Deeper Water

by Jessie Cole

  I had a few old toys. Things I’d been given and didn’t know how to throw away. A pile of books beside my bed, stories I was part way through. And a big rack of clothes. Mum sewed, and I wasn’t too bad with the Singer either. We’d always made our own clothes. Well, we didn’t make our own undies or anything. Still went to the shops for those. Mum had a whole storeroom of fabrics inherited from her grandma, plus lots of other pieces she’d picked up along the way. It was hard to give away clothes you’d made with your own hands, so I had a stack of them hanging on my rack. I didn’t have a wardrobe. They just hung on a piece of dowel, against one of the walls. It was kind of nice looking at them, seeing how many outfits we’d made, how bright and pretty they all were, although there were plenty of things I never wore.

  I wondered what Hamish would think of my nests. I wondered if he’d ever come into my room and see them. Tomorrow he’d be gone. Back into the world. I started thinking about what it might be like out there. What did the world have to offer?

  I made old-fashioned French toast for dinner, which was funny ’cause it was usually a breakfast thing, but we didn’t have much else. Around Mum, Hamish was quiet again. Between the two of them I was beginning to feel stifled. While we ate, I half wished Anja or Sophie would arrive and bring back a bit of chaos. Throw Rory into the mix.

  The ratbag cat always seemed to sense when things were about to go awry, and he would start acting up. His name was Thor, on account of his tough exterior. He was very handsome, in the way some cats are—symmetrical markings and giant soulful eyes—but he couldn’t abide much affection. Sometimes he let me touch him, but only if I stayed an arm’s length away, reaching out with the tips of my fingers. He’d always been odd, but since Isis was strangled by the snake he’d got worse. Jumpy and highly strung, but attention-seeking too. Sometimes if we were all busy he’d sit behind the stereo and knock the CDs from the sideboard to the ground, one by one. Eyeing us off to see what we’d do. It drove Mum crazy ’cause the music was precious to her. Privately, I wondered if that was why he did it.

  He was stalking around in the background, tail swinging from side to side. Mischief on his mind. While I was washing the dishes he jumped up onto the table, catching Mum and Hamish by surprise. My hands were all soapy, otherwise I would have reached over and given him a stroke. He walked towards Hamish, looking purposeful.

  ‘What’s he up to?’ Mum asked no one in particular, narrowing her eyes.

  Hamish tapped his fingers on the table and Thor came closer. The cat—my unfriendly, temperamental cat—leaned his head down and smooched it across Hamish’s fingers.

  ‘No way.’ I wiped my hands on the tea towel.

  ‘What?’ Hamish scratched Thor behind the ears.

  The cat started sliding the length of its body against the back of Hamish’s hand. I’d never seen him behave like that, except occasionally with the dog. Those two were great pals. Hamish moved his hand away, like patting the cat wasn’t his idea of fun.

  ‘He’s never affectionate with anyone. I’ve been trying for years to get a cuddle out of him.’

  ‘He’s a ratbag,’ Mum said, on the verge of a smile.

  ‘He’s really trying to mess with my head.’ I moved towards the table.

  ‘I don’t even like cats.’ Hamish held his hands up out of reach.

  ‘He’s probably trying to mess with your head too, then,’ Mum said, chuckling a little. ‘What a rascal.’

  Then Hamish leaned back away from the table and we watched the cat reach out a paw and place it on his chest. Mum laughed then, almost snorted. ‘All the years Mema’s been loving you, and now you throw yourself at a stranger,’ she said to the cat, shaking her head.

  Thor put his other paw up and started doing that pawing thing they do—claw in, claw out—right on the top of Hamish’s chest. I couldn’t believe it. I just stood there and stared.

  ‘Where’s your dignity, Thor?’ I finally asked, laughter creeping into my voice. Thor looked ridiculous, but Hamish was so still and stiff and shocked, his response seemed comical too.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ Hamish said, pushing his chair back further out of Thor’s reach.

  I laughed aloud then, but I stretched out and smoothed my hand across the cat’s head. He sat there looking insulted. You see something new every day, I guess.

