An Open Swimmer (16 page)

Rain was falling heavier in big thick drops that left welts in the rusty mud. He climbed back into the cab, shaking off the water. It was midday. He shelled a few peanuts, left them in a little pile on the seat beside him, and drove off.

‘Come on, read yours.'

They lazed in her backyard. Sean was standing under the hose, cooling off.

‘It's your turn, Auntie.'

‘That was yesterday.'

‘Okay. This is the end of the one I was on last Saturday:

‘What bubbles?'

‘Snot.' He grinned.

‘Oh.' She laughed palely. ‘Jem-Jem, you're so corrupt!'

Echoing.

Clouds gathered choppily over the southern edges of the sky, thicker and darker than the nondescript overcast spreading behind. Rattling across the small white bridges, he caught glimpses of the creeks with that energetic, muddy complexion of winter. Beaufort, Balgarup, Kojonup, Hotham, Crossman, Arth-r, Abba, Orup, Kalgan: little white signs, rough-faced with blisters, fighting out of the strangling weeds of the banks. Jerra ate the peanuts slowly, spinning them out. He passed through the one-street towns, hardly slowing down as he whipped past the diagonally parked utes rusting outside the co-ops and pubs.

In a flooded paddock, with the low, weepy-clouded mountains in the background, Jerra noticed a flight of ducks skidding onto the water. He slowed as he neared the paddock, pulling over onto the gravel. A few hundred yards away, the ducks haggled on the water, and he watched them poking their heads into the black, coming up again and again with gobs of mud slushing from their beaks. He shelled a few more peanuts, tearing the brown film that looked like cigarette paper off the kernels, watching the ducks pecking each other behind the neck. He blew the horn and drove off as they lifted away together, a dense cloud, into the grey sky.

He smiled, feeling his unshaven chin.

‘You remember?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

They strolled in the yellow sunlight between stiff buds of Geraldton wax, bees hopping from flower to flower.

‘Wasn't a very good poem, was it?' she trembled.

‘Better than some I've read.'

‘But not as good as yours.'

‘Better. Yours was true.'

‘. . . 
And bubbles to blow
.'

He looked away, flushing at the waxed petals. Other women walked by with husbands and children.

It was late in the afternoon when he passed through Albany, its little houses set into the gully between hills. The main street overlooking the shoals of the inner harbour was clogged with cars and children. He parked beneath the shadow of the town hall clock and went into the Wildflower Café and bought some milk, making his way out of town in a light rain that swept the dark bitumen. The hilly roads wound through fences of trees through which Jerra caught glimpses of the Porongorups on his left, and the coastal hills, low and scrubby, to the right. Gradually the hills subsided, and the trees became rugged scrub. Farms were smaller and less frequent. Cleared land was set further back from the road, the kerosene-tin mail boxes gaping in flat scrub with little sign of farmland behind.

‘Don't let them, Jerra.' Eyes direct, of a sudden, then gone again, out the window, to the dressing gowns strolling the lawns.

Light weakened and the sun ignited the mirrors. Jerra found a truck bay and parked under some ghost gums. His eyes ached and he was hungry. There was a barbecue fireplace under the trees, and a table with benches screwed onto it, but the ground and the wood in the pile were wet. He climbed over into the back of the van and did his best to separate the mattress from the boxes and bags. He found a can opener and hacked open a can of peaches. He speared them with the end of the opener. They were sweet and soggy in his mouth. The milk burnt cold as it went down. He shelled more of the peanuts. They weren't too bad with the milk, but he was getting sick of them. He left some milk for the morning and drained the sugary juice from the peach tin.

Still drizzling outside. He stuffed the can and the peanut bag into the barbecue and hurried back. As darkness came, the inside of the van warmed with his breath. He found a blanket and lay with his head on his sleeping bag, the heat of the engine underneath his back. It ticked as it cooled. Rain beat on the roof. Dripping from the cab. He had forgotten: the dash leaked. Little drops; one, another, again, more, each a different shape and weight and tone – 
drop!

From his patch of black, words dropped, sank and swam his way, bending, involuting scary letter-faces, some sounding, others just lighting up, burning into the empty space behind his eyes.

coming and going, streaming out, a bubble trail uncoiling to the invisible silver of the surface.

In the middle of the night, the whole world lit up, as if by an explosion or a fire. A truck engine knocked. He heard it pull in. Darkness returned, then silence. A moment later, Jerra thought the dash had given way altogether, but then the gush stopped and he heard a zipper and footfalls.

He was warm inside the blanket.

He woke in the twilight, and it was cold in parts of the blanket; places that hurt they were so cold. As light pretended to come, shapes and outlines emerged, and he saw the clusters of droplets on the ceiling. His breath, no doubt. Shivering beads, ready to fall at any moment.

The sky was low and heavy. The rain had stopped. No wind, no sound. He staggered out into the cold. The gravel was soft. His breath clouded grey before him. His feet were stiff and heavy with mud as he hobbled round the car, noticing the Kenworth further down the truck-bay. He climbed back inside, scraping the mud from his feet with a stick.

The Veedub spluttered, backfired and growled. Jerra saw a head appear behind the fogged windscreen of the Kenworth as he slid out of the mud and chirked hitting the bitumen.

He passed the turn-off and almost didn't go back. He braked, sliding off into the loose edge, sat for a moment, then reversed up. The dull gravel strip led down to the coastal hills. There was nowhere else.

