Falling Away (7 page)

“Pleased to hear it, Dad. You work too hard.”

He grunts an acknowledgement. “Ain’t that the truth.”

It’s a long walk to Yacaaba, but worth it once you get there. Hawks circle above the beach, adrift in currents above the headland. Plonking our fishing gear on the sand we pull out the bait and thread it onto hooks. Dad casts out first before driving the handle of his beach rod into the sand, securing it so he can sit with the sundown. The fishing line dips and twitches, harder to see as light fades out across the steely sea.

I notice his new reel. “Nice reel, Dad. Where’s mine?” I ask with a jealous grin.

He laughs, taking a quick peek at it. “Down at the hardware store, I expect. That’s where I got mine,” he says proudly, wiping over it with his hand.

I chuckle. “Nothing like an Alvey, eh Dad?”

“Let’s just hope we catch ourselves a decent meal.” His face is alight in the elements. The sea-wind has blown through him, lifting hard-set worries away.

He breathes deeply, before changing the subject. “It’s been great having Ben visit. It might be a while before he makes it up here again.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Dad. I get the impression he wants to spend more time here. Now that it’s just him. No Lily...”

“It’s been a blow for him, that’s for sure. He’s really got to get home and sort through things. Their house at Narrabeen – I s’pose he’ll stay on there?”

“He won’t move unless he has to. That old place is right on the beach. It’s perfect for him.”

He shakes his head. “I’m surprised Lily moved out. Do you have any idea where she went? I’m going to miss that girl.”

I sigh, because I will too. “Ben didn’t say. He doesn’t seem to want to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.”

Dad sits silently, until the tip of his rod spasms sharply toward the sand, shuddering with weight. Dad jerks the rod from the sand and is on his feet in one swift movement, reeling in the line through luminescent waves. He pulls at the fish, releasing it, guiding it until it reaches the shore. He guffaws rowdily as he lands the fish on the waterline, grabbing it firmly with one hand to extricate the hook with the other. When he holds it up I can’t help but giggle. It’s a big shiny bream, flashing silver as he throws it into the bucket.

“Breakfast tomorrow, Sammy!” he cries over the roar of the waves. “And we’re not leaving till you’ve caught one too!”

I chuckle at his positivity. “We might be here all night then, Dad,” I call back, but it’s not long before I feel the familiar pull on my line, challenging me to a tug o’war. The fish makes a mockery of my strength, but I beat it in the end.

***

Eight a.m. Monday. Ben pulls open the boot of the Subaru and throws in his duffel amongst the surfboard and wet tub. A decaying straw hat lies crumpled and out of shape, fraying. Kind of how he must be feeling about going home.

“It’s gonna be lonely,” he says, hugging me.

I pull away to look at his anguished face. “You’ll be all right,” I encourage. “You’ll have so much to do when you get back you won’t have any time to think about Lily at all. Assignments, essays, exams. Focus on those.”

He scans me as if I’m mad. “If I can concentrate at all it’ll be a miracle.”

“Now darling, you’ll be fine,” Mum interjects. “Don’t let it get you down. We’ll see you in a few weeks?” She reaches across to kiss him on the cheek, patting his arm repetitively.

“I’ll try to visit again soon.”

Mum nods approvingly. “Yes, do darling. You know I don’t like too long between visits.”

“See ya, mate. Don’t work too hard. Life’s about living,” Dad says, pulling Ben into a manly bear hug and giving him a few thumps across his back.

Ben sniggers. “That’s rich coming from you, Dad.” He slides into the seat and cranks the engine over, revving until the stutters have smoothed. Reversing out the driveway with a high pitched whine, he gives us a wave and disappears into the milky-lit morning.

***

I’m almost ready for work and notice a missed call. Seeing Jack’s number, I dial message bank, surprised at how super happy I am to hear from him.

Hey Sam, it’s Jack. I’m uh ... just ringing to let you know I’ve spoken with Matt about your car. He can start it today, if you can drop it off. You may have found someone else to fix it, but if you haven’t, just give me a call. My number’ll be on your phone. So anyway mate, I’ll uh ... I’ll see you later.”

Running very late, I finger a quick text to let him know I’ll call later. But feeling compelled, I replay the message to hear his voice one more time.

