Volcano Street (8 page)

She asked him if he had always lived in the Lakes.

‘Born and bred. Mum, too. Years ago, her dad was mayor.’

‘And you’re working in Puce Hardware,’ said Marlo – her first words since they had left the Land Rover. Her sister, Skip decided, didn’t much like good old Pav.

If he noticed, he didn’t let it show. Coca-Cola foamed like champagne as he bit off the bottle cap. He licked the neck of the bottle, laughed, and glugged the black liquid into the beakers. As they ate, he listed the attractions of Crater Lakes. Skip, to her mild surprise, realised that Pavel Novak wasn’t ashamed of the town where he had been born, and felt no need to apologise for it, ridicule it, or claim that he would soon leave. They must see the lakes, of course: the blue, the green, the brown. The blue one was grey all through winter but changed in spring to brilliant blue, and no one knew why. He spoke of swamps, sinkholes, underground tunnels. The climb to the top of Mount Crater – what a view! You could see the coast thirty miles away.

First, though, the cave. After they had eaten, he led them through the gate in the picket fence. Palms and ferns lined a tarred path that curved downwards in a spiral. The roar Skip had heard from above grew louder as they descended. The temperature seemed to rise; mist danced on the air. Skip strode ahead, arms swinging, enjoying the sound of her shoes on the path as the gradient propelled her on. Walls of rock, moist and primeval-looking, shelved above a deep depression in the earth; a narrow but intense rivulet cascaded down them resoundingly, sending steamy curlicues into the air.

She turned back to Pavel. ‘But where’s the cave?’

They were still just halfway down. The spiral tightened; the last curve brought them to a viewing deck, a rectangle banded with a fence of painted pipes, like a stage-set fragment of an ocean liner. Water splattered Skip’s face. She gripped a blistered railing. ‘It’s so loud,’ she cried. Here was the cave: dark chambers opened behind the curtaining water, and she wondered how far back they went and where they led.

‘Where does the water come from?’ she asked Pavel.

‘From the lakes, they reckon.’ A pool below them surged and foamed, buffeted by the impact from above. ‘Then it runs off again. There are underground rivers all along this coast.’

Skip marvelled at this surprising information. Dull, sensible South Australia was not all it seemed. Volcanoes had once shaken this green corner of the state; riven with fissures, faults, subterranean channels, the earth spoke of strangeness. This hole in the ground was a prehistoric pit. The park above, with its rows of roses, the town hall with its tick-ticking clock, were the merest imposition on a timeless land.

Marlo said suddenly, ‘I don’t like it here.’ Something in her voice was wild, almost pleading, and Skip turned to her sharply. Marlo looked helpless, lost, and with an aching heart Skip vowed that somehow, in some way, she would make things better for them both. She must.

She took her sister’s arm and gripped it tightly.

Chapter Four

‘I got a good one, I got a good one!’

The words exploded on a gust of beery breath. Sandy Campbell slammed down his bottle, wiped his mouth with his hand, and tilted his chair precariously away from the table. The others turned towards him: Auntie Noreen eager for mirth; Uncle Doug with a weak smile; Marlo cold-eyed; Skip not ungrateful. It was Sunday evening. A week had passed since the sisters’ arrival in Crater Lakes. A moment earlier, their aunt had been informing Sandy Campbell that Baby Helen wasn’t Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt – no, not a bit of it! Bunking off school, eh? Fighting with boys. Old Noreen heard everything.

‘Get this, then.’ Sandy Campbell, who only wanted to tell the good one, crossed his furry, barbecued forearms over his barrel chest and began. ‘There’s this bloke, see, and he’s driving up the Birdsville Track. There he is, way out in the sticks, burling along in his old red FJ, like you do, sinking a few stubbies, splattering a few echidnas, knocking a roo or two six ways from Sunday … when he reckons he needs a piss.’

‘Eh, language!’ Auntie Noreen gestured to the girls.

‘Needs a
piss
,’ repeated Sandy Campbell, ‘so he pulls up, like you do, on the side of the Birdsville Track, clunks open the car door, steps out (whew! fucking hot up here!), flops his dick out. There he is, having a good old piss, like you do –
sss-sss, sss-sss
– when, what do you know, he sees he’s stepped into quicksand. “Fucking oath,” the bloke reckons, “I’m sinking!”

‘Already he’s up to his ankles. Well, he tugs his feet, tugs and tugs and tries to get out, but does it do him any good? Not fucking likely. Before he knows it, he’s up to his calves. “Fuck me, I’m a goner,” the bloke reckons, but lo and
be
-hold! Just then he hears an engine –
brmm, brmm
– and here’s a pink Torana, burling along the Birdsville Track. Looks like his lucky day.

