‘She’s with me in the morning,’ he tells me. ‘When I wake up, I wait before I open my eyes because Skye is here. I smell her rosewater spray, see her moving around the room, casting a shadow on my lids. I feel her sitting on the bed.’
He moves from reverie to lists of chores, telling me straight after this that I need to call Ed. ‘Tell him not to drop the other chickens over after New Year like we’d said. I don’t want them now.’ I say I’m sure Ed will understand.
But Donna is adamant there will be a send-off here, so early Tuesday morning, two weeks before Christmas, thirty odd people gather in Dad’s backyard to farewell Skye.
I do mean thirty odd people, too. There are craggy farmers dressed in their best who’d sought Skye’s advice on painful corns and cuts, teary pregnant women sad she won’t be in the room on their big day, a quiet and spotty teenage boy. There are tanned men in polyester paisley shirts and wide ties, women in kaftans, and kids in all kinds of garb, from ironed shirts to tutus. It’s a motley crew. Donna and her friends are wearing nondescript dresses of apricot, turquoise and beige, with hats that seem, to my untrained eye, relics from the Second World War. Maybe the first one.
‘You look nice, dear.’ Donna squints in the bright sunshine, adjusts my collar. I’ve borrowed a short-sleeved mustard-brown shirt from Dad and combed my hair. ‘Not a cloud, is there? It’s weather for a wedding.’
And then she heads into the kitchen, where I know Abby will be, doing whatever it is that needs to be done. I’m sure my sister is feeling as churned up as I am today but we don’t discuss it.
‘Donna,’ Dad says, walking towards the house. She stands a few feet away from me now, accepting a plate of lamingtons from a recently arrived mourner. ‘I can’t. You’ll have to do it.’
She hands me the plate, takes my father’s hands and holds them in her own. ‘No one expects you to have prepared a speech. Say what’s in your heart.’
He shakes his head.
‘You listen to me, John. If you stay silent today you’ll regret it forever more. You don’t need to use fancy words or important quotes. You need to say goodbye.’
She leads him by the crook of his arm to a clearing under a gum tree, where she’s set up an altar of sorts: a fold-out picnic table covered by a white cloth and topped with a vase of lilies, a silver pen and an open book in which some guests have written their memories of Skye.
‘Excuse me.’ Donna claps her hands. ‘If I could have your attention. Before we plant the rosebush – thank you, Ned Darmody – John will offer a few words. If anyone would like to speak after him, come to the front.’
‘Is he all right?’ Abby whispers. She’s standing next to me now.
‘How could he be?’ I say.
‘Why are you –?’ She points at the lamingtons, frowns as she takes them from me and puts them on the food table. A currawong trills in the branches above us. Leaves crunch under Dad’s leather soles as he rocks from one foot to the other. A child burps and the people nearby laugh. Dad clears his throat. Donna stands by his side, her wrists folded across the pleats in her skirt.
‘Off you go,’ she whispers.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Dad says. He straightens his hat, and the crowd relaxes its stiff stance once he speaks. ‘I don’t know all of you, but I know you’re here because you cared about Skye. And I’m sure she cared about every one of you.’ He stops. ‘Skye loved working at the chemist and helping people. She loved bringing babies into the world. She was, you’d all know, about to have a baby of her own, our baby.’ He bends over as though he’s about to pick something up off the ground, then stays like that. He lets out a long awful howl.
Donna reaches down for his arm as Abby pushes through the crowd and takes Dad’s other side. I follow them as they right Dad and guide him into the house.
‘Stay with him,’ Donna says to me when we reach his bedroom.
‘I couldn’t do it.’ He drops facedown onto his bed and sobs.
‘It’s okay, Dad,’ Abby says. She is crying, too. I stand with my back to both of them, resting my forehead on the closed bedroom door.
At eight o’clock the next morning, once Dad has done the rounds of his house and property, and made phone calls to check that his animals and vegetable patch (and rosebush) will be properly cared for in his absence, I carry our gear out to the car. Abby says it’ll be recuperative for Dad to be in Brisbane, with the kids, out of this house. The truth is, she needs to be home, preparing for Christmas, and far away from where we abandoned Skye.
