The Never Boys (15 page)

‘We should get back,' she suggested.

‘Just one minute.'

Standing close to her, he could smell mandarin and cardamom in her hair. He could count every single freckle on her nose and smell the lavender on her hands.

‘Michelle?' Her name. It was almost impossible to say.

‘Yes?'

‘You know the other day —'

Coyly, ‘At — our lesson?'

He nodded. Swallowed. ‘How can I put this?'

‘Just say it.'

‘What if I was wrong?'

She looked at him but couldn't speak. The
stunned silence frightened him as much as losing her. So he made the first move.

Their lips touched.

Melded.

Surged.

Then parted.

Before kissing again.

From that night, Dean and Michelle were inseparable. They sang carols by candlelight in the winery's grounds. They got busted sneaking up to the bell tower during work. They made chocolate frogs and pralines and one giant mess. They played cowboy, riding horseback along hills as far as the corellas would lead them. They combed the summer heat from each other's hair and held one another on the veranda to watch rain fill the creek.

But his favourite moment started on Christmas Day. After a belly full of roast, it was time to swap presents. He received a second-hand record player, several old LPs and a box of truffles. She got a retro T-shirt printed with the words
KISSES 5¢
. ‘How many do I get for twenty dollars?' he joked, opening his wallet. But it was the next gift that confused everybody. She pulled a black blindfold from a biscuit tin as if it was a dead rat. ‘Thanks — I think.'

‘You'll understand in a fortnight,' was his only explanation.

Even then she was still underwhelmed. She had to be reminded of her ‘great' surprise. Picking her up in the Chevy, he blindfolded her, then chaperoned her into the city, attracting plenty of laughs and shocked onlookers. When they stopped ninety minutes later, seagulls and a hot briny wind pinpointed their location. ‘We're at the beach?'

‘Take your blindfold off.'

The wide, flat expanse of St Vincent Gulf brightened in her vision. A long wooden jetty pointed west, where anglers cast their lines. Orange cliffs sharpened to the right and dunes rolled down the far left.

‘Port Noarlunga? Why?'

He met her at the boot. Inside were snorkels, masks, fins, towels, their swimming costumes and a disposable underwater camera.

‘No, Dean. Please. I don't want to,' she said, pulling away.

But he held tight. ‘You can't be an explorer if you don't go into the water.'

‘Next year, okay?'

‘It is next year. C'mon, at least meet the instructors.'

Plenty of reassuring words later, they eventually coaxed her to suit up. He joined her by the shore, also skinned in black. ‘But you haven't had any lessons,' she noted.

He grimaced. ‘You know how I said I've been working the past two Saturdays? Well —'

‘But why?'

‘So you wouldn't be alone.'

She was flattered, but still uneasy. The other scuba divers moved into the water. ‘What if there are sharks?'

‘Then they'll eat me first — I'm bigger.'

Understandably, his joke fell flat. So instead, he held her hand and stroked it with his thumb. ‘Trust me.'

Then their world sank into the blue.

Trailed by pearls of air, the group slowly skimmed over the seabed towards a reef perpendicular to the jetty. Far from being invaders, the divers were almost treated with bemused familiarity. Gobbleguts, leatherjackets, wobbegongs, catsharks, goatfish, toadfish and pufferfish lazed in the waters, seemingly moving only with the drift. Others continued feeding. The only curious welcomer was a magnificent southern blue devil with big, rolling yellow eyes. It swam right up to the divers' masks, slipping away at
the first sign of a reaching glove. To the left, a school of bullseye zipped past Michelle, scaring her, but soon she settled again when she realised they meant no harm. An instructor eased her fears further by waving her over to help give a hovering cuttlefish a backrub. In turn it showed its appreciation by splaying its tentacles out wide.

Closer to the reef, Dean photographed the moment then swam to the other side. He scouted the bottom, looking for the unmistakable shape of stingrays.

Time passed quickly. She checked every fish, polyp and shell, occasionally grabbing him to show an underwater marvel that only she could value. He felt pretty chuffed at the whole experience. He was sure he could hear her giggling through the water.

When the hand signal was given to surface, she begged to stay. They only lured her out with the promise of next week's lesson.

The day got better on the trip home. With a pile of potato scallops and chips on the front seat, she recounted every creature she'd seen and started planning diving holidays round Australia, the Pacific Islands and even the Caribbean. ‘This is the best Christmas present ever,' she purred.

And to show her gratitude, she challenged him to a game of Stop Traffic. The rules were simple: at every
green light, they had to drive through as normal. At every red one, they had to kiss uninterrupted until the signal changed.

Understandably, he took the long way back.

New Guinea

Christmas '52

Dearest Bea,

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year from the tropics! I've enclosed some prints of a singsing I photographed last year to give you an idea of how some of the natives celebrate. I went to another village this year where they put on a huge dinner for all the people and their guests. Just like Australia, they had ham. Except here they don't buy it from the butcher. They tie up a pig by the legs, carry it on a pole still squealing, hit it on the head with a club then cook it over a fire. All while it's still alive!

