Ironbark (22 page)

‘There was this bloke in Sydney and he was walking along a beach . . .'

‘Whoa, dude,' I say. I even put my hand up. ‘This isn't a joke, is it?' 'Cos I've heard jokes from people over thirty and they are
never
funny.' Granddad ignores me.

‘There's this bloke in Sydney and he's walking along a beach when he sees a bottle in the sand. So he picks it up and wipes it and a genie pops out. And the genie says: “I will grant you one wish and one wish only, so you'd better make it a good 'un.”'

This is getting better and better. A joke about a genie. Radical.

‘And the guy says, “Well, I have to travel to New Zealand constantly on business. Trouble is, I hate flying and a boat takes too long. I wish for a bridge to be built between Sydney and Christchurch, so I can drive.” And the genie says, “Hang on. Do you know how impossible that is? It would require the biggest engineering feat in history. It would take hundreds of years, use up most of the available natural resources left in the world and thousands of people would die in the construction. It's completely out of the question. Can't be done. Wish for something else.” And the bloke thinks for a moment and then says, “Okay. Tell me what it is that women really want.” And the genie pauses and says, “So what colour do you want the bridge?”'

Granddad's pleased with himself. I can tell. So I dredge up a laugh.

‘Is that it then?' I ask. ‘I need to build a bridge instead?' ‘Women are not like us,' he says, all serious.

‘Thanks, Gramps. Your middle name's not Sherlock is it?'

‘Their minds work in different ways. You can't ever really understand them. Just do what you're told and make the best of it.'

This is the culmination of years of experience? I wish I hadn't asked. But turns out he's got another pearl of wisdom to share.

‘They're emotionally tough, though. Tougher than us. So you need to develop a thick skin. Are you tough enough?'

I give that some thought. More than it warrants.

‘Me? I'm Ironbark, dude,' I say.

I don't feel tough, though. Not really.

I hate waiting, so I decide to head off up the mountain early. It's only ten o'clock, but Granddad has disappeared and I have absolutely nothing to do. There's no point in writing in my journal and we have enough logs to last till the Second Coming, and I can't sit on the verandah staring at trees any longer. It crosses my mind to walk up the mountain. That would certainly kill time. But the scent of the motorbike is just too heady to resist. Plus, I still feel tired on account of getting virtually no sleep last night. Anyway, the motorbike is a much better way to kill time. Provided I maim trees as I go this time I can do some exploring, without fear of getting lost.

Like I say, I have no idea where Granddad is, so I'm concerned about firing up the bike. Odds are, he'll hear. But I do it anyway. What the hell. I'm Ironbark. It catches on the second kick. I'll give the old bike that. It's probably got the indent of Captain Cook's bum on its seat, but it's gutsy despite its years. I can't imagine many bikes built today would still be around in forty years' time. These thought processes are a little worrying. It's a short step to, ‘When I was young . . .' I slam the bike into gear and take off. That way, I don't have to think.

I ride a different way, but I'm careful to stop every now and then and carve a mark on a tree. I just hope these trails I've made don't cross. The rate I'm going, every tree in the forest will have a mark. I get this image of myself, sitting on the bike in the middle of the bush looking round at all these trees, each with a white gash, and wondering how I'm going to get home.

In the end it doesn't make a huge amount of difference. I mean, it's not as if I'm likely to stumble across Aztec ruins. Trees and clearings, clearings and trees. Every route is scenic. In fact, I might as well have come up the old way. Would have saved a few trees a few scratches. But I don't have any problems and before I know it I'm soaring – well, creeping might be a better word – onto the summit. The rock is waiting for me.

I sit on it and reach automatically for a smoke. It's funny. I don't even feel disappointed when I find they're not there. Already my chest is feeling better. I know about your sense of smell and taste improving after you've given up and I know that takes time to kick in. But I'd swear the scrambled egg and tomato this morning tasted sharper, cleaner somehow. Probably my imagination. But I don't miss them. Don't even miss that I'm missing them. How cool is that?

It's just gone ten o'clock and I'm two hours early. I suppose I could kill more time riding the bike along the ridge, but for some reason I don't feel like it. A watery sun has emerged from a light scattering of clouds and it's peaceful up here. I even begin to think the view has improved. Can quitting smoking do that as well? I stretch out across the rock and soak up a few rays. While I'm here I might as well close my eyes.

It probably takes me all of thirty seconds to fall asleep.

It isn't like a proper dream. I don't remember the beginning and there's no story as such. Just broken images.

Richie is there, but it's all hazy. Then suddenly, everything is sharper. I see him in the distance. He's facing up to a length of wood, a tree trunk of some kind. One of my gashes is visible. I recognise it. I catch a gleam of light along the face of an axe. There's a regular sound – a thunk, thunk – as metal bites into wood. I'm getting closer to him, but slowly. It's as though I'm being carried on one of those travelators you get in airports, because it's a smooth movement. His body bulks before my eyes, but he doesn't see me approaching. His eyes are on the wood and the axe is coming down quicker now. The thudding is louder, closer. The blows become impossibly close together, sounds merging. They resolve into a ringtone.

I sit up as though I've been scalded and scrabble for my phone. It's on the rock next to me and I knock it off the edge and have to scrabble further. There is a sharp pain in my back from where I've been lying, but I ignore it. I push the accept button.

‘Hello?'

‘Hi. It's me.'

I glance at my watch and have difficulty processing the information. It's almost twelve-thirty and I've slept for over two hours. I try to sweep the dust from my thoughts. It must have been the combination of last night's lack of sleep and the effect of the sun, I guess, but I feel really bad. Kris must have been waiting half an hour for my call. She must have thought I wasn't going to. I switch the phone to my other ear. The pain in my back stings. I notice that the sun has disappeared and the day's turned cold.

