The Turning (9 page)

The day he got Ricky settled into kindy, he took a walk down the main street with a view to wandering along the wharves to think about his prospects. He was barely halfway to the docks when a
woman called his name.

Peter Dyson! cried a tall grey-haired woman in her sixties. It
is
you!

She stood in the doorway of a newsagency with a girl of seven or so whose lank blonde hair fretted in the wind.

Mrs Keenan?

Marjorie, she said with mock sternness. You’re not a boy anymore.

How are you? he asked.

Gobsmacked. Don’t just stand there, boy. Come and give me a hug. I don’t believe it!

Dyson stepped up and embraced her for a moment. He’d almost forgotten what another adult body felt like. For a moment he found it difficult to speak.

Look at you, she said. Just look at you.

He managed to laugh. Marjorie Keenan was still sprightly but her face was lined. She seemed older than she was.

And what brings you back to town? she asked, composing herself and pulling the child gently into her hip.

Oh, life I spose. I’ve moved into Mum’s place.

I don’t believe it! she declared with delight.

Well, neither did I. But there we are.

Come for dinner. Don’d love to see you.

Maybe I will some time.

Bring your family.

That’d be nice.

You know that I’ll keep you to it, she said with a smile.

I don’t doubt it for a minute.

Dyson looked at the little girl who chewed her lip.

This is our Sky, said Marjorie Keenan.

Hello, said Dyson.

I’ll chase you up, said the old woman.

Dyson laughed and stepped back into the street. He headed down to the town jetty with a creeping sense of disquiet. It was the child, Sky. Of course it was possible that she was a
neighbour’s daughter or one of the many strays of the sort he used to meet at the Keenans’ himself when he was a schoolboy. They were warm, kind people, Don and Marjorie, and their
place was often a haven for runaways or foster kids, the beneficiaries of one church mission or other. Sky had the shop-soiled look of one of those children. But the dirty-blonde hair and the way
she clung to Marjorie made him think that she was a grandchild. She had to be Fay’s.

On the jetty old men jigged for squid with their heads lowered against the wind. Dyson stood out there looking across at the yacht club and the rusty roofs of Cockleshell on the farther
shore.

Fay Keenan. He hadn’t even considered that she might still be in town. Hadn’t she left long before him? He had anticipated some awkward encounters. There would be the people
he’d gone to school with, the ones who always talked of shooting through to the city at the first opportunity but never actually left. He prepared himself for their prickly defensiveness,
consoling himself in the knowledge that after ten years these meetings would only be momentary. Most people would settle for a wave in the street, a brief greeting in Woolworths. But he
hadn’t considered folks like the Keenans. They were full-on people. They were salt of the earth. They would never settle for just a meeting on the main drag.

And Fay. With a daughter. He hadn’t considered that at all.

For a few days Dyson kept to the house. He only went out to take Ricky to school and collect him afterwards. All day he absorbed himself in little projects of household repair
and modification. He told himself it was the rain that kept him at bay but in truth he had the jitters. He was back to feeling that weird, diffuse guilt which had dogged him all his life.
He’d given up teasing that one out years ago. The old man’s early death, the disappointment he was to his mother, the business with Fay. And, God knows, the unravelling of Sophie. It
was old news but ever fresh in him. The way he’d jumped, blushing already, when Marjorie Keenan called his name.

With Ricky beside him, he lay awake at night with real misgivings about coming home. Irony he could deal with, but the complications of history might be another matter.

On the third day, in the early afternoon, Marjorie Keenan came knocking as he knew she would. Come for dinner tonight, she told him. She had a lamb leg big as a guitar. There was no way out.

The Keenans lived down by the surf beach in a shabby art deco place beneath Norfolk Island pines. Dyson arrived at six and stood for a moment at the door, bracing himself for
the necessary explanations about his status as a single parent. Ricky looped his fingers around Dyson’s belt. Both looked up at the soughing pines before Dyson knocked.

Marjorie squeezed each of them on the doorstep and dragged them indoors. The house was unchanged since the days he’d come here to play pool and grope their daughter furtively in the
garage. In the hallway a candle burned before an icon of a severe Russian Christ. There were seascapes on the walls and a portrait of the Pope. The place smelled of meat and potatoes and the
strange lemony odour of old people. Somewhere in the house a television blared.

