by Tim Buckley
“All right, Wilde,” he eventually conceded, “maybe you’re right. I’ll go and have a chat to him all the same, but I won’t kill him, I promise!”
***
Bobby was just relieved the whole thing had gone away.
“What did you say to him, Wilde?” she asked when I went into The Pantry for a coffee the following day. “I thought he’d kill him for sure. It was my idea for him to talk to you first, but I didn’t think it’d make much difference. Thought it might just give him a chance to cool down a bit.”
“I didn’t say anything, really. We just chatted and Mitch decided that a good talking-to, man to man, would be more appropriate than a kicking.”
“Yeah, and wallabies shit chocolate!” she said, with a smirk. “And I heard you had a run-in with the little dickhead yourself?”
“Yeah… listen, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to stir up any more trouble. And after I gave Karl a bollocking for trying to destroy their swimming pool? I guess that makes me a bit of a hypocrite, eh?!”
“Yeah well, you’re a grown-up so you get a dispensation! And from what Gemma told me, he was being as obnoxious as usual. I don’t know what to do about him, Wilde, I really don’t. I can’t ask Gemma to kick him out when I’m not there, she doesn’t get paid enough for the grief that comes with that. And if he comes in when I’m there, do I throw him out? I don’t want to antagonise the little bastard, he might just be stupid enough to trash the place again!”
“Sorry, Bobby, I should have thought. But look, I’ll keep an eye on him and you know Mitch will.”
“I guess. Don’t know how long Mitch is going to be around though. He’s got an offer to play in New Zealand but he has to raise the price of the flights and registration and a medical and he’s come up short. I don’t think he really knows what to do. Karl’s having a great time but I’m just waiting for Mitch to do something stupid and spoil the whole thing. I just wish he’d pack his bags and go before it all goes to hell.”
She went off to serve another customer and I finished my coffee and headed off. I was headed for home when it struck me that maybe a few months in New Zealand might be good for Mitch – and that it might be good for Bobby, too. I turned the jeep around and made instead for Bobby’s house. I knew Karl was at the farm so I figured Mitch would be there on his own.
“Hey, Wilde,” he said when he answered the door, unshowered and unshaven and smelling of last night’s beer. “There’s nobody here, you missed ’em.”
“Actually, I came to see you, Mitch.”
“Oh yeah?” he frowned. “What can I do for you?”
“Listen, Bobby tells me you’re raising money to go to New Zealand?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Trying to, is more like it.”
“How much are you short?”
He shrugged.
“Dunno, about four hundred and fifty, I guess.”
“OK, I’ll tell you what. How about I make a five hundred dollar investment in your footy career? To be repaid in full when you get a contract with Nike. Or when they make the movie of your life.”
He looked at me with eyes narrowed by suspicion.
“Why would you do that?” he said, slowly.
“What are friends for, Mitch, eh?” I said with a shrug.
“Sounds a bit like you’re paying me to get out of town?”
“Look, if someone had offered to me that you’d come to Clovelly,” I said, shaking my head and counting off the reasons on my fingers, “spend some decent quality time with Karl, not kill Gretz and not put Bobby in such a foul mood that I’d have to give up coffee for a week, all for five hundred dollars, I’d have bitten their hand off. I’m just buying a bit of peace and making a sporting… let’s say, investment. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
He thought about it for a second, then broke into a broad grin.
“Sounds like you’re getting a good deal, Wilde. Tell you what, let’s say seven fifty, eh?!”
***
It was a week or so later and I thought the whole thing had died down but then I had a call from Willis asking me to pop into the station “for a little chat”. This time there was no small talk.
“I had a call from Leo Gretz yesterday, Wilde,” Willis said. “He asked me to pop out to the factory. He tells me you assaulted his son. Got anything to say for yourself?”
There wasn’t really much to say.
“Look, Sergeant, we had a bit of a disagreement, there was some… horseplay, let’s put it that way. But assault? That’s taking it a bit far.”