Since I last wrote, I've quit the sawmill and am now working at an airfield fixing engines on all sorts of vehicles, not just planes. I was called away to Rabaul recently to fix up some trucks that had got themselves into a terrible mess. The problems here are nothing like those the mechanics in Sydney have to deal with. Ask any of them if they've seen what volcanic ash, sulphur, sea spray and humidity does to a car!

It hasn't been all work, however. I've been exploring the rainforests and finding several crashed fighters and bombers — some with the pilot's skeleton still intact. I've started collecting what remains of their belongings and sending them to the Red Cross. It's a ghastly task but the natives have salvaged a lot of the metal panels and everything inside the cockpits is rotting away.

I haven't heard from you for some time. Can you please write and tell me how you're going? How are my parents? And Duckie? How old would his “baby” be now? Nine? Ten?

With love forever,

Clive

Darwin

Winter '63

Bea,

I'd wager you never thought you'd hear from me again. It's been a long time, but I'm finally back in Australia. I don't know for how long, but I get the feeling I'm back for good. I've been helping repair a trawler for the last week and hope to finish up my business here within a month or two. The skipper is trying to convince me to buy into his business, but I'm not so sure. He must smell the New Guinea gold on me!

What I'm really writing about is to ask if you'll be in
Sydney in November? I'm heading your way for a holiday and I'd like to see you again even if it is for an hour. We need to discuss a few things that have been bothering us both. I hope you're still not mad at me. I'll send a telegram when it gets closer to the date. I'm excited if you are.

Clive

PS. My address is on the back. Would love a letter!

PPS. Have South Sydney pulled out of their doldrums yet?

I know who you are.

Those five words browned, curled then caught fire on the oven's hotplate. Dean covered the ashes with a saucepan lid then looked out the kitchen window again. Nobody.

Three days straight he'd come home to find the same note slipped under his door. He had strong suspicions about who the author was, even if he didn't recognise the handwriting. It was definitely a local and definitely someone who knew his timetable. Driving to Michelle's that third evening only confirmed his fears. Booking a driver with speeding, Constable Tom's gaze locked on him as he passed in the Chevy.

‘Keen for another dive tomorrow?' Dean asked, stretched on a picnic blanket, with Michelle beside him. They shared a plate of cheese, cabanossi, french onion dip and corn chips as they looked across the lowlands of Angaston.

‘Absolutely,' she answered, following a fire engine racing through the streets. Its siren was off but its lights were flashing. Distant eucalypt wildfires cured the January night. ‘My goggles and fins are already by the door.'

‘No more fear of sharks?'

‘The only shark I know is you.'

‘And what kind would I be?'

‘A megamouth.'

‘Why you —!'

They wrestled without too much energy. A phone rang. Seconds later, her mother opened the screen door. ‘Zara's looking for you!'

She glanced at Dean. ‘Tell her I'll call back tomorrow.'

Her mum went back inside.

‘She's going to find out about us eventually,' Michelle said, reading his mind.

‘I know. But let's keep it a secret for a little while longer. Friends don't act as weird.'

‘Not that Zara's been much of a friend lately.'

‘Why? What's happened?'

‘Nothing really. She's just been giving me a bit of grief since she got back from holidays. She wants to know why I haven't been spending any time with her. Last year, I had to give her a month's notice just
to go out for coffee.'

‘Her friends are starting to drift away. They're tired of her always being the centre of attention.'

‘Tell me about it. She's so lonely, she's started hanging out with Hayden again.'

That surprised Dean but didn't worry him. He was indifferent, to be honest.

Placing the plate to one side, he wriggled across to Michelle, kissed her, then stroked her cheek. She looked at him with those fudge-coloured eyes then took charge. Her free hand started at his shoulders, curved over his chest then traced down his ribs. It slid under his shirt, flushed him with goose bumps then stopped at the scar below his armpit. ‘How'd you get that?' she asked.

He took her hand out and held it. ‘You'll be scared of the water again if I tell you.'

‘C'mon. No secrets.'

He glanced down. ‘I got stung by a smooth stingray. That's where he stabbed me with his spine.'

‘Did it hurt?'

‘Like mad. I nearly drowned.'

‘How?'

He winced. ‘Not now. It's something I don't like talking about. Another night, hey?'

‘Michelle! Ten minutes!'

‘Okay, Mum!' Then, turning to him, she said, ‘You know you can trust me.'

He squeezed her. ‘I know.'

Excusing herself to go to the bathroom, she left him alone. He sat up and listened to a Christmas beetle sputter overhead. He rubbed his scar even though it didn't itch and looked at his reflection in his drink. Every day he saw that face, and every day he wished it was someone else's.

The backdoor slapped shut again. This time it wasn't Michelle, but her mum. She picked up the near-empty plate and smiled with that pained mother look. ‘Michelle's a good kid. But she's young. We want her to stay that way for a little longer, okay?'

The subtle sex warning clear, mother and daughter passed each other in the kitchen.