In the kitchen Don Keenan rose on sticks and met Dyson with a hand outstretched, copper bracelet gleaming. There were tears in his eyes.

Look at you, he said. Lord, just look at you.

Long time, Don.

The old man sat and wiped his face. Yeah, he said brightly. And time wounds all heels, eh?

Except that it’s his knees that’ve given out, said Marjorie. That’s a lifetime of football for you.

They beckoned him to sit and Ricky edged onto his lap, reserved but curious. Dyson saw that the boy was transfixed by the old man. The tears, the florid cheeks, the Brylcreemed hair, the walking
sticks. Ricky curled against his father. Dyson smelled the sweetness of his scalp.

Mister Keenan was my coach, Rick. When I was a boy. He was a gun footballer, you know. Played for Claremont. Three hundred and twenty-two games for Railways – that’s a team here.

You like footy, Ricky? the old man asked.

The boy nodded.

Who’s your favourite player, then?

Ricky looked at his father.

Go on, said Dyson.

Leaper, said the boy.

Ah, said Don. Now
he
can play!

Lamb’s ready, said Marjorie.

Still cooking on the woodstove, said Dyson admiringly. Look at the size of that thing.

It’s the Rolls-Royce of ranges, that, she said.

Big as a blessed Rolls-Royce, too, said Don.

Just as their plates came and the old man was carving the meat, the thin blonde child came into the kitchen and took a seat.

You met Sky, said Marjorie.

Sky, said Dyson. This is Ricky.

Hi, the girl murmured.

Lo, said Ricky.

There was a brief moment of bewilderment when grace was said. After all the crossing and amens Ricky glanced at Dyson for reassurance. Then hunger got the better of him and he ate
unselfconsciously.

The talk was of the town, how the harbour had finally been cleaned up and the whales had returned and brought new tourists to the place. There are wineries now, said Don, and good wine like this
one. Dyson didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d given up the booze but he knew that Marjorie wouldn’t have missed the fact that his glass was untouched. The food was simple and
hearty and the kitchen sleepy-warm. It was nice to be with them again after all this time. The Keenans were good people and he felt bad that he’d left it so long to come and see them. After
all, he’d been closer to them at one stage than he was to his own mother. A long time had passed since the business with him and Fay. He told himself he needn’t have been so
anxious.

Ricky pleased Marjorie by taking a second helping of everything. Rain lashed the windows and though he was sober Dyson felt as safe as a man with four drinks under his belt. Eventually the kids
sloped off shyly to watch TV. Marjorie made a pot of Irish breakfast.

You don’t need to explain about your wife, Peter, said the old woman, pouring him a cup. We know already. We’ll spare you that.

News travels fast, he murmured, stung.

Small town, mate, said Don. Don’t we know all about that.

Well, said Dyson, doing his best to recover. That pretty much explains why I’m back.

There was a long, hesitant silence. From the loungeroom up the hall came the antic noise of a cartoon. Dyson wondered if that huge ruined sofa was still there in front of the TV. A lifetime ago,
on the same cracked upholstery, he felt the hot weight of a girl’s breasts in his hands for the first time, and it was odd to think of Ricky and Sky up there.

Sky, he said. She’s Fay’s?

They nodded.

Staying with you for a while?

Oh, said Marjorie with a tired smile. We’ve had Sky on and off for years. Most of her life, I spose.

Ah, said Dyson.

Well, said the old man. Like you, Fay’s had her troubles.

She doesn’t live in town?

No. She’s been all over.

In trying to mask his relief, Dyson scalded his mouth with tea.

We thought of suing for permanent custody for the child’s sake, said the old man. But it’s a dead loss. Welfare and the courts – it’s all about the rights of the mother
no matter what.

Anyway, said Marjorie with a forced cheeriness that made it plain she’d cut Don off before he got into his stride. It’s worked out well just going along the way we have,
unofficially. Things are coming good in the end. Fay and you are in the same sort of boat in a way. You know, recovering. In fact it’s amazing you’re here, Peter, because Fay’s
due here any day. Maybe you two can catch up.