“That’s not what he said. He reckons you shoved Walter’s head in a dustbin. Is that true?”
“Like I say, storm in a teacup.”
“For crying out loud, Wilde,” he said, throwing his pen down on the desk, “you can’t just go around doing stuff like that! I know you think you’re defending your mate, standing up for her honour or something. But you’re not helping Bobby and you’re certainly not helping yourself. I understand your frustration, I really do. What happened to Bobby’s place was a bloody disgrace and I want to catch the buggers that did it as much as you do, believe me. But that doesn’t mean you can take the law into your own hands. Mr Gretz has agreed not to press any charges this time, but he won’t be so lenient if anything like this happens again, and neither will I.”
“Oh come on, Sergeant, he’s not pressing charges because he knows what his precious son did and he doesn’t want anybody opening that box for fear of what they might find. We both know that’s really why he’s letting this go.”
“Wilde, I’m warning you. You’re getting off lightly this time. There had better not be a next time, do you hear me?”
Old man Gretz’s self-important, sanctimonious shot across the bow angered me almost as much as his son’s antics but, at the same time, I knew that Willis was looking out for me in his own way and I was actually grateful. So I just nodded.
“Loud and clear, Sergeant. Loud and clear.”
15
Once the Christmas holidays were over, we stepped up the pace at the lighthouse and, bit by bit, it started to come together. Helped by the fact that we now had a proper set of plans and everybody else could see what was in my head, we replaced the broken windows and the missing tiles from the roof, bricked up the old side entrance where the door had rotted away and shored up the chimney breast that had started to collapse in the living room. The one remaining problem was the light casing in the tower. The glass was an odd shape and we’d been fighting with a glazier in Bunbury since the beginning of January. He’d missed every delivery date that he’d promised and the sheets of reinforced glass eventually arrived on the back of a flat-bed truck in the middle of March. We were only a couple of weeks from the watertight deadline and it was always going to be tight to get them fitted in time. That was before we hoisted the first pane up on the crane to fit it into the casing, only to discover that it was a couple of centimetres too tall. We checked the rest and, yes, each pane was the wrong size. None of them would fit.
Nathan and I spent a week haring up and down to Bunbury, fighting with the glazier again while the workers prepared the frames to make sure everything was ready. There’d been solicitors’ letters and threats of every kind short of burning his place down but, at last, we’d made a deal. Finally, the new, recut glass arrived two days before the planning committee meeting that would sign off on the building. Eight panes had to be set into the octagonal casing, each taking a couple of hours to load onto the crane, hoist into place, fit and seal. It was tedious, nerve-shredding work, but by six o’clock on the last day, with the light fading and wind picking up, we were almost done.
Cara had played happily in her playpen for most of the day but, as her bedtime came and went, she got tired and cranky. So I’d taken her out and was carrying her round the site as the glass was set in place. Bu
t in time, even the excitement of the crane and the glass dangling above us wore thin and she was making it clear that she wanted to go home. She was getting cold and hungry too and the little cough that she’d picked up somewhere was turning into a nasty bark. It wouldn’t have been fair to keep her there for however long it took to finish the work. So I called out to Nathan that I was going to take her home and that I’d be no more than an hour. I loaded Cara and her bits and pieces into the jeep and we took off for home.
When we got back to the farm, the house was empty. I peered out into the dusk but I couldn’t see Emily and so I called her phone.
“Hi,” she answered, “where are you?”
“Listen, Em, I’m back at the house. The guys aren’t finished yet but Cara’s had enough. Can you come up and look after her? I have to go back.”
“OK, I have a couple of things to do, I’ll be up in half an hour.”
“Shit, Em, I really have to get back. Sorry to do this but can you come up now? Please?”
“But, Wilde, I …”
“Please, Em, I really need you to do this.”
There was a pause, then a sigh.
“OK. I’ll be up now.”
