The Break

Deb Fitzpatrick lives and works in Fremantle, WA. She has a Master of Arts (Creative Writing) from the University of Western Australia and occasionally teaches professional writing and editing at Curtin University. Deb is the author of
The Amazing Spencer Gray
(2013), a novel for younger readers. Her novels for young adults —
90 Packets of Instant Noodles
(2010) and
Have You Seen Ally Queen?
(2011) — were both awarded Notable Books by the Children's Book Council of Australia.
The Break
is her first book for adult readers.

 

 

 

 

 

visit the author:
debfitzpatrick.com.au

book club notes:
fremantlepress.com.au/books/adultfiction

 

 

 

 

for Mum and Dad

 

 

The water in our blood will be cloud one day. And was glacier aeons ago.

from
The Drowner,
Robert Drewe

 

A great tree stands in the southern corner of Western Australia, its bark carved with lines like rivers. Marri: the Nyoongar word for blood.
Corymbia calophylla
: given the common name marri because its sap is the colour of blood, oozing down woody bark into hard, jewelled sores.

The broken old marri arm hides a narrow hollow. Tucked inside in a plastic bag is a rolled-up map of the night sky, protected from the wind and rain and sun. The great tree swings restless next to a wide weatherboard house, next to a dark and moving river, next to the blue fusion of two oceans. If you stood beneath that tree you would see it all: the house, the river, the blue-gum plantations, the forest rambling around and between. At night, you'd see the Southern Cross hanging like a child's kite in the sky. And, if you closed your eyes, you'd see further still: the road leading to Greys Bay, where the bush ends and the limestone coast reaches out, and where the horizon opens so wide it reveals the very curve of the earth.

 

 

 

They'd sent Rosie Curran to make a story out of a young man's despair, though not in so many words. A story, about a guy leaping from the Leighton Beach tower — a
story
, for a newspaper, for people to sit down with over their morning cuppa, their bowl of muesli, their day ahead.

She'd looked straight at Frank, the news editor who farmed out each day's stories to the staff, but he wasn't going to turn flexible all of a sudden, not Frank.

‘A suicide story, Frank?' she said.

‘A public interest story,' he corrected. ‘The psych unit turned the kid away last week.'

Rosie tried to imagine herself actually going there, waiting on her favourite beach, waiting under the tower with a speck of a man at the top. It could have been anyone — someone she knew, a friend — Christ! Anyone. And this wasn't the first rubbish story she'd had to do for
The Messenger
, for her stupid career, for the advertising people upstairs.

She was over it. Rosie, aged twenty-two, couldn't believe she'd stuck it out this long.

‘For Christ's sake, Frank …' She followed him into the kitchen, where the benchtop was a work of art, a collage of mug rings and shrivelled teabags. ‘I don't want to go and watch a guy trying to do himself in.'

‘Rosie,' he laughed, ‘it's the nineties — nothing's sacred anymore.'

Isn't it?
she thought. She took a breath. ‘But this is a community newspaper! Surely there's another story I can cover, I mean, it's what we put in the paper that becomes news —'

‘Rosie, it's a story, you're a reporter. Go and do it, alright?'

She went out to the car, took a few breaths under the jacaranda tree and weighed up her options. She could either do the story, pretend to do the story, or outright refuse to do the story.

Panic crawled out of its nasty place. She felt her temperature climb. Who was she kidding? This wasn't a school project, this was her fucking
job
. This was the rent, food in the fridge. Her future.

She looked west. The beach wasn't far away. Leighton was where she and Cray spent most summer Saturday mornings, the corduroy sound of sand beneath their feet, the sun grilling them from above. There was something about those times at Leighton, something that Rosie risked forgetting in between. She'd stop there on hot evenings after work, when the sky went gentle, slipping into the end of another day, and when people were breathing again, breathing their own life.

Cray watched the clear water against his skin. Leighton never disappointed, always offered something different, depending on how he felt, depending on the swell, the wind, the sun. This beach didn't have the darker, moving water of beaches down south, where you always had to watch the current, check your position against the towels that were like compass points on the beach, make sure you hadn't moved out too far, or too close to the rocks. It was almost safer on a board, Cray often thought, at least you had something to float on, to cling to if need be.

