Past the Shallows (14 page)

Miles tried to think where George would get his milk delivered. He had never seen a cool box on the road near the property,
and there was no driveway. He wondered how George managed with the other groceries, too. Maybe he got a delivery from Dover.
Miles wished that Dad would do that so they would know when food was coming and how long they had to make things last.

Harry finished his milk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Miles gave in. It was the smell of the bread and the
smell of the butter.

He held a piece in his hands and took a bite.

Miles got up and rolled the bedding. He put the mat, pillows and sleeping bag back in the cupboard and Harry didn’t help him.
He just watched from where he was sitting at the table.

‘We’d better get going,’ Miles said, but Harry stayed where he was. He played with the butter knife, then he put it down on
his plate.

Miles walked over and swept the crumbs off the table with his hand.

‘We can’t stay here, Harry,’ he said.

But Harry didn’t look up at Miles.

‘George wouldn’t mind. He’ll be back soon.’

Miles shook his head. He walked over to his shoes and put them on.

‘I’m going now,’ he said, and he paused at the door, looked back into the room. Harry was still sitting at the table with
his head down.

‘Joe’s gone, isn’t he?’ Harry said quietly.

Miles heard him but he didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

H
arry put the milk back in the cool box, shut the door and ran.

Miles was already all the way across the front paddock and Harry didn’t catch him until they were up near the road. When they
stopped, he tried to ask where they were going, but Miles held up his hand to keep him quiet.

Harry shut his mouth. He watched Miles looking up and down the road. Listening. Harry couldn’t hear any cars or trucks, he
could only hear his heart beating in his head. He took a few breaths.

‘Where are we going?’ he said.

But Miles didn’t answer. He just walked out into the middle of the road then headed into the scrub on the other side. Harry
followed, but there was no path and branches flicked in his face and his feet slipped on
all the sticks and leaves and wet earth. Miles was way ahead, blending in with the grey of the trees and the grey of the sky
and soon he would be gone completely.

So Harry stopped walking. He stopped and stood still and he waited.

He counted in his head. And he heard Miles crashing back through the bush, cracking sticks with his hands and with his feet,
and he thought Miles would be angry. But he wasn’t. He was pale. He talked quietly.

‘I’m taking you to Stuart’s,’ he said.

Harry looked at him. This wasn’t the way to Stuart’s. This was the worst way they could have gone because they’d have to bush-bash
and cross fences and go across private land. But he didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything.

It was because of Dad. Miles was scared.

Harry walked faster now. He stayed close to Miles, kept up.

Joe had really gone. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Stuart’s mum was in her dressing-gown. She stared at the lump above Miles’s eye and Miles said that he’d hit his head on the
boat. Stuart pushed past his mum
and stood in the doorway. He smiled at Harry and there was warm air coming from inside the caravan. Harry could feel it on
his face. He was glad he was here now and he wanted to go inside.

But he knew Miles wouldn’t stay.

‘I’ll bring you some clothes later,’ Miles said.

And it nearly made Harry cry now, the way Miles’s eyelid was all purple and cut – the bruise on the side of his face coming
up bad. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the sock that held his leftover money. He pulled it out.

‘You should take this,’ he said. ‘You might need it.’

Miles shook his head. ‘You keep it,’ he said and he tried to smile.

Harry watched Miles walk away. He watched him cross the paddock, walk into the scrub, and he kept on watching even after he
had disappeared.

And maybe him and Stuart were playing down the back of the property, or helping Stuart’s mum pick berries for the stall. Or
maybe they were inside eating lunch and Miles never even knocked or made a sound, because Harry didn’t see him come back.
There was just the backpack with some clothes left by the door of the caravan and, inside, near the top, were some chocolates
and the bright orange dart gun from his Bertie Beetle show bag.

M
iles walked slowly now.

The earth was heavy with mud and in the pockets of old clearings, well away from the road, you could see where people had
lived. Old foundations hiding in the knee-high weeds. Places where houses once stood.

A house. A farm. A family. A home. Hemmed in by forest and mountains and big cold sky. And none of it was any good.

This place.

Dad’s ute was gone.

Miles stood in the lounge and it was silent, the house. It was dark. He opened up the curtains and the light caught all the
particles of dust. Full ashtrays, empty bottles; and down on the floor the blood was still there on the carpet. If he used
cold
soapy water and scrubbed hard he’d probably be able to get it out.

A slice of sunlight hit his face. He put his hand out to block the light, but it wasn’t coming from the window. It was coming
off the metal photo frame on the sideboard. A ray of light. The photo of Mum.