She was true to her word and a few minutes later I heard the growl of the quad bike and saw the light bobbing up the track until it pulled up at the back stoop. Emily came in through the French windows, taking off her helmet and shaking out her hair.
“Thanks, Em, I really appreciate it,” I said, kissed her and ran out the door.
By the time I got back to the lighthouse, it was dark. The crew had set up the floodlights to light the tower and they were loading the final pane.
“Everything OK?” I asked Nathan, watching the last piece of glass leave the ground.
“No worries, boss,” he grinned back. “Nearly there!”
The wind was getting stronger and the huge sheet of glass swung in ever-increasing arcs as it rose towards the light casing. Suddenly, the buzz of the compressor just stopped and the site was plunged into darkness.
“Stop the hoist,” someone shouted, “shut it down! Now!”
The whine of the crane faded and died and for a moment there was just darkness and silence. Nathan found a torch and ran over to the compressor. I ran after him.
“Out of diesel,” he said, when I caught up to him, his face set stony in the torch’s glow. He looked at his watch. “McCreery’s will still be open. Get a jerry can and go over there now. You’ll be twenty minutes. I’ll stay here.”
I nodded and ran off to get a can.
McCreery’s gas station was further away than I remembered and as I turned in off the road, the old man was just shutting off the forecourt lights. I jumped out and ran over to him.
“Sorry, mate, we’re closed,” the old man said. “Come back in the mornin’.”
“Bill, I need diesel really badly,” I pleaded with him. “Please, mate. They’re hoisting glass over at the lighthouse and the compressor’s run out. The glass is just hanging in the air, in the dark – with this wind, it’ll be smashed if we don’t get it in now.”
The old man looked at me, and shook his head. “Aw look, I’ve shut it all down, mate. It’ll take me ages to…”
“I’ll pay double, Bill. Three times. Please.”
He took off his cap and scratched his head, then shook it slowly and sighed.
“You don’t have to do that,” he said, wearily. “Wait here, I’ll fire it all up again.”
The workers were standing round in a glowing huddle of cigarette ends when I bounced the jeep back onto the site. They sprang into action in the jeep’s headlights and Nathan pulled the jerry can from the back. There was a hint of rain on the wind and the moon was obscured by darkening clouds. The men cheered as the compressor growled back into life and the lights plucked the tower out of the darkness.
The evening’s drama was almost over and, an hour or so later, the last pane of glass was finally secured. It took us another hour to load the compressor and the lights onto Nathan’s truck and to lock up the buildings, and then we were done.
“Listen, fellas,” I shouted, as the workmen were getting into the van that would take them back to town, “you guys have been great, thanks. I mean it. And if anyone’s interested in a beer at the Schoolhouse, drinks are on me.”
There was a chorus of “Too bloody right!” and we headed for the pub.
16
Maybe it was the stresses of the day or maybe I was already high on the adrenaline of the past few hours but, whatever the reason, I was buzzing as I left the pub at just gone midnight without having had much to drink. The boys had been in good form and Nathan had commandeered a guitar to regale us with his own brand of boozy-blue entertainment. I’d left my flexible friend behind the bar, which had been flexed to within an inch of its life, and all was well with the world. Carly came to pick Nathan up and, even though I was well able to drive, she insisted on taking me home. So I left the jeep in town and we sang our way out to the farm.
“This is you, Wilde,” she said, as we pulled into the yard. “Try not to wake the whole house now, won’t you?”
“I’ll be as quiet as a mouse,” I winked at her with my finger to my lips. “I promise!”
None of the outside lights were on so I fumbled around in my pocket for my phone and switched on its torchlight, then almost impaled myself on the handlebar of the quad bike as I picked my way to the front door. I swore and then chuckled to myself – maybe I’d drunk more than I’d thought. It was dark, too, in the house, and there wasn’t a sound. I went upstairs and gently opened Cara’s door. I poked my head round to make sure she was sleeping, but she wasn’t in the bed.
