Time's Long Ruin (16 page)

I sat at the table and Dad made me breakfast. Mum sat with her arms crossed, staring out of the window at a view made opaque by the splattered fat of a thousand chops and sausages. She tried to make out the shapes of trees and hills as Dad dutifully filled my bowl with cornflakes and warm milk.

What is it, I wanted to ask her, but couldn't, knowing it would only make Dad's job harder.

‘Horseshoe Bay,' he said, searching for the sugar. ‘What do you reckon?'

‘Great.'

We drove to Horseshoe Bay in silence, Mum still with her arms crossed, replying to Dad's questions with a whispered No or maybe So? Bill sped up and roared past us, Janice and Gavin hung out of the window waving and screaming with the breeze through their hair as Liz tried to drag them back in. I wound down my window to call to them.

‘Henry,' Mum shouted, and I wound it back up.

Dad looked at her and shook his head.

‘What?' she asked, loud, angry. ‘He'll get his head knocked off.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘Bullshit nothing.'

We arrived at Horseshoe Bay and claimed our five foot square piece of beach. We set out our towels and bags and the dads went back to the cars for the drinks and umbrellas. Our spot was nearly up in the dunes, but the best spots had been taken early. Horseshoe Bay was a sea of polyester-clad white bodies. Getting into the water was like waiting for a bus, dodging bodies, towels and lunch baskets that had formed a maze. Trailing sand over people's towels was forbidden. Kids were exempt. We could run in a straight line from wherever we were to the sea. People would shout at us, of course, but that's only because they were old and miserable.

Janice, Anna and Gavin stripped down to their togs and ran for the water. I followed slowly behind, surveying the situation. When I got to the water's edge I stood on the hard sand, moving my feet until they started sinking. Soon I was down to my ankles. Water rushed in on top of my feet and it was warm and relaxing. I could stand here forever, I thought, wondering, watching. Until my legs gave out. And then I could sit down and wait for the rising tide, as it rose past my chest and chin, and I waited for Mum to notice.

Horseshoe Bay was a copper-pot, a broken isthmus. It was almost blocked at the top by a cork in the form of an island of granite rocks. An agitated tide entered the bay and its waves hit the side of the horseshoe, reflecting into the middle, forming lines of calm, persistent geometry that ended in an undertow on the beach. I watched as Janice bodysurfed a wave in and then rode the tow back out. But it wasn't dangerous. If you didn't fight it, it would take you a few yards and then dump you back where you'd started.

Janice ran up the beach to fetch me. ‘Come in,' she said, ‘it's fun.'

‘I didn't bring my bathers.'

She pointed to others along the beach. ‘Wear your jocks.'

‘No.'

‘Who's looking at you?'

‘Everyone.'

She gave up. She knew I wouldn't go in, never had, never would. It was just one of those things: Henry on the foreshore, searching for cowries for Con, picking up crabs with cracked shells, Coke lids and the broken leg of a card table as the voices of kids filled the air

I looked back and, through the forest of bodies, saw my parents standing, talking, on top of a dune. Mum was waving her hands in the air. She pushed Dad and he fell back, steadying himself. She was screaming at him. I could just hear her above the spreading hush of the waves. Dad was fighting back, stepping towards her and waving his finger in her face. She slapped his hand away and he took another step towards her. I noticed that Bill and Liz were watching too, staring up with amazement.

Then my mother tried to walk down the dune. She stumbled as she went and Dad followed a few steps behind. When she got back to the rug she fumbled in our beach bag. She threw a bottle of Coke and sunscreen across the beach and found the car keys. As Liz tried to reason with her she put on her shoes, saying a few words and shaking her head. Then she started up the path that led through the dunes to the carpark. Dad followed her. Bill and Liz stood up, watching, unsure what to do.

Janice came up behind me. ‘What's happening?' she asked.

‘Mum,' I replied, and she watched as my mother trudged along the path, disappearing over a crest into the carpark.