‘Are you all right?' Michelle asked, snuggling him from behind. He could feel her heartbeat throb through her soft breasts. ‘You've been quiet all night.'

‘I was just thinking about Clive.'

‘And his letters?'

‘Yeah. They trouble me.'

Before work, he had almost walked past the courier knocking on the front door. After signing for the thin yellow envelope, he saw it was addressed to Old Clive and tried handing it back. The courier said
no-can-do — ‘Specific orders of the sender' — then cranked up his van. Dean tossed it on the couch, but curiosity wore him down.

He opened it in the winery car park. It contained a pair of sealed letters from Clive and a single note, folded and penned in black ink. The writing paper featured a boy and a girl holding a lamb. The message was brief:
Please, please, please don't send any more letters. The past is over. Beatrice.

So she was alive.

And he read the unopened letters:

 

Dear Bea,

Do you even remember me after all these years? I was staggered to think how long it had been since I last wrote! I guess life always gets in the way. Firstly, how are you? And your family? I'm guessing there is one after all these years.

I was reminded of you the other day when the radio gave the footy scores. The Mighties seem to be going through another rough trot at the moment. Nothing like the days of Eric Lewis and Percy Williams, hey? We don't get much league news over here. It's all Aussie Rules. I follow the Crows — when they're winning!

To be honest, Bea, I've been thinking about you a lot lately. Thing is the doc says I'm crook. At first I thought it
was just a bug but it's more serious than that. I've been asked to take some tests but I think it's his polite way of giving me a bit of hope. I've been feeling more tired than usual, although I don't sleep much. Jack Kaesler's daughter called an ambulance the other day when I had a turn while fixing her ute. She wanted to know if there was anyone she could call. The only person I could think of was you. Funny that.

What I'm trying to say is I think it's time we finally got together to talk. I want to put everything that's happened between us to rest. I know it's too late but I want to do it before I leave. I don't want any bad feelings lingering between us when the inevitable does happen.

So I'm asking you as an old friend, can you please send me your telephone number? Or if that's too much, just a letter?

Once again, I hope you're in good health.

Lots of love,

Clive

 

Dearest Bea,

I'm worried that my last letter never reached you or that yours got lost in the mail. I desperately want to talk to you before — you know. If something does happen in the meantime know this: I've always loved you. You
would have made me the world's happiest man if you did marry me. I better go. Please write.

Love forever,

Clive Xavier Clancy

 

Dean had later lowered this last letter and saw that same name carved on a gravestone. The grey soil was dry and the grass had regrown. Waiting beside it was one last vacant lot never to be occupied.

The old man's anguish had troubled Dean that night as he ate at
his
table, sat on
his
couch and played
his
guitar. Escaping the loneliness, he'd driven
his
car to Michelle's house.

‘Don't go crazy worrying about it,' she said, rubbing his chest. ‘Clive wasn't an easy person to like. He didn't have too many friends.'

‘You'd think some of them would have turned up to his funeral. Even some of his old navy buddies at least.'

‘I think he outlived them.'

That only sounded more depressing.

‘What about this woman called Bea? The one he wrote to all the time?'

‘She was never going to turn up. I stupidly realised today why I found all his old love letters: she'd returned every single one.'

She baulked. ‘You don't think he might have been a stalker?'

‘I doubt it. Not from the tone of his letters, anyway.'

‘You sound upset.'

‘It sounds strange, but I feel sorry for the old guy.'

‘We all do, but there's nothing anyone can do now.'

He twisted round. ‘I think there is.'

‘What?'

‘I talked to the solicitor today. Clive's will expires in two weeks. I want to find this Bea woman.'

‘Do you know where she lives?'

‘I think so. Most of his letters are addressed to this one place in Sydney. I booked my ticket tod—'

‘What? You're actually
going
to Sydney?'

‘Yeah. After all these months.'

‘Wouldn't it be easier to ring her?'

‘I've tried. Directories don't have a listing.'

‘She'd be pretty old. Do you know whether she's even alive?'

‘She must be to return those last letters.'

‘Can't the solicitor trace her?'

‘He's not interested. He gets paid regardless if she's found or not. The last thing he wants to do is spend money.'

‘But you're going to?'

‘I owe it to him, Shell. I play his guitar, sleep in his quarters —'

‘The Kaeslers' quarters.'

‘You know what I mean.' Seeing her still uneasy about the idea, he rubbed her legs. ‘I really want to give this a shot. Most likely this Bea woman doesn't know Clive's dead. Who knows what kind of relationship they had before he moved here? They might have even had a child together.'

‘Do — you want me to fly over with you?'

‘I'll be taking the bus — I never fly — but it's probably better that I go alone. I don't know if she'll be happy to be found. Besides,' — (he laced their fingers) — ‘I doubt your parents would approve of us sneaking off to Sydney together.'

She grinned. ‘Dad would run the bus off the road.'

He smiled. ‘You okay with this?'

She nodded reluctantly. ‘Just come back, okay?'