  ‘Mema, you reckon you could show me how you make a pot?’ Hamish asked and I knew he wanted to get out of the kitchen.

  The shed was set back a little way from the house, off to the side. It used to be a garage but we’d never used it for that. Nowadays, it was just three rickety wooden walls and a tin roof, the front wide open to the elements. The walls slanted at slightly strange angles, making the whole thing seem like it might fall over, but even though it looked precarious, it was never going to tumble down. It was so overgrown with vines, thick, wooded things, they’d become its structure. Mum said it would outlast the lot of us.

  It was evening by then, but it stayed light for so long in summer you could still see when you were inside. The shed was neater than you’d expect, all Mum’s pottery stacked on shelves in varying states of completion.

  ‘Wow.’ Hamish looked around. ‘This is cool.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  The house could be in complete disarray, but Mum kept the shed well organised. She needed things to be ordered to be able to work.

  Hamish put his hands in his pockets, as though he was afraid he might knock something over. ‘These are amazing.’

  ‘Specially when you consider what they began as.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lumps of dirt, you know?’

  I pointed out my little shelf, the place I stored the cups and things I’d made for the market.

  ‘You did these ones?’ He gingerly picked up a mug. It was a deep-blue colour, the firing leaving some darker flecks.

  ‘They’re fairly hardy,’ I said, ’cause he was handling it so delicately. ‘You’d have to drop it on the ground for it to break.’

  He turned the mug around and inspected its speckled surface.

  ‘They’re really pretty, Mema,’ he said, placing the mug carefully back on the shelf. ‘If I had any cash I’d buy some.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  I didn’t see that was much of a compliment, but I knew what he meant. He had lost everything in the flood. Not a cent on him.

  ‘Maybe you’ll come to the market one day.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll be around for a bit. Week or so, at least.’

  I didn’t realise he’d be staying longer. Something inside me surged. Excitement maybe. It was disconcerting. I turned to switch the lamp on.

  ‘Maybe we can hang out.’ He smiled sideways, just outside the rim of light. ‘I don’t know … do whatever you do around here?’

  He said these words easily, as though they cost him nothing, but I couldn’t help feeling that there was some kind of invitation in them. My heartbeat clattered around inside my chest. I wasn’t sure if I could reply. I just nodded and started setting up the wheel.

  The lamp was one of those old metal things, on a big stand but plugged in at the wall. It created a circle of light around the pottery wheel and made me feel like I was in a spotlight, up on stage. Hamish was watching me so carefully my heart wouldn’t slow. At least the process of throwing a pot was routine enough that I could do it with my mind distracted. I leaned down and sawed off a chunk of clay with the string then I got the wheel turning.

  The wheel was old-style, the top plate attached to a heavy flywheel down the bottom that I kicked with my feet. I built up momentum and then it would go on its own for a bit. The whole thing was a stop–start process. Kick-work, kick-work. It had its own tempo. The flywheel made a soft, rhythmic clunking sound that, under the circumstances, I found quite soothing.

  ‘So it spins just by you pushing that bottom wheel?’ Hamish asked, squatting down to see how the motion worked. ‘You don’t use any other energy?’

  ‘Nope. It’s the
momentum. Centrifugal force … whatever that is.’ Mum had described it all many times, but sometimes it felt like the explanations got in the way of the pleasure.

  ‘What a great machine,’ he said, staring up at me from where he crouched. ‘So simple.’

  I wasn’t usually worried about my wonky foot, but it felt like Hamish was peeping beneath my skirt, checking out the workings of my legs.

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  I banged the clay down onto the plate, giving it a couple of thumps to make sure it was solid.

  ‘You have to centre it,’ I said, looking across at Hamish, just out of the rim of light. ‘You feel with your thumb until you find the exact place where there’s no friction. That’s the centre.’

  It was interesting to think about what exactly the sensation of discovering the centre was. That lack of push or pull. I was seeking that small nub around which everything turned, measuring it with the waxy pad of my thumb. When I had the centre, I pressed down quickly, almost to the bottom, and that was the inside of the pot.

  ‘It doesn’t look too hard.’