CHAPTER TEN

Apprehension sits like a low-lying cloud, drifting with me when I walk. The thought of Café Blue and Riley sends my stomach contents tunnelling south. If I could be optimistic I would, but with Friday night flashing through my mind like a beacon it’s unlikely I’ll rise to the occasion. I shudder when I think of him, wincing sharply at the memory.

It’s uphill all the way to Café Blue, and even slower because I dawdle. My legs are heavy, filled with the weighty dread of foreboding.

I peer like a nervy meerkat from the doors of the café. Riley’s nowhere in sight so it seems safe enough. Gemma spots me when I arrive, giving me a perplexed look from behind the counter.

“What on earth are you doing, Sam?”

I glance around the interior. “Um, nothing,” I say nonchalantly.

“Well, what’s the matter?” she asks. “Come inside. Nothing’s different in here since Friday.”

Maybe not for you
, I amend silently. “So is Riley in yet?” I ask, hoping to sound offhand.

“No, he called in sick. Said he wasn’t up to a day in the kitchen. Maybe he had a big night.” She looks at me as if she knows, as if she sees right through my casual façade. “So what happened with you guys on Friday, eh?” she asks, her eyebrow cocked skyward.

I rake over the events, deciding what to omit. Scraping the protective haze from my memory, I gather myself for the encounter.

“Sam!” Emily cries when she sees me. “How was your weekend? What’s the goss? You
have
to tell us everything!”

I flinch, physically recoiling at the sourness of the memory. The beach, the sand, the moon. Riley... “Um ... sure. Though there’s really not much to tell.”

“You and Riley left the party pretty early,” she persists, obviously hungry for information.

“We just went to the pub on the Corso,” I say, sounding flippant.

“
Come on
, Sam. Give us all the juicy details,” pleads Gemma from the next room. Luckily the place is empty.

I sigh, realising there’s no escape. “Look, nothing happened. And I didn’t have a great weekend at all, actually. I backed into this guy’s car down at the beach on Saturday. I just didn’t look where I was going. It was really bad. I damaged his car … and mine,” I say, waiting for some support.

“Oh, that does sound bad,” Gemma concedes briefly. “Well anyway,
I
met someone at the party after you guys left. And he called me over the weekend. Didn’t text.
Actually called.
”

“Yeah, he seemed nice, Gem,” Emily says. “He was hot, too.”

Gemma smirks, obviously pretty pleased with herself. “He wants to go out this weekend. So, any ideas where we should go?”

“Well, you’re the local,” Emily replies, giggling. “Surely you must know somewhere?”

In the banter I realise Gemma’s self-interest, and that Emily’s along for the ride. Front seat passenger, sunglasses on, hair blowing wildly in the wind. “So anyway, I’ve got to get my car fixed. This guy has a panel beater mate who can do it cheaply for me.”

They turn to me, nodding slowly in unison. Gemma’s eyes hold indifference in the verdant green. An irritation set deep beneath her polished skeletal exterior. She turns back to Emily, “Well, maybe we should head into Newcastle. There’s not much to do in Nelson Bay, is there?”

At their patent lack of interest I remove myself, pulling open the oven to salvage a bubbling lasagne singed with spots of brown. Blast-heat from the oven hits me full in the face, torrid and stifling, kind of like the atmosphere right here in the kitchen.

Surfacing from his crab-hole, George scuttles into the kitchen with a look of displeasure plastered across his face. Even his eyes have narrowed beneath his furrowed brow. And he looks
really
pissed off.

“I can’t get another chef. Riley’s really left us in the lurch. And there’s nothing I can bloody do about it.” He pauses briefly, an idea dawning. “Sam, you’re going to have to cook today. Can you manage? It was Riley’s suggestion, but I wasn’t so sure. He believes you’re up to the task.”

“I, uh ... suppose so.” My apprehensive mind races over the menu, wondering if it’s even possible.

“Just keep it simple, Sam. Pare it down. You’ll manage. Worst case scenario, if we’re busy, I’ll chip in to help.”

“You? You never cook!” Gemma shrieks, her incredulous laughter filling the room completely. George’s scathing expression plugs a stopper in her mouth. She looks at him with derision and flounces from the kitchen.