Maybe having Mark around will help Abby get herself together – she’s more terrible at dealing with Dad’s pain than I would’ve expected. I’ve told her to stop patronising him, to stop talking like she’s a nurse in a retirement home. But she can’t hit the right note, and I can see it’s irritating both of them. She flips between pity, compassion and disinterest, though I know her weirdness is coming partly from the sheer effort of keeping our secret locked behind her lips.
Partly.
She’s bruised. It’s understandable Dad wouldn’t clock how the news of his engagement has affected Abby. But marriage is a big deal to my sister. And Dad not only committed to a woman who’s not our mother, he also didn’t talk to his family about it. I don’t care too much if I ever get married, and I figure after fifteen years Dad must be keen for some female company. Abby doesn’t see it that way.
‘He’s known her for two years,’ she’d whispered to me when we were in the kitchen at night after dinner, when Dad was in the bathroom.
‘Yeah, but they probably weren’t an item that whole time. Maybe he was waiting to see where it would go.’
‘She lived here.’
I gave her that. Skye is everywhere in this house. There’s no way Dad put dried flowers in the vase on the dining table, or hung the bamboo wind chime that sounds when the breeze blows through the laundry window. Skye’s name is on the watercolour of a sunrise that hangs above Dad’s bedroom chest of drawers. And the wooden slats in a pile next to his wardrobe – a cot waiting to be assembled. Skye’s past and future are right in front of us. She probably chose the plates Abby was washing, the bowl I was drying.
‘He proposed to her the night of – It’s not like he’d kept that a secret, Abby. He’d wanted us to meet her. Cut him a bit of slack.’
She’d frowned in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’ Then she lifted one wet hand up and gestured to the stove. ‘Have you not noticed all the things I’m doing?’
Like housework was the point. While my sister knows what it is to grieve, she’s in denial about the extent of Dad’s suffering, seems annoyed at him, somehow convinced this loss isn’t as serious as it was with Mum. As if there’s a scale of grief. As if time spent is related to pain felt. She wants to tell herself he’s mourning for a slip of smoke or a silhouette. Which we can both see is far from the truth.
I drop the last box into the boot of Abby’s car.
‘Be careful, there are breakables in there.’
‘I know, Abby. You know how I know? Because you’ve told me twice already.’ But I can’t get too cocky. I’d forgotten to call Ed, who only learned from Dad a few minutes ago that his poultry are no longer wanted. So now there’s a whole chicken thing for me to hear about on the drive.
‘When will you two grow up?’ Dad says before walking back inside, but there’s nothing left in there for him to check on or do. It’s all done – generator off, appliances unplugged, beds made. After Donna and Abby’s competitive cleaning yesterday afternoon, the house is in better order than before the funeral crowd arrived.
As I carry Dad’s suitcase to the car I offer a small salute to Lenny, the brush turkey I’ve been keeping an eye on. He’s strutting backwards across the driveway, using his long claws to flick bush litter behind him towards his huge nesting mound. His neck wattle wobbles as he increases his efforts. He’s the hardest worker I’ve ever seen. Yesterday, I tried to help him by raking a few leaves in the direction of his nest, but he
scattered them across the earth in an outraged frenzy. Turkeys aren’t smart birds, but I respect Lenny’s insistence on doing things his own way.
Dad walks out of the house carrying a book that he hands to me, a copy of C. S. Lewis’s The Problem of Pain. ‘Kids’ books.’ He snorts.
‘Narnia is for kids,’ I say in my defence.
‘Read it,’ he says, then takes the front seat.
As we pull away, I watch Lenny through the back window, running after another turkey. Dude owns the place.
Once we’re on the road to Brisbane, Dad says he wants to see where Skye’s car ran off the road. ‘Keep an eye out for the police ropes. They’ve cordoned off the area.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Abby asks.