He slid on the surface. In the gullies, ochre puddles lay across the road. The deeper ones slopped up into the windscreen leaving mud and grit on the glass. Ruts and holes deepened. Jerra slowed down, wincing as the old bus was jarred and shaken crossing the hollows and washouts.

The black sand was hard, packed down with rain, and the tyres ran whispering over, the wide ruts curving up gently to a smooth hump in the middle. Dark wet roots protruded, and grass grew high, rasping the underside of the body. Trees had grown thicker, leafier. Below in the stillness, the sea through the trees was grey and opaque. Boughs and leaves brushed squealing against the fenders and the roof, showering heavy drops on the ground. A bird slapped skyward.

He passed the shack, furred with grass and leaves. He saw the truck in the mirrors as he rolled carefully down the track, avoiding stumps and jags of limestone. A sapling poked through the truck window. He rolled.

NO
said the tree.

The clearing was smaller and greener. The thick grass grew in hairy tufts. Black stones lay scattered, some in the clearing, others in the edges of the bush. He turned off. Birds tittered. He got out and unfolded his legs, tasting the salt.

It was a struggle to get the annexe up alone; it had been difficult enough with Sean. Rope bruised his hands and the axe-handle roughened his palms. The ground wasn't quite dry, but he couldn't wait and risk further rain. Because of the sea-winds he knew would come, he faced the annexe away from the beach, behind the van between two thick-trunked gums.

For lunch he ate braised steak from a can. It tasted of gas and fat. Rain looked inevitable later in the afternoon. He gathered wood and shoved it under the VW to dry and, while he still had time, he gathered stones for a fireplace. It puzzled him that the blackened stones from the previous fire had been scattered. He left them alone, foraging in the bush for clean lumps of limestone, avoiding the granite because it often exploded. He set them in a knobbly circle and dug a shallow pit in the centre. Then the rain came, spattering the shivery leaves, and he sat in the annexe stacking food and utensils. Gulls passed over, heading inland with vacant cries.

Rain fell constantly the next day. Jerra sat inside, listening to the pattering on the canvas, drops making animal scampering sounds, trickling softly to the ground down the sides of the annexe, and ate sloppy things cooked on the stove. In the afternoon he made rigs, stringing together hooks and swivels, tasting the whale oil as he held them cold and brassy in his teeth. He decided to fish the lagoon, but turned back, thinking of the drizzle and the cold granite and blue hands. He sat inside, knotting line.

Clover tickled his ears. They couldn't see each other, it was so deep. Above, the tree spread thick and green against the sky, the scratchy gumleaves shining in the sun. Jerra sucked the sweat from his upper lip. He held his thumb tight.

‘How's yours?'

‘Orright,' said Sean.

‘Hurt?'

‘No.'

‘Mine neither.'

‘Hot.'

‘Yeah.'

They looked up into the scabby boughs.

‘What if a maggie swooped us 'n' pecked our eyes out?'

‘Who cares?'

‘Yeah, it's okay here.'

‘Too hot for maggies.'

‘Ya couldn't see, anyhow.'

‘Yeah.'

Jerra wiped his thumb on the clover, big flat leaves smearing.

‘Gonna tell anyone?'

‘Nah,' said Jerra.

‘Secret.'

‘Yeah.'

‘What if we got different blood?'

‘Nah, same blood.'

‘Is now, anyway.'

‘Yep.'

‘Here.'

Something cold landed on his chest. A closed safety-pin. He put it in the pocket of his shorts.

‘Like Indians,' said Sean.

‘Yep.'

‘Our Dads did.'

‘Dad told me.'

‘Mates.'

‘Yep.'

Stringing hooks, thumbs on the barbs . . .

His father's face, soft in the lamplight . . .

He was reluctant to go out at all the next day, under the dull skies. Although there was no wind, the air was cold and sharp. Jerra walked down to the beach. The sand was wind-smoothed in flat hummocks and ridges, the sides of the dunes ribbed and fluted on their bald patches. The bay was calm, the water dark. He looked down towards the rocky end of the beach. There were no footprints. He went back up to the clearing, threw some gear into the hessian bag, screwed his spear together, and made for the lagoon.

The water was clear and cold. He floated, stunned, on his chest, letting the streams shoot up his arms and legs inside his wetsuit; he clenched his teeth, head aching, pushing along the almost oily calm of the surface, and under him brown, green, yellow weed stood upright, lank and motionless. The water quickened him, making his movements easier as he felt his arms come alive with gooseflesh. His head burnt and his breath burst sharply from his snorkel. He sucked in the air, burning his throat.

Everything below in sharp focus. Fish hung in thick clusters, like knotted weed. Jerra wafted through the shallows, pulling himself, with his fingers dug in, along the sandy patches of the bottom. Tiny whiting darted away, almost invisible against the sand, and as they went he could see their veins and gut showing through their transparent bodies. He ran his fingers through the sand as he glided along, turning every now and then to see the billowing clouds settling behind. For a few yards he slid along the bottom, nudging the sand with his chin. A garfish passed on the surface above, snooking along with its bill out like an icebreaker.

Following the declivity of the bottom, Jerra moved out to the reef. He surfaced, bffing the water out of his snorkel. He felt it on his legs. Ruts and potholes opened in the carpeted rock. He dived along a gently sloping bank of turf, soft under his hands. Pomfrets scattered, flashing silver and gold. He could have caught one, wide-eyed in his hands as they passed. The trenches in his palms were darkening, and little welts lifted in crinkles where he had swung the axe.