‘God, Kris,' I say. ‘I'm really sorry. I fell asleep.'

I should explain. Tell her about the previous night, that I was up here two hours early. But I don't. It would sound like I was trying too hard to convince.

‘It's okay.'

‘No, it isn't. I'm sorry, I really am. Look, hang up and I'll ring you back. I don't want to run down Janine's credit.'

‘Justine.'

‘Yeah. Her. Give me a moment.'

‘No.'

Her tone is sharp. I've almost disconnected, but the urgency in her voice stops me.

‘I can't talk long, anyway,' she continues.

‘Hey. I know it's my fault. I should have rung at twelve. But you've still got another half hour of lunch left yet.'

‘I'm seeing Miss Millner in five minutes for maths tutoring. I can't talk long.' The repetition seems to rule out all argument.

I'm in the wrong. I know that. But I'm getting seriously ticked off, anyway. If Kris knew she had an appointment she could have rung earlier. And, besides, what is more important to her? Give Miss Millner the flick. See her some other time. I tell her that.

‘I can't.'

‘Okay.' I hold the phone against my chest for a moment, try to calm my breathing. Getting angry won't cut it, that's for sure. I need to keep control. And it
is
my fault. If only I hadn't fallen asleep. I go for the bright and cheery disposition.

‘Look, Kris. I bought you a phone yesterday. Sent it off Express Post care of the school 'cos I didn't want your dad to intercept it. It's charged up, chock-a-block with credit and everything.'

‘You did what?'

The bright and cheery disposition is all one way. If I could hold her tone in my hands it would slice through me. ‘It wasn't expensive,' I say, but I know I've made another mistake. I have no idea what it is, but I've been here before and I can read the signs. If anything, the silence from the other end is sharper than her voice.

‘I said I would think about it,' she says finally. ‘
I
would think about it. What is wrong with you?'

‘What do you mean, “What's wrong with me?” Nothing's wrong with me. Nothing. You don't want it, fine. Throw it away. Not a problem. I thought it would be better to get it to you sooner rather than later. That's all. What's so wrong with that?'

‘You really
don't
understand, do you?' Boy, she is mad.

‘You know, Kris? I don't. I don't know why sending you a present is such a crime. Why don't you explain it to me?'

‘Now you're getting nasty.'

‘Hell . . .' I have to take the phone away from my mouth again.
It's cool. I'm cool
. This is too crazy for words.
I'm
getting nasty? Boy, this girl needs to listen to herself sometimes. ‘I'm sorry,' I say. I have to force my voice to sound calm and controlled. ‘I'm not being nasty. Seriously. But I don't understand.'

‘We had a conversation. You suggested sending me a phone. I said I would think about it and let you know. But you had to take control. Don't you see? It was
my
decision to make, not yours. It's like my opinions, my needs, don't count at all. The phone was never about me, it was all about you.'

‘That's nuts,' I say. ‘What do you mean, it's about me? It's your phone. I bought it for you. A gift.'

I have got to be on solid ground here. There's no one else, no one at all, who wouldn't think this conversation – or one side of it, at least – was just bizarre. Maybe she's got PMS. I wouldn't be surprised. But I reckon now is not the best time to explore that possibility.

‘I don't want you making decisions for me. I don't want anyone making decisions for me. Can't you get that through your head?'

‘Apart from your dad, of course,' I say. I regret it as soon as I say it, but the words escape before I can stop them. ‘He doesn't want you to have your phone, so you just give up. “Yes, Daddy. If you say so, Daddy.” I tell you, Kris, this independent, free-thinking woman line you're peddling seems a little flimsy. Particularly when your dad is controlling who you see, who you talk to.'

There's silence at the other end. It's the first advantage I've detected in the argument, so I push it.

‘Well?' I say.

Her voice is much softer.

‘Perhaps that's why I don't need anyone else pushing me around.'

‘Okay,' I say. ‘Fine. No problem. You don't want the phone, get rid of it. Throw it in the bin. Don't even open the package. Just so long as you're happy.'

‘I'm not happy,' she says, but her voice isn't hard anymore.

‘You mean you're not happy with me, don't you?' I say. ‘You're not happy with me because I'm like your father. Except, of course, he denies you things while I try to provide them. But hey, Kris, it's all the same to you, isn't it? Isn't it?'

Her silence tells me all I need to know.

‘So is it Steve, Kris? Is he the reason I'm suddenly such a crap person? Is he the reason you won't text me or call?'

‘What are you talking about?' she says.

‘Has he been sniffing around? Course he has. While the cat's away. Is that it? Come on, Kris. Tell me. I can handle it.' ‘You seriously think that when I'm mad at you, it has to be because some other guy is involved? Do you really believe that?'

‘Do you always answer a question with another question? Pretty poor, that, Kris. Tell you what. You answer my question first.'

‘I'm going now,' she says and I can tell she's on the verge of tears. Most times, I'd feel bad. Right now, I feel victorious.

‘That's one way of avoiding the question,' I say.

But she's gone. I listen to the hiss of the broken connection for a few moments. Dark clouds are building and the wind has picked up. Far off in the distance I see a flash of lightning. Even though I wait for ages, there's no accompanying thunder. Only echoes in my head. Kris's words and the thunk, thunk, thunk of an axe biting into wood.

It's only when I look down that I see my phone. I'm beating it regularly – thunk, thunk, thunk – into the rock. Splinters of plastic litter the ground.

Branches sweep across my face, but I pay them no attention. The bike is beneath me, but I don't pay attention to it either. As far as I can tell, I don't have a thought in my head. I've reached that stage where I've become part of the bike, and movement is simply an expression of my will. No thought required. It's just as well.