George slides his gaze back my way, dramatically rolling his eyes. “Just see how you go. If you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

I run through the menu in my head. The lasagne’s done. And If I limit the amount of hot food, I might just cope, if it’s not too busy. Pasta sauces are sitting ready in the cool room, and fresh cakes are chilling in the fridge. The spanakopita is all ready to go. So I guess I’ll just have to wing it.

The weather’s like a furnace and by twelve thirty the café fills quickly. Emily and Gem flit like fireflies in and out of the kitchen, apologising for the number of orders swelling on the shelves. At least five are in the line-up at any given time, sort of like a busy day in the surf. George barks instructions, spitting them at us. Realising pretty quickly I can only manage one thing at a time, I thrash myself to fill orders. Customers are queued at the door, so George reluctantly calls in his brother Joe to help out. Joe used to chef at Café Blue with Riley, but things apparently didn’t work out so well with the brothers in close quarters full-time. Or so I’ve heard.

Once Joe arrives things thankfully ease up. Being head chef doesn’t come easily to me, especially as I’ve never been thrown into it before. And Joe’s so much better at this. Knows exactly what he’s doing.

By three there’s a break and I remember I haven’t called Jack. Grabbing my phone I slink out the back, hoping for a brief moment of privacy. Something sadly lacking around here.

Thumbing through several missed calls, I find Jack’s number and dial. I hold the phone tight against my ear, my heart beating nervously in my chest. There’s an audible click when the line jumps to voicemail, his voice like summer on the other end. Even in recorded form he’s at ease. I hesitate, considering whether to hang up, but dig deep and drag something from my subterranean core.

Hey Jack, it’s Sam. Sorry I missed your call this morning. I’m at work so couldn’t get my car over to your friend. I do have the day off tomorrow though, so I could take it over then, or another day if that suits? But thanks for organising it. And I wanted to say again how sorry I am. I know you said not to apologise any more, but I just feel really bad. So I um ... I guess I’ll speak to you
later.

I click off the phone. The sunshine’s bright in the narrow stretch of alley, beating upon the tar and levelling heat where I stand. Even the soles of my shoes feel like they’re melting. Heading back inside, I find no reprieve there either.

Gemma charges around like a skinny madwoman. She’s clearly frazzled, making the darkness beneath her eyes more pronounced and hollow. She only drinks water now. She never eats, not even salad. The coffee queue grows and she revisits the machine, but her light flirtiness is remote, as if the results aren’t worth the effort anymore.

After copious bowls of hot chips have been served and neon rays reflect across the bay, the customers finally dwindle. George wipes at a sweaty forehead with his sleeve and lets out a long, low whistle.

“So how did we do today, George?” I ask, untying the apron from behind my back.

“We made a motza,” he says, counting out notes from the register with a self-satisfied smile. Fixing the notes so they’re aligned, he ties them in bundles and pops them into the cash register. The register spits out an earnings printout which he scours and folds neatly, inserting it with the bundles of tallied notes.

Emily and Gemma sprawl on lounges tucked in by the windows, complaining of sore feet and aching backs. It’s always the same at the end of a really busy shift, when bedlam morphs gently into calm.

I finish promptly at seven, leaving Joe in the kitchen for what hopefully will be a quiet dinner shift. “Thanks for today,” I say. “It would’ve been completely disastrous if George hadn’t called you in.”

He smiles, hearing my gratitude. “It was a pleasure, Samantha. You will need a good rest after all your hard work today. It was far from easy.” His heavy Greek accent has kindness woven through the words. He’s similar to George, but softer.

George chimes in, overhearing us. “Yes Sam, you proved yourself today. Well and truly. We’ll have to talk about taking you off casual and making you permanent.”

My heart sinks. I realise I’m supposed to jump at this opportunity, but the flexibility of being casual is what I like. No permanence is what I need, because I hold the power to escape. To move on at a moment’s notice. And this is my year for unbridled freedom. For working and surfing and feeling alive.

I offer a wan smile, grabbing my handbag from the locker. “Thanks George. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The sand is cold and I’m running, fast beside waves sucking lacy nets of foam into frisky peaks. It’s the first day of autumn and a chill is settling in the air. The light seems milky and weak, softer than summertime. With my head stuffed full of useless rubbish, I need to clear the nagging thoughts pressing hard against my skull. After running for an hour they release, dancing through the sky like opaque clouds.