘So, your mum makes a living from pottery?’
‘Yeah, I mean, we don’t need much. We get by.’
It was a tricky subject, even for me.
‘That must be pretty unusual,’ he continued. ‘She must sell a lot of pots. She must be good.’
‘Her pots are amazing. She loves it, she always has.’
‘Maybe I could check them out later.’
He was still tapping his fingers.
‘I’ll take you out there, if you like. I could show you how to throw a pot. Have you done it before?’
He shook his head. ‘You make pots too?’
‘We all know how to do it. I just make small things for the local markets. Cups and things like that. Simple stuff.’
‘I’m terrible at making things. But I’d like to watch you do it.’
I don’t know why but this comment made me blush. The kettle was boiling so I got up to make the teas. ‘Later on. When Mum’s finished.’ I poured the steaming water into mugs. ‘You should have a go, though. Shaping clay makes you feel kind of powerful. It doesn’t matter so much about the outcome, what you end up with. It just feels good to do.’
‘Maybe.’ Hamish seemed unconvinced. He squeezed his fingers into a fist to stop them tapping.
Being cooped up in such a small space with Hamish reminded me again of my brothers. When I was small they used to sneak out when it stopped raining to ride the creeks on their body boards. Mum didn’t like them doing it ’cause it was dangerous, but they weren’t taking any notice of her by then. Sometimes when the water dropped a bit they’d take me and Anja too. And sometimes, when we could get away with it, Anja and I would still go. We had boards stashed in the branches of a tree beside the creek, upstream from the bridge, out of reach of even the highest flood. It was one of our secrets, even more precious than the rain-running. And then it dawned on me that it might be a good thing to do right now.
‘We could ride the creeks,’ I said, passing him the teacup. ‘The creek’s still high but it would probably be okay.’
I watched his hands as he held the cup. His fingers were pale, not sun-darkened like mine, but they were strong.
‘What’s that involve?’
‘Going upstream a little way to a spot that’s not running quite as fast, then jumping on a body board and riding the creek back down.’
‘Is it—you know—safe?’ He took a sip of tea. He didn’t seem scared, but maybe he was remembering washing off the bridge.
‘Mum doesn’t like us doing it, but sometimes we do it anyway.’ I picked up my teacup, not really wanting to drink it. ‘She doesn’t know.’
‘Sounds fun.’
I couldn’t tell if it was the idea of doing something Mum didn’t like that had the most appeal for Hamish. But maybe that’s why I suggested it in first place.
‘If it looks too high we don’t have to go in.’
He took one more agitated look around the room and then said, ‘I’m in.’
7.
It took a while to get to the secret tree, the moist heat settling around us, and once we arrived we had to climb it to get the body boards down. Things like that were harder for me with my bung foot, so I stood there and gave Hamish directions. It was a big old camphor laurel, like most of the trees around. Someone brought them in from China years ago and now they’d run wild like rabbits, occupying all the hills the first settlers had cleared. I guess that’s what happens—colonisation. They might grow like weeds but they were great for climbing. Big, with widespread branches, dark, waxy leaves. In spring all their new growth came out luminous light green, just around the edges, so from the distance it looked like they were glowing. Whole hillsides alight.
‘What’s that over there?’ Hamish called out from up on a branch.
I knew what he’d be seeing. There was an abandoned shack a few paddocks away on Old Gordon’s land. Probably the original farmhouse, people said. Been there as long as anyone remembered. Grey and disintegrating, faded walls all sagging to one side, a perpetual lean. We’d thought it was haunted when we were kids, but still snuck out and scavenged through its dusty rooms looking for treasures. Old Gordon had done his back in years ago, so he didn’t get out on the farm much. In any case, he never tried to stop us rummaging. Last time I’d been there I was pretty little, but I remembered it—all ransacked, bits and pieces scattered around outside. It was where my brothers had stolen away to smoke their cigarettes and do whatever forbidden things boys their age did.
I still remembered the day Caleb told me I couldn’t come. It was no place for a little girl, he said. No sisters allowed. I thought Sunny would argue but he didn’t. He just hung his head and away they went. Maybe that was the beginning, the beginning of their leaving.
‘An old farmhouse, no one lives there anymore,’ I called back, trying to shake my brothers from my mind. ‘It’ll topple down some day.’
Hamish peered at the shack for a minute longer and then scuttled down with the boards.
‘You reckon these things are going to hold us?’ They were battered looking, washed down in some earlier flood, old with chunks out of them, but they worked alright. Hamish looked sceptical.
‘Yep, they’re unsinkable, I promise.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘The problem will be staying on them. It’s not as easy as you’d think.’
‘So what’s the plan?’ He was staring at the creek but when he turned back, I could see he was worried.
‘You don’t have to go in,’ I said, reaching out and squeezing his arm. ‘Not if you don’t want.’
When I touched him he went still. Almost like a camouflage mechanism.
He glanced down at my hand on his arm.
‘I’m fine,’ he said softly. ‘I’m good.’
‘Okay,’ I said, taking my hand away. ‘We get in here because the water’s relatively calm and it’s not too deep. Then we follow the current. There’s a couple of bumpier places, but nothing too rough. We get out before the bridge ’cause it’s dangerous to go that far down.’ An image of his sunken car, on the other side of the bridge, resting somewhere out of sight, flashed in my mind. ‘If you lose your board, it’s no big deal, just swim to the side and wait for me. The only thing you have to look out for is debris that might be washing down. Big logs and stuff. That’s the dodgiest part.’
The creek was still a brownish colour but in a few days it would be clear. I stepped closer to the water and pulled off my skirt, flicking it over one of the lower branches. I was wearing undies but Hamish didn’t seem to know where to look. ‘I can’t swim in a skirt!’
> Hamish nodded, not meeting my eyes, and after a few seconds he stepped up and took off Mum’s big floppy top, hanging it over the branch. He was the whitest man I’d ever seen, tall and strong-looking, but the paleness of his skin gave him an odd kind of delicacy.
‘Ready?’ I asked, trying not to look at his shirtless chest.
He nodded and I stepped into the water. It lapped around my ankles, fresh and cool, but the day was warm and the walk had made me hot. In the shallows, I moved gingerly ’cause it was easy to get off balance, especially with my foot. The secret tree spot was the part of the creek farthest upstream from the bridge that was still on our property. The front of our land was bordered by the creek. It snaked around, each bend creating a different kind of waterhole. Some of them were more open—wider and deep. Other sections narrowed right down, became more like tinkling streams. Where the paddocks had been cleared for grazing, camphors had sprung up along the banks. In some places the trees were quite thick, almost forest, but even at the more open stretches there was usually a shady place to sit.
At the secret tree spot the current was relatively gentle, and I waded out deeper, holding onto my board.
‘Come on, flood guy!’
Hamish laughed from the bank but he didn’t get in. The water lapped around my belly, and the bottom of my singlet spread out around me. I dipped down until it was up to my neck.
‘I’m going to go under. It’s better if you’re all wet,’ I called out, and then I plunged deep, feeling the water rush at the skin on my face, feeling my scalp prickle with the coldness, feeling the current stream by. I loved that first plunge, and I stayed there a few seconds just to let the water soak right in. When I broke back through the surface, Hamish had his feet in the shallows, watching me. I moved closer to him, holding onto my board.
‘It’ll be okay once you get in,’ I said, aware of my shirt sucked against my skin. If I was with Anja we would have gone topless. Being naked was part of the thrill. ‘You lie down on it like this.’ I lay across the board to demonstrate. ‘And you just hang on. The creek does the rest.’
It took some coaxing, but after a few minutes I had him in the water and lying across his board. He was a bit wobbly but alright.