I started across the beach and a few minutes later I was standing on the edge of the carpark, my feet burning on the bitumen. I watched as Mum got into our car and slammed and locked the door; I watched as Dad knocked on the window, trying to reason with her; I watched as she started the car and reversed out of the park, hitting the rear bumper of a car parked behind us; I watched as she fumbled with the gear selector, screaming something half to herself, half to my father, unaware that Dad couldn't hear a word she was saying.

And then she drove off. Up the hill and out of the carpark. Dad just stood looking after her, shocked, shaking his head. My dad, the hero, dressed in his work shorts and a singlet, wondering what he'd ever done to deserve this.

I hopped across the bitumen towards him. ‘What's wrong?' I asked.

‘Nothing,' he shot back, then stopped to think. ‘It's your mother . . . you know.'

I stood on a square of dead grass. Dad went over to the dented fender and examined it. ‘Ah, stuff it,' he said.

We returned to Bill and Liz, spread out on the rug, trying their best to appear unconcerned. ‘Ellen alright?' Bill asked, off-handedly.

‘You tell me,' Dad replied, sitting on the rug and crossing his legs.

‘Where's she gone?'

‘Who knows?'

I returned to the beach. I looked back and I could see Dad watching me. There was only one thing I could do. I took off my shirt and pants, folded them and placed them on the hot sand. Then I walked into the water, a step at a time. When I was up to my waist I looked back at Dad and waved. He waved back, smiling, and turned to say something to Bill and Liz. They looked at me and waved and I waved again. Janice came up to me and put her arm around my shoulder. ‘Where's your mum?' she asked.

I shrugged. Janice positioned me for the next big wave. ‘Jump when I do,' she said. ‘Just before the wave breaks.' We held hands and a moment later we were bodysurfing, moving on and in the water as it carried us towards the beach. And then, before I knew it, before I could surface or open my eyes or get a foothold, I was being sucked back out to sea. I panicked. I kicked my feet. And then I stopped, floating, realising I'd forgotten everything for a few moments.

It came in cold and the beach emptied. We drove back to the caravan park, crammed into the back of Bill's Austin. Everyone was thinking it, but no one was saying it. Ellen. We'd all seen her moods. We'd all heard her screaming and slamming doors, storming off down the street. But this was different, something someone's spastic cousin would do. Someone who needed help. Like the woman who sat on the banks of the Torrens in her nightie singing nursery rhymes and talking and laughing to herself. Someone a few pence short of a pound.

We arrived at the park but she wasn't there.

‘Reckon she's driven home?' I heard Bill ask Dad.

‘Suppose.'

‘Didn't know she drove.'

‘She doesn't.'

Bill looked amazed. ‘Jesus.'

‘What can you do?' Dad asked. ‘I'm not gonna let it spoil things for Henry.'

‘Fair enough. How's about we cook tea?'

‘That'd be good.'

Then we went fishing, again. After having cut the tangles out of the line there wasn't much left to cast out. This time Janice tried. The corn boy was still there and she asked for some of his corn. She cast off and reached the middle of the river. As we waited and talked and shared the rod, the dads sat further up the bank.

‘What's the point of staying?' Bill asked Dad. ‘You're just gonna worry.'

‘I'll stay. Look at Henry, this is good for him.'

Bill wasn't so sure. He fell silent. Dad patted his knee. ‘Times like this, all you can do is turn to alcohol.'

‘What was she on about?'

‘Shut up about it will yer.'

I held onto the rod. I felt a small tug and started reeling in the line. ‘I got one.'

Everyone gathered around. Even the corn boy put down his rod and came over to watch. I kept reeling and then it appeared from the murky water: a redfin, glistening, gasping for air, thrashing its body about as it fought the hook and line and the power of my hand. It was a fight to the death. Henry Hemingway versus the redfin. Dad stood behind me, chanting in my ear. ‘Jag him onto the hook, reel it faster, faster . . .'