‘The bloke waves and waves, shouts and shouts; pink Torana pulls up next to the FJ; bloke in the Torana leans out, looks at the bloke in the quicksand, and reckons, “Fucking shit! What’s happened to you?” “Mate, I’m sinking!” says the bloke in the quicksand. “Can you pull me out?” That’s when a twinkle comes in the other bloke’s eye and he reckons’ – Sandy Campbell’s voice grew high and fluting – ‘“Ooh, duckie, only if you give me a kiss.” So, as you’d expect, the bloke in the quicksand reckons, “Poofter!” and tells him to fuck off. Pink Torana drives away.’ Sandy Campbell took a swig of beer. Gingery whorls of hair protruded, thick as couch grass, from the V of his open-necked shirt. Rolls of belly oozed over his belt.

‘By now the bloke’s up to his waist. He’s sinking fast. “Fuck me dead, I’ve cashed in me chips,” he reckons, but lo and
be
-hold! Just then he hears an engine –
brmm, brmm
– and here’s a mauve Monaro, burling along the Birdsville Track. So the bloke waves and waves, yells and yells; mauve Monaro pulls up next to the FJ, and the bloke in the Monaro winds down his window, leans out and reckons, “Shitting fuck! What’s happened to you?” “Mate, can’t you see I’m sinking? Pull me out, for fuck’s sake!” Well, the bloke in the Monaro puts a little pout into his lips, a twinkle comes into his eye, and he
reckons, “Ooh, duckie, only if you give me a cuddle.” So, as you’d expect, the bloke reckons, “Poofter!” and tells him to fuck off. Mauve Monaro drives away.’

For the third act, Sandy Campbell rose from his chair, lit a fresh ciggy, and paced around the table, heavy boots shaking the floor. Auntie Noreen’s bulk wobbled as if she knew the punchline and could barely hold back laughter.

‘The bloke’s just about done for. He’s up to his neck. “Time to meet me fucking maker,” he reckons, but lo and
be
-hold! Just then he hears an engine –
brmm, brmm
– and here’s a black Kingswood burling along the Birdsville Track. Going like a bat out of hell it is, clouds of dust behind, but it’s the bloke’s last chance; he screams at the top of his lungs, and bloody hell, he’s in luck. Kingswood pulls up, bloke gets out, comes and stands over the bloke in the quicksand and reckons, “Jeez, you’re in a fucking pickle.”

‘Well, as you can imagine, the bloke’s really packing shit by now, so he yells, “Mate, pull me out, for fuck’s sake! I’ll give you a kiss, I’ll give you a cuddle, I’ll let you ram it up me fucking bumhole, just pull me out!” And the other bloke looks down at him – just this head, that’s all that’s left, sticking up from the quicksand – and a scowl comes over his face, and he stamps on the top of the bloke’s head’ – Sandy Campbell, with a clumping boot, mimed the action:
squelch!
– ‘and reckons, “Poofter!”’

Auntie Noreen’s laughter was uproarious.

Skip and Marlo rolled their eyes. They were used to dinner at their aunt’s by now. Whether Sandy Campbell made it worse or better was a moot point. Without him, their aunt dominated the table, stuffing down food while holding forth upon the government (‘a mob of bloody galahs’), the economy (‘this country rides on the sheep’s back’), and the youth of today (‘don’t know your arse from your elbow, that’s your trouble’). With Sandy Campbell, she presented a different side: girlish, flirtatious, delighted alike by his mock grace before the meal
(‘Two-four-six-eight – bog in, don’t wait’), his bellowed jokes (many concerning poofters), and the disquisitions he sandwiched between them on dog racing, hot rods, two-up games (good); war protestors, abos, pop singers (bad); and his dead wife, whom he described variously as beautiful, a cow, or – if he was drunk enough – a fucking bitch. This was his third visit since the girls arrived. Only coach trips to Adelaide kept him away.

Marlo rose, scraping back her chair. ‘We’d better go, Skip.’

‘Go?’ cried Auntie Noreen. ‘Yous haven’t had your cherry cobbler.’

‘There’ll be snacks at Novaks’.’

‘Novaks’!’ said Sandy Campbell. ‘Some wog muck that bloke cooks? What yous want to go round there for?’

‘Cul-cha! Sunday swah-ray,’ brayed Auntie Noreen. ‘I’ve a mind not to let them go, but I suppose they’ve got to see for themselves what a stuck-up cow Deirdre Novak is. No later than ten, though – Baby Helen’s got school in the morning, and as for you, Miss High-and-Mighty, I’m not having you yawning your way through a day at Puce Hardware.’

‘Give over, love,’ said Doug Puce – his first contribution that evening. ‘They’re just going next door.’