  I could sense him shift as though adjusting his view. ‘You can have a go in a sec.’ I wanted to get out of the light, but I kept on dipping my hands into the water bowl and wetting the clay as it turned, the wheel still bumping along gently beneath me.

  After all the pots I’d made, it still felt a little magical how quickly the forms emerged. I held my hands like a clamp around the spinning lump, fingers on the inside, heels of my palms against the outer surface—moving them only the tiniest bit—and it all turned beneath my touch, taking shape. I didn’t try anything fancy, just a simple round pot.

  ‘That was … fast,’ Hamish said, standing back up.

  I smiled and ran the string beneath the clay, so it wouldn’t stick to the base, then stood and lifted it onto the drying shelf. All the unwanted clattering that had been going on inside me had settled with the making of the pot. It had ironed out my creases and I remained there—in the centre of everything—calmed and peaceful.

  ‘Okay, your go.’ I turned and sliced off some clay for him from the slab on the shelf. He sat down on the stool, getting his bearings and I banged the clay down on the top plate, shaping it into a circle, ready for him to begin.

  ‘So, I get it started with my foot, and then it should run by itself for a little bit?’

  ‘That’s right. And when it loses momentum you start it again.’

  He looked uncertain but he gave it a go. The wheel began its gentle clanking, the clay spinning unevenly on the plate. Hamish put his hands down gently.

  ‘Feel for the centre,’ I told him, nodding my head.

  ‘The place with no friction?’

  ‘Feel with your thumb.’

  ‘I don’t feel anything. It all feels the same.’

  ‘There’s no rush, just keep searching.’

  This time Hamish was inside the circle of light and I was on the perimeter. I liked it much better that way. I could watch him without him watching me. He touched the clay lightly with the tips of his fingers, moving his hands carefully out to the edge. Pottery is something you do with your hands, you can’t think about it too much. Hamish was concentrating so hard I could see he was struggling.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ I said, and then I walked around to stand behind him. ‘Feel the clay moving against your fingers. That’s it.’

  The wheel was slowing so I reached around him with my foot and pushed against it a few times, getting the momentum going again. He sat still on the stool, eyes closed, fingers poised on the top of the spinning mound, as though waiting for some inexplicable revelation. Leaning down, I put my hand over his. His skin felt warm against my fingertips.

  ‘Okay, here on the outside you can feel the push-pull.’

  He nodded slowly, his head tilted slightly to the side. I moved his hand across the clay towards the centre. ‘And feel, it gets less and less?’

  He shifted a little on the stool and my breasts swayed against his back.

  ‘Yes, I feel that.’ His voice was low.

  ‘When you feel nothing, press in.’ I was whispering, my mouth close to his ear, the feel of his back against me.

  ‘Now?’ He sounded confused.

  ‘Go! Press!’

  Hamish hesitated, so I pushed his thumb down with my own, and just like that the clay gave way. A bit wobbly, but okay for a first try. He froze then, like he didn’t know what to do next, but if he didn’t start working it he’d lose the momentum. I reached my other hand around to steer him, pushing on the top of his fingers. The clay spun beneath our hands, the mud pushing up between his fingers and through mine. We were only throwing a pot but in those few seconds it seemed like something larger. It was an odd feeling, like we were merging into one. The clay was taking shape and I felt strangely triumphant.

  ‘Good, you’ve got it,’ I whispered. ‘You’ve just got to mould it into something more elegant.’

  Slowly, I straightened up, moving my hands away.

  ‘Better open your eyes now,’ I said, and I don’t know why but I laughed a little. He turned to me and under the bright light I could see the colour on his neck was high. I stood still, mud sticky between my fingers, pinned beneath his gaze.

  ‘Mema,’ he said softly, ‘that was a little bit Ghost-esque.’

  There was a fierceness about his gaze. I felt he was calling me on something but I didn’t know quite what.

  ‘Ghost-esque?’ I looked at the clay. It was sagging slightly sideways, and I restrained myself from rescuing it. ‘Don’t stop now,’ I said, ‘you’ve almost got it.’