Well, said Dyson in alarm. To be honest I’m not—

It’s been very hard for us, Peter, said the old lady. Life doesn’t turn out how you plan it. And it’s difficult when you’re old, when you think that your job’s done
and you can rest a little. You’re not prepared for dealing with the kinds of things we’ve had to deal with, to live through.

Stinking, filthy bloody drugs—

Don.

She’s abandoned a child, said the old man. She’s stolen anything we’ve ever had. We’ve spent all our savings on treatments and debts and she’s brought thugs and
crims into our home and frightened the tripe out of her mother. She’s put us through a living hell.

But, said Marjorie emphatically, we have our precious Sky. And we’re past the worst and we forgive and forget. Don’t we, Don?

Yes, said the old man subsiding, contrite, in his chair.

And we’re grateful for small mercies.

Dyson drank his tea. His mouth felt scoured now. A junkie, he thought. You couldn’t honestly be surprised. It would explain the rash of calls a couple of years ago, the breathless messages
on the machine.

We always loved you, Peter, said Marjorie.

Loved you as our own, said Don. Gawd, we even thought you’d be family in the end.

She needs safe friends, said Marjorie. Clean friends. She’s putting her life back together.

And we need a break, son. Now and then. Just a blessed rest.

You’re a good person, Peter. Say you’ll think about it. Say you’ll come and see her.

Dyson felt the heat of the stove in his bones. He looked at their ravaged faces. And rain peppered the window.

Dyson had no desire to see Fay Keenan. When she called that time he did not respond to her messages. He bore her no ill will but he did fear the force of her personality. The
intervening years had not diminished his memory of the time, almost the entirety of his high school life, that he’d spent in her thrall. They began as fumbling fourteen-year-olds when he was
her father’s most promising player and she was the flashy captain of the girls’ hockey team. They were a major item, a school scandal, infamous for their declarations of eternal love
and the heroics of their lust. By the age of sixteen the love was gone but the lust lived on in a kind of mutual self-loathing. Their relationship had boiled down to a futile addiction, a form of
entertainment for their classmates who saw them as a bad show which refused to go off the air.

Dyson’s mother disliked Fay but the Keenans took to him. To the Keenans Fay and him were just two talented kids taking life by the throat. What they didn’t seem to see was how
strange and pathological the whole affair became. How these kids isolated themselves in their passion until they became friendless and obsessed. They didn’t see them destroying each other. As
a boy Dyson relished the warmth of the Keenan home and although the Catholic business mystified him, he recognized them as people of virtue and kindness, even forgiveness. By comparison his own
mother seemed dry and inflexible. She looked down on the Keenans because Don worked for the railways. Dyson came to love them and in later years, when it was all over, he wondered if the whole
grisly thing had lasted so long because he liked to be around the Keenans as much as their daughter. But that was just sentimental. What kept Fay and him together was sex. It was a habit only
catastrophe could break.

Right from the outset there was something mesmerizing about Fay Keenan. She had a cockiness, an impulsive brio that was exciting. Dyson was never a courageous boy. Even in football he was
talented but weak-willed. The coach’s daughter had real guts. She was so pretty, so lithe, with a wicked laugh under all that blonde hair. Fay was smart, too. At school she coasted
shamelessly. Her parents were convinced that she was destined for medicine or the law. She could really talk up a storm. Yet in the end Dyson hardly heard anything she said; he settled for the
curve of her neck, the heat of her mouth, the spill of her hair across his body, and even when all they had to say to one another was carping ugliness, he was too well-fed, too passive, too lazy to
break it off and move on. For the last two years of school they were miserable. They had their disaster and Fay failed her exams. They were just another small-town story. And in the way of such
stories they met years later, stoned at a Christmas barbecue in the city, and screwed in a potting shed from which they staggered full of regret and recrimination.

It was so tawdry that it should have been comical, but Dyson could only see the damage they’d done each other.

A week after his dinner with the Keenans, Dyson took Ricky and a boy from his class out to Jacky’s Bridge to fish for bream after school. The boys were new friends and
still shy with one another and right from the start it was clear that the fishing idea was a dud. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe they were too young or fresh to each other for the
stillness required, but within ten minutes they were restless standing out there on the bank so he packed the gear and led them up to the bridge itself.