And then they laughed. It was a redfin alright, but small enough to fit into the palm of my hand. Who'd think that such a small fish could put up such a big fight?

‘You gotta let him go,' the corn boy said.

‘No,' I replied, taking the fish in my hand. ‘We can eat him.'

‘No meat on that. Gotta put 'em back. Gotta breed.'

Dad could've slapped him, but he knew he was right. A dented fender was enough for one day. And this is what I felt too, a few moments later, looking at Dad, smiling and removing the hook. ‘A present,' I said, handing it to him, as he dropped it on the grass and Janice used her foot to push it back in the water.

Tea was a pile of chops a mile high. Dry potato salad and stale bread. All of us sitting around a card table with a broken leg sucking cold, black meat from the bone, shooing the ducks and not mentioning the empty seat.

‘That's a nice beach,' Dad said. ‘Man was smart he'd buy a shack down there.'

Janice sat up. ‘Yeah. Could we, Dad?'

‘You got the money?' he asked her.

‘Shack's not dear.'

‘Not if you're Sidney Kidman. Do I look like Sidney Kidman?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, maybe when I retire.'

‘Christ,' Dad smiled. ‘That's a way off yet.'

‘Don't remind me.'

‘We could go in together,' Liz suggested.

‘It's an idea,' Dad half-sang, in the same way going to the moon or curing cancer were ideas.

And then more silence, as everyone thought about Mum, sitting on the beach in front of our new shack, talking to herself, singing nursery rhymes. Maybe Dad was wondering what it would mean to him, if she
was
ill, if things got worse. His mouth was open and his eyes were distant. Bill spoke but Dad didn't hear him. Until a duck, licking crumbs from his foot, brought him around.

‘Bob,' Bill was saying.

Dad looked up. ‘Eh?'

‘What do you reckon?'

‘What?'

‘Maybe we could do the sideshows tomorrow?'

Dad tried to smile. ‘Good idea.' His eyes settled back on the ground. There was a long pause and then Bill said, ‘Eh, Bob, maybe it'd be better if you went home?'

‘No. Henry's having fun, aren't you, Henry?'

I smiled. Then I shrugged. ‘I suppose.'

‘He could stay with us,' Bill offered. ‘We could bring him home.'

Dad stared at me. ‘We should do the sideshows,' he said.

I shrugged.

A balding man in his fifties, shaped like a bowling pin and dressed in a pair of overalls with the arms cut out, appeared beside our van holding a piece of paper. ‘Who's Bob Page?' he asked.

Dad looked up and the man threw the piece of paper in his lap. ‘Message. I'm not the PMG. I got a park to run.'

Bill sat up. ‘How's about you deal with these ducks then? One of them just attacked my son. You wanna be careful, you could end up in court.'

‘And you could end up with my fist, smart arse.' The man walked off.

‘Good to see he's found his vocation,' Bill whispered.

‘Get stuffed,' the voice echoed.

Dad looked at the message. ‘It's from Ellen's dad. She's gone to their place.'

‘Least she's okay,' Bill sighed.

‘Yeah.'

I looked at Dad. ‘I can stay here. I'm alright.'

He sat holding the paper tightly, shaking, thinking. ‘How about I give you some money, Bill?'

Bill stood up. ‘Just clean out your van, Detective. Henry can move in with us. I'll go see if Happy's got a bus time-table.'

And that's how our whole tribe ended up standing barefoot in the main street of Goolwa at eleven o' clock that night. Waving as Dad boarded a bus and disappeared into a light mist of rain.

Late the following afternoon we headed home. Holidays were alright for a while but then they became boring: monkey bars that weren't so high any more, bike trails that weren't so long, that didn't resemble the Amazon any more, hot chips that weren't so hot and salty, and new friends that weren't so interesting. Goolwa would be there next year, and by then it would be exciting again. The putt-putt would grow in our minds and become the Royal Adelaide, the pool would grow bigger and colder and deeper, and Horseshoe Bay would regain its man-eating rips.