‘Yeah, Dad, probably not.’ If it was up to me, Abby would drop the accelerator to the floor on that stretch of road. ‘I think we should head straight to Abby’s place.’
‘You’ll pull over when we see the ropes.’
When we arrive at the site of the accident, Abby stops as instructed. Dad climbs out and stands on the edge of the road, staring down into the ditch. I walk over and stand beside my father, feeling a rush of nausea and fear.
There are ragged wounds in the bark of the tree where the metal cut into the wood, and flecks of glass near the trunk, but the scrub is already closing in, obscuring the skid that led from the road to the tree. If not for the ropes and scarred tree I wouldn’t know this was the place. I wonder if the animals who live nearby remember that night? Do bandicoots and kangaroos stay clear, or is every day a fresh start for them?
I scan the surrounding bushland. There’s nowhere Skye could’ve pointed the car that would’ve left her unharmed. Had she hit a smaller tree or come towards this one at a different angle, she might’ve walked away with a head injury. Maybe.
I watch my father as he looks from the tree to the road and back again, pushes his hat a bit higher off his forehead. I pray he doesn’t go down there, into the ditch, down where Abby sat in the mud beside Skye, where the baby tumbled and died. I owe Dad this moment, but I can’t wait to get away from here.
‘She was a safe driver,’ he says. ‘Car was in good nick. Road’s not wide but she was on a straight. It hadn’t started raining if her window was down, so the road wouldn’t have been slippery. And she was used to watching for kangaroos.’ He frowns. ‘I don’t understand what went wrong.’
I shove my hands deep into my pockets. ‘Guess we’ll never know.’
CHAPTER TEN
Wednesday 11 December 1974
Abby
The mechanic checks the water and oil and fills the tank. Dad wanders off in search of the toilet. He’s even more gaunt than usual. During the past week I’ve offered him every type of food, but he regards my meals as a sick animal would: with suspicion or indifference. None of us is eating much right now though.
Charlie and I stand a few feet away from the car, in the shade offered by the half-roof of plasterboard and tin above the petrol bowsers. He smokes. I lean against one of the poles holding up the roof and feel the hot metal through my rayon dress.
Not far from the garage, two skinny brown dogs lie in the dappled shade of a stringy tree. One lifts his head to bite at the flies hovering around his nose, and then flops back onto the dirt. I move myself off the pole and peel my dress from the back of my thighs.
‘Eight bucks’ll do it.’ The mechanic drops the hood of the car with a bang. ‘Keep an eye on the oil,’ he says to Charlie.
I give him the exact money and he heads back to the garage. Dad strides the length of the building, still searching for the toilets, not having asked.
‘Have you told Mark yet?’ Charlie asks, dropping the stub of his cigarette onto the ground.
‘I don’t know why you think Mark will have some magic solution I haven’t thought of.’
‘Have you told him?’
‘Please stop asking me that.’ I wipe away the sweat from under my eyes then let my sunglasses drop back down.
‘Don’t you want to talk to him about what we’ve done?’
‘What you’ve done. And no, I don’t want to.’
That’s a lie. It would be a relief to tell Mark, to have him hold me and stroke my hair, say he’ll take care of it. But that won’t happen. When I let Charlie drive I put everything – both of our futures – at risk. This is not Mark’s problem to fix.
I walk away from Charlie. Our looping conversations don’t help anything. Even with endless hours awake every night to think, I can’t find a way to make this situation better. I need to protect Charlie from the police, and Mark, my children, my father from the truth. I need a way to assuage my guilt. And telling Mark won’t solve any of that.
‘Band on the Run’ blares from the garage, where two other mechanics are working on a raised ute. One of them is set to slide himself under the chassis, lying face-up on what I think is a door with wheels; the other one, shirtless, is standing beside him holding a can of soft drink, sweat on his bare chest.
I pace a small circle back to the car and see that Charlie has taken the front seat, though I’d told him that was Dad’s spot for the whole trip. ‘You don’t think you owe him at least –’ I point at the seat.
‘He doesn’t care.’
I sit down behind the wheel.