On the sand, a beachcomber with a metal detector hovered close to Cray's gear, and Cray trod water a little harder, a little higher, keeping his eye on him. Harmless old coot, he thought, nothing better to do but scour the leftovers of other people's lives. He sank down into the cool, eclipsing the old man, and poked his toes about for sand, for an idea of his depth.

It was his week off. Cray had come down from the mine on Friday night — he always took the late plane, didn't want to spend any longer out there than he had to, the nights at the mess spent drinking, smoking, swearing. The guys out there could
drink
, the older guys who'd been there for years and who were never gunna leave — no reason to, no wife, no family, just hard work, huge pay packets and truckloads of beer for company. Thirty-year-old Cray couldn't keep up with them, and didn't want to. Three beers and he was wandering back to the donga for the night. He had one to himself, thank
god, he couldn't have hacked sharing a place with a snoring, farting, hungover grader operator. Besides, it wasn't a good thing to get too matey with the fellas; sacking non-performers was another heartening part of his job as a project engineer. As was rousing them after a night on the piss. Cray frequently had to drive from donga to donga at five-thirty in the morning, feeling fairly ordinary himself, to bang on doors, and had even had to shake a few blokes from their beds when the morning-after blur was too much. Rounding 'em up like cattle.

Aaah. It was another world out there. You had to laugh. You had to.

Rosie had said, before she'd fallen asleep, ‘What do you dream about, Cray?'

Cray thought,
That depends if I'm here with you or there, in the desert.
He was lucky to get to sleep at all out there some nights, lay awake worrying about contractors and designs and deadlines. But he was here now, he was home. And so he dreamed about the things he could enjoy the next day.

‘Beaches,' he'd told her. ‘Swell.'

‘Nice,' Rosie said sleepily.

The shock of the water on sticky skin. The shifting of sand and shells as peelers came through. Cray was so bloody glad he and Rosie lived by the coast, the ocean just a skin-lick away. He only wished he didn't have to leave it all the time. Settling and unsettling.

He'd asked Rosie to stop calling him when he was up at Leonora. It was better not to go through those phone calls, better just to look forward to his week off, to seeing her. And it was good, having a whole week off. He really relaxed then, going to the beach, swimming, fishing, heading to the fish pub with Rosie for a few beers and a seafood feast. But the four
weeks on site, they were long weeks. And the anticipation of them was worse than actually being there. And Shitslinger. Jesus.

Cray ducked under the surface and swam along the bottom to shore, seeing if he could make it without having to come up for air. He burst up in the warm shallows.

A thin smear of cloud shaded the water. Cray scanned the carparks, lined up side by side, beach by particular beach: Leighton — the bodysurfers' beach; then the Dog Beach; followed by Cables — one of Perth's excuses for a surf spot; Cottesloe — flesh, curves, oil and bikinis; and Swanbourne, where grown men wanked in the dunes.

Cray dried off in the carpark, next to the Woody, trying not to expose himself while he pulled off his boardies from under a towel wrapped around his hips. He headed home to read the paper and loll about in the hammock, a small shell from one of the rockpools on the dash for Rosie.

He was still looking at the swell as he drove away, so he didn't see the young man climbing gingerly down the long narrow ladder of Leighton Tower, and a few people at the bottom looking upwards, looking tired.

Rosie was ready. She opened the door to
The Messenger
offices.

‘
The Messenger
, please hold,' one of the secretaries was saying into her headset. ‘Is Freddo down there, Rosie, do you know?'

‘Freddo?'

‘Oh, sorry,' she laughed, turning slightly red. She covered the microphone. ‘Frank.
Freddo the frog
,' she whispered. ‘Look-alikes.'

Rosie grinned. ‘Uh, I dunno,' she said, holding up an uneaten sandwich in a paper bag. ‘I've been out.'

She headed down the corridor, past the room of deadline-fearing typesetters making an impressive racket on their keyboards; past subeditors swinging to the phone every now and then to check the spelling of a local councillor's name; quickly past the desk of the eccentric editor in case he pulled her aside to pass on another story or two; past the overburdened and bored-shitless real estate writer, who had three or four thesauruses in front of her in an effort to find different words to describe kitchens in houses that were all the same; and ended up at Frank's desk.

He still used a typewriter, insisted on it, despite the typesetters' complaints. ‘You've gotta move with the times, Frank,' they'd implore. ‘It takes ages to re-key your stories.'