Miles walked over and picked it up. She was wearing a summer dress with her long hair down. It was sunny. And he’d never noticed
before, but behind her in the photo there were dunes. A familiar shape; and the sand was fine and white. It was Cloudy.

That day at Cloudy.

Uncle Nick rode a long board – the old kind, fat and slow, but he could make it move. Like running free on the water, working
the small waves all the way from the point to the sand. Uncle Nick, fluid and silent in all that bright light.

‘You ready?’ he said.

And Miles knew he wanted to feel it.

What it was like.

So he lay on the front of that big board. Held on while the white water splashed up in his face, freezing, and he could see
nothing but Nick’s arms reaching out to scoop through the water again and again. He felt the board move up and over, up and
over until they were out deep. Until they were out on the clear.

Nick helped him sit upright and tall on the nose of the board, and with his legs hanging over the sides he was brave. He looked
down into the water. All the way to the bottom.

Ripples in the soft sand. Balls of loose seaweed flying free and weightless. The black rock and reef hiding thin beneath the
sand.

‘Safe here,’ he said, Uncle Nick.

And when Miles looked up there was a line of water, long and straight and rolling. And it was coming.

Everything was silent then. There was only feeling. Rolling, rolling; and silent.

The pulse. It lifted them up gentle and slow. Lifted them high so they could see.

Then it let them loose. Left them behind. And time came back.

Miles turned his face towards the beach, followed the line with his eyes. He watched it rise up. Watched it crack and peel,
perfect, to the shore.

And he saw Mum standing there on the sand all golden in the sun.

He waved to her.

And she waved back.

Miles put the photo down, and he turned the TV on to break the silence. He’d better get started and clean the house.

He cleaned everything.

M
iles could smell the fish and chips before Dad opened the front door. He walked in and put the greasy paper parcel down on
the kitchen bench. Miles stayed where he was near the couch.

‘Harry’s staying at Stuart’s,’ he said, but Dad didn’t look at him. He just got the tomato sauce out of the cupboard. He opened
the fridge and looked inside, but there was no beer. Jeff and him had drunk it all. He stood up straight, shut the fridge
door.

‘There’s potato cakes as well,’ he said.

Miles walked over and served himself some chips and a potato cake. There was a piece of grilled fish under them as well as
two pieces of battered flake. He didn’t know whether he should take the grilled piece of fish. Dad never got him grilled fish.
It was too
expensive. Miles usually just got chips and sometimes potato cakes because he never ate flake. Even the smell of it made him
sick. It was bad luck to eat shark.

‘It’s grenadier,’ Dad said, but he still didn’t look at Miles. At the bandage on his head, at his eye.

Miles slid the fish onto his plate. He sat down on the couch, started eating chips, and Dad came over. He turned the TV on
and stood in front of it. The news was on but the volume was down. There was footage of a car crash on the Tasman Bridge and
traffic banked up on both sides of the road. One of the cars was pinned up against the railings, squashed in half.

‘No chance they survived that,’ Dad said.

He turned the volume up then sat down in his chair. ‘I’ve been tuning the boat,’ he said.

Miles looked at his plate and chewed a mouthful of fish. It was soft and didn’t taste of much except salt and oil, but he
ate it all and he ate all his chips and the potato cake. Then Dad asked him if he wanted more and he said no. He sat there
holding his empty plate and they watched
Sale of the Century
. Miles didn’t know the answers to any of the questions and a blonde woman in a blue shiny blouse won the game by thirty points.
The prize at the end was a baby
grand piano. She didn’t take the piano. She decided to come back and play again tomorrow.

‘Engine’s sounding good. We’ll be right for the morning,’ Dad said.

Miles sat there for a while, then he got up. He took his plate to the kitchen and rinsed it in the sink, stood there with
a tea towel in his hands. He wanted to ask about Fisheries, about Dad’s licence. But he didn’t. With Harry gone for a few
days maybe it would be OK. Maybe Dad would be OK. He dried the plate and put it back in the cupboard.

‘See you in the morning,’ he said, and he walked into the bedroom.

A
girl with a round face and yellow hair leant against the wall of the rusty bus shelter next to the shop. Harry didn’t know
her, hadn’t seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. He hardly knew anyone. It was windy, but she only had bare legs,
and they were blotchy and purple and her short skirt looked too tight. She rubbed at her legs with her chubby hands, all the
while looking down the road. It was past nine. Maybe she’d missed the bus. Maybe the bus was late. There was only one. If
you missed it, there wasn’t another.