‘Dad’s not an idiot, Abby. He’s going to work this out. We need to tell Mark. We need advice from someone who’s not involved, someone we can trust.’
‘Dad’s not going to work it out.’
‘Well, aren’t you supposed to tell your husband things – isn’t that the deal?’
‘Dear God, stop. And don’t lecture me about relationships. You’ve mooned over your best friend’s wife for years.’
He slumps. ‘They’re not married. And I don’t moon over her.’
‘I thought they were married.’
‘You’re glad to hear that, aren’t you? Moon happy.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
Charlie looks out the window at the garage. Dad’s inside, squatting down to speak to the man underneath the ute. ‘Dad!’ He shouts for him to come to the car. ‘Good to go? It’s an oven in here.’
‘People are asking Mark about this, Charlie; he is involved, it’s his father-in-law for God’s sake. It was in the newspaper. Can you imagine if he knew the truth, what problems it would cause him?’
I speak quickly and watch Dad walk back to the car. Behind him, the mechanic blows me a kiss. Dad sits in the back without commenting on Charlie’s seat coup.
‘Bloke in there tells me this road was once a droving trail.’ His voice is flat. ‘Says there used to be a river that ran past here but over the years the cattle drank the life out of it.’
‘Cheery,’ Charlie says.
I check for oncoming trucks then pull onto the highway.
‘Do you two remember that first Christmas after your mother passed away?’
Charlie shakes his head.
‘How can you not remember that?’ I ask.
‘I was nine.’ He stares out the window, away from me.
‘I should’ve said yes to one of your mother’s friends,’ Dad says. ‘One with kids. They all offered to let us join their Christmas lunches, dinners. June only asked out of obligation. Christian charity.’
At that, Charlie and I exchange an eye roll. Aunt June never offered so much as a raisin without an air of martyrdom. I’d hated visiting her as a child, her spinster house sterile as a hospital ward, with begrudging, tight-fisted nods to hominess by way of framed prints – frigid flowers and vacuumed landscapes – and pert couch cushions made of some material that could catch fire from a warm body.
‘Endures life, June does. She’s always been that way.’ Dad sighs. ‘A few days before Christmas, before I dragged you to her door, she called to reiterate she was in no position to waste money on gifts. Can you credit that? “I’ve bought them something,” she said, “since I know you’ll want that. Tell them not to expec
t much.”’
‘The kids whose mother had died,’ Charlie says.
‘Maybe it’s good you don’t remember it,’ I say. ‘Maybe not remembering is a way of protecting yourself.’
‘You think?’ He reaches into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes.
The gift-giving hadn’t been the only bothersome part of Christmas as far as June was concerned. The possibility we’d sully her house was raised with us as soon as we arrived. ‘I’m not saying you’re grubby but I like to keep the place neat. It’s the way I am. I’ve gone to the trouble of having the carpet shampooed. I’d appreciate it if you’d take your shoes off.’ Which we did, Charlie and I so cut up and raw. Even now I can hardly stand to think of that day. It fuels me if ever I find myself resenting the work I do to make our own Christmases so perfect.
I glance at Charlie. ‘The table was set as though she thought a horde of animals was about to descend on her: a tiny Santa Claus centrepiece wrapped in plastic, vinyl covering the table. And she wouldn’t let us open the crackers. We ate in silence like it was some unseemly activity to be done with as fast as possible – no music, no talk, just the clang of cutlery on her horrible beige plates.’
Charlie blows smoke towards his cracked-open window.
Dad huffs. ‘Merry bloody Christmas.’
I look in the rear-vision mirror. ‘So why did you take us there?’
He meets my eye, sighs again. ‘Christmas was something your mother did. How would I know? Anyhow, she’s my sister.’
Charlie shifts in his seat. ‘Let’s listen to some music.’
‘There are tapes in the glove box. Grab the Helen Reddy one.’
He groans. ‘Seriously?’
‘What? The driver picks the music. That’s the rule.’ But it takes one verse of ‘I Am Woman’ for me to realise my poor choice.
Riptides Page 8