  He turned back around, touching the sides of the half-made pot with careful fingers but the wheel was slowing again.

  ‘Give the wheel another push.’ He looked like he’d had enough but I didn’t want him to give up yet. ‘Come on, you may as well finish it.’

  I moved to the side so I could see him properly, but whatever impetus he’d had with the pot was gone.

  ‘Have you even seen the movie Ghost, Mema?’ he asked, and the clay sagged and collapsed in his hands. ‘Demi Moore? Patrick Swayze?’

  ‘Nope.’ I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. We’ve never really had a working TV.

  He shook his head. ‘I guess it figures.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s got this opening scene. A sex scene. Involving clay.’ He said this like an accusation.

  ‘A sex scene?’

  He was silent, watching me. I couldn’t help remembering the feel of my breasts pressed up against his back, his fingers in mine. My skin tingled just thinking about it. I was in over my head.

  ‘Were they ghosts—I mean—in the sex scene?’ I spluttered out.

  ‘No … that came later.’ Hamish sighed then, turning away, his shoulders sagging a little. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a shithouse movie.’

  He’d stared at me so hard. I couldn’t help wondering what he saw.

  ‘I don’t believe in ghosts.’ My voice trembled.

  ‘No, neither do I.’

  Hamish sat on the stool for a second staring at the squashed pile of clay. ‘Things are not always how they seem,’ he said quietly, almost to himself.

  I didn’t need convincing. I watched Hamish under the spotlight in the shed, his face illuminated and stark, his body still. And in that moment he was more of a stranger than he had ever been.

  10.

  That night, after I’d turned off all the lights and gone to bed, I lay awake thinking about the clattering of my heartbeat in Hamish’s presence, and as soon as I remembered it, it started up again. It was a sensation I was unfamiliar with. I could hear the throb of my pulse in my ears and felt sure if I wasn’t holed up in the dark I’d have been able to see the rhythm of my heart’s quick beat through the skin of my chest. I held my fingers between my breasts, pressing against that pounding place, but it didn’t slow. A sort of tightness built around my heart that seemed to rise up and squeeze at my throat.
The feeling was alarming and exhilarating at the same time.

  I suppose I knew deep down that it was some kind of desire, but it was disconcerting that it should rise in me then. And how to ignore something that took such a physical hold? In bed, my fingers pressed hard against my racing heart, I wondered what could be done. If my body was wanting, I knew I could soothe it. I had touched myself that way since I was small. But I’d always concentrated on the swelling feel of it. My own body and how it responded. In my mind, I’d never needed the intrusion of another person. I didn’t want to think of Hamish. I didn’t want to feed that hungry thing inside me. I didn’t want it to grow.

  I thought of diving into the cool waters of the creek, of its icy softness engulfing me, of being enveloped in its velvet touch. I imagined the creek as endless, shimmering, the water stretching out before me like a silver ribbon. I could drift without air forever, sliding with the current. Beneath the surface, I was free.

  Eventually my body softened and I got to thinking about my mum, and Sophie, and all that had happened before me. It was troubling to come at the end of a family. All the life and colour and drama that had gone before me could only be passed to me in stories, and what if no one was talking? I imagined them instead—the fathers before mine, how one replaced another. All the babies growing like weeds, wild and untended. My mum moving from man to man, like they were ice-cream flavours, and Sophie—older and wiser—tending us all as best as she could. Or that’s how it sat in my head. From the snippets of things said, and unsaid, I had constructed a picture of my family before me and then I’d run with it, wherever the fancy took me.

  Sometimes I liked to imagine my mum, crazy in love with babies, unable to stop having them. Lost in that world of gurgles and half-smiles, wind and burping, feeding from the breast. Freshly washed white nappies flapping on the line, luminous and clean. Caught in a cycle of renewal, as though every time she gave birth she could start over. As though every child was a clean slate, perfect and unsullied. And each time she was new too. I imagined her tucking us into the folds of her, keeping us close, until we were so big we toddled right off, and then she’d start again. And all the while, the community she’d helped to build dissolving around her, disenchantment seeping in. I wondered when she noticed almost everyone had gone.