“Ah, Jesus, Em…” I cursed softly to myself.
Emily was inclined, if Cara was unsettled or wasn’t sleeping, to take her into our bed. I think it happened more when I wasn’t there and it had become such a habit that Cara sometimes wouldn’t sleep in her own room. It had taken a few tortuous and largely sleepless months to wean her off it and finally we’d convinced her to stay in her own bed. But now the rule had been broken and, if we weren’t careful, we might have to start all over again.
I undressed in the bathroom and had a quick shower to wash away the day’s dust and sweat. I towelled myself dry and quietly opened the door to our room, trying hard not to wake them. It was dark in the room, and I went to my side of the bed, slowly pulled back the covers and climbed in. It was a moment before I realised that Emily was alone. I’d been so focused on making no noise and all the while Emily sneaked her back into her own bed while I was in the shower. I tried to convince myself that Cara wouldn’t notice if I didn’t kiss her goodnight just that one night, but I’d never failed to do it before and I wasn’t going to start then. So I hauled my tired body out of bed and padded my way out to her room. I pushed open the door as quietly as I could and tiptoed over to her cot in the dark – but she wasn’t there.
And so the nightmare began.
Cara wasn’t in her bed. Emily was asleep in our bed and Cara wasn’t there. She wasn’t there. She was gone. I ran back into our room and shook Emily awake.
“Em, where’s Cara? Where is she?”
But Emily was coming out of a deep, deep sleep and she pushed my hand way with an angry grumble and a sigh. I shook her again.
“Emily,” I shouted now, “wake up! Where’s Cara?”
She sat up in the bed and rubbed her eyes.
“Wilde,” she mumbled through fading sleep, “what time…?”
“Where’s Cara, Em?! She’s not in her cot! Where is she?!”
“Of course she is… in her cot, Wilde. What are you…?”
But I was gone. I ran back down the stairs and turned on all the lights.
“Cara?” I called out. “Cara? Where are you? Cara?”
I ran from room to room, looking everywhere,
in even the most unlikely, the most ridiculous places.
“Wilde, what the hell are you doing?” Emily was standing at the bottom of the stairs now in her nightshirt, a hand to her forehead and squinting in the light. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s Cara,” I panted, hardly able to get the words out. “She’s gone.”
“What??!! Don’t be stupid, Wilde, she’s in bed, asleep. Are you drunk?”
I shook my head, pulling cushions off the sofa as though she might be hiding under them.
“She’s not. She’s not there!”
Emily ran back up the stairs. I heard the door open and the light switch click and then I heard her scream. She ran back downstairs. I was still frantically ransacking the house and she ran to me and stopped me, her hands on my shoulders.
“Wilde, stop! Stop it!” she shouted. “We have to think! Where could she be?!”
I stopped and tried to pull myself together. The effect of what little beer I’d drunk had evaporated and I was stone-cold sober.
“You call the police,” I said. “I’ll take the quad bike out in case she’s outside!”
“But she can’t be, Wilde, the house was all locked up. I locked up myself. She couldn’t get outside!”
“Fuck it, Emily, she has to be somewhere and she’s not here! Call the police! Now!”
17
I hadn’t ever been around children and so I had no idea how to look after them. In the face of my own ineptitude, therefore, I worried every day about Cara, every day from the day she was born. I hadn’t expected it to be that way, I thought that, when she arrived, I would cope with the novelty of it all. But that was before she was born and I was overwhelmed by the strength of the love I felt for her.
It had got better, granted. In those early days, just after we brought her home from the hospital, the sheer fragility of her made me so tense I could hardly function. Picking her up from her crib was a logistical project – clearing the floor of anything that might trip me up, checking that my shoes were tied lest I fall over loose laces, checking for anything at chest height that might stab, snag or burn her and seeking out any number of other dangers that skulked in the corners and lay in wait for my baby girl. I could scarcely take her out of the house and I’d all but resigned myself to staying indoors with her for the next twenty years.