‘Yair, and when’s that cow ever invited us?’ Auntie Noreen looked warningly at the girls. ‘I’ll tell yous one thing: I remember Deirdre Gull before she married that wog. Thought she was a cut above the rest of us, and what does she do? Throws herself away on a dirty reffo, and still puts on her airs and graces! God give me strength. She’s a Lakes girl through and through, and don’t yous believe no different.’

‘We won’t, Aunt.’ Marlo tugged her sister to the door.

Skip was torn. She hardly wanted to stay at Auntie Noreen’s (though the cherry cobbler was tempting) but dreaded Mrs Novak’s. All through the school week she had avoided Honza. In class, she watched contemptuously as he sniggered with the Lum’s Den, dead-legged
Shaun Kenny, traded fuck-signs with Andreas Haskas, and gagged with laughter at Brenton Lumsden’s jokes.

Now she said to Marlo, ‘I thought you hated Pavel.’

‘This isn’t about Pavel. We can’t be rude to Mrs Novak.’

They walked in the middle of the dirt road. Marlo’s eyes had gleamed when she showed Skip the white card, scrawled with loopy handwriting, that invited them to what Mrs Novak called Sunday in the Sanctum. Sanctum! Skip thought of the singers last week, warbling away in German. And one of them, to make matters worse, had been Mr Brooker!

Numerous cars jammed the Novak driveway and lay becalmed at angles across the lawn. From the front, the house was dark; music and voices drifted from the back. Marlo rang the doorbell several times before, at Skip’s suggestion, they followed the path around the side. Cypresses rose rustlingly. White concrete walls glimmered in the moonlight.

‘Big place, isn’t it?’ said Skip.

‘Pavel said they had it remodelled. Somewhere under all this is a house like Auntie Noreen’s.’

They had almost reached the rear when loud barking broke out, and a meaty monster burst from the trees. Skip had forgotten Baskerville.

‘Run!’ She slapped Marlo’s arm.

The night was warm. Guests spilled across the terrace; faces turned, startled, as the girls dived among them, pursued by the mighty beast.

‘Baskerville!’ a voice screeched, and the dog scrabbled to a halt and stood panting, as if expecting a treat. Skip was impressed. The screech belonged to the gypsy woman she had seen the week before, who now scurried, shouting and waving, towards the new arrivals. ‘The Wells sisters!’ she cried, and thrust forward a hand with long lacquered nails. ‘I’m Deirdre Novak.’

The little woman had about her the air of a hyperactive elf. Tonight a bejewelled silver band crowned her jet-black bob of hair;
beads clattered at her neck and bangles at her wrists. Her dress was alarmingly brief, a simple shift printed with interlinked purple rings against a bright orange background. She wore black stockings and teetered on spiky heels, in which she still stood some inches short of Marlo.

She looked Marlo admiringly up and down. ‘Marlene’ – Mar-
lay
-nah – ‘I declare, you’re even prettier than that son of mine said! Welcome to the Sanctum. You’re going to be a big hit in Crater Lakes, young lady.’ And clutching Marlo’s arm, Mrs Novak led her away.

Looking around the Sanctum – what
was
a sanctum? – Skip felt both boredom and alarm. The guests, straggling between the terrace and the long bright room behind, were dreary, the women mostly mutton dressed as lamb like Mrs Novak, or dowdy in a would-be intellectual way; the men, some with combovers, some with thick sideburns, variously resembled golfers, fishermen or TV evangelists. One wore a medallion over a white turtleneck; another sported a black beard intended, no doubt, to suggest a beatnik, though Skip thought he looked like Rolf Harris. Mr Singh, in his saffron-yellow turban, and his skinny wife in her matching sari provided a more authentic exotic touch. How embarrassing, to see teachers outside school! Leaning against the baby grand was Mr Brooker, gesticulating at a toothy lady in pearls. Skip hoped they weren’t about to sing.

‘And what can we get our youngest guest?’

Skip turned as a man addressed her in a thick foreign accent. He was the pianist she had seen last Sunday, a hulking mound of a man, bald on top, with soft grey eyes, who carried trays of canapés in both plump hands and wore over his paunch an apron bearing the legend
CHIEF COOK AND BOTTLE WASHER
.

‘Lemonade?’ he went on. ‘I’d say gin and tonic, which you might well need, but I don’t think it’s allowed for ten-year-olds.’ He found a place for the canapés on an already laden table: nuts, crisps, crackers, cubes of cheese on sticks.

‘I’m twelve,’ said Skip. ‘Are you Honza’s father?’

‘Helen Puce, isn’t it? Honza’s still not home. Been out with that Lumsden boy all afternoon. Typical!’

Skip tried not to look relieved. ‘I’m Wells. Like H. G. But really I’m Skip,’ she added, as Mr Novak presented her with a brimming tumbler.