Authors: Tim Winton
Georgie was away when Mrs Jubail died. She was skin diving up at Sharm Abhur with two doctors—a couple of brits she didn’t mind.
They got back to the compound late in the day where a radiologist friend gave her the news. Instantly Georgie could tell that her contented sigh seemed inappropriate. She didn’t even feel the smile on her face, but she saw it in the reaction of her friend, who wheeled in confusion towards the pool, and she heard about it later that week around the compound, about what a callous bitch she was. It was there that she lost the magic, the belief she had in herself and her chosen path.
At White Point, in the lead-up to Christmas, Georgie had Mrs Jubail come visiting in her sleep. Down hardlit corridors with her veil thrown back and her grisly face out-thrust behind those arms. Sister! Sister? Georgie ran and used the steel trolley to batter her way through stone and glass in a shower of paper cups and ampoules. The sweet smell blew on her. And there was always a wall, a blind alley she couldn’t broach.
Georgie had always liked to cook but now she felt herself pitching toward mania in the kitchen. It felt counterfeit in a way but there was some satisfaction in the companionable silence they all enjoyed at dinner. She rendered them speechless with the variety and the quantity of food she cooked. It became a form of management. She didn’t know what else to do.
She was cooking osso buco one afternoon in the last week of school when Brad came in to snaffle a piece of celery.
What’s that? he asked.
Bone marrow.
Cool.
Georgie looked at her hands to avoid looking into his face. It was the first nonessential conversation they’d had in a while.
Zoe Miller likes me, he said.
Cool.
But I don’t get it.
What, mate?
What she wants. I don’t even talk to her. I mean you’re a girl.
Um, yeah.
What is it, then? That youse want.
I don’t know, she stammered. What does anyone want?
Well, boys just wanna be left alone. With our mates. Anyway she’s Monkey Miller’s kid. He’s a greenie. They’re rubbish.
I thought she was so nice, she said in a small voice.
He shrugged and looked hungrily at the shanks she was browning.
Beaver found her a car. Some Norwegian sailboarder had to fly home in a hurry and Beaver had bought it with her in mind. It was, he said, a cherry. When Georgie got down there, though, and looked at what lay behind the door that he hauled up so laboriously on its chain, she saw that it was more jellybean than cherry. The little Mazda was canary yellow. It was so tiny she wondered why he’d gone to the trouble of cranking up the roller when it would have been easier to bring the thing out under one arm through the office.
Sons of Thor, he chuckled. Can they pick a colour or what?
A bubble car.
Like a ju-jube with jaundice, eh.
Georgie shook her head ruefully. You had to smile.
Does it go, Beaver?
Runs like a kid at bathtime.
This Euro had boards and masts and sails strapped on it?
Beaver laughed. Well, he had the car strapped to the gear, put it that way.
Okay, she said. I’ll take it.
But we haven’t haggled.
You do both sides, Beaver. I’ll pay whatever you wear yourself down to.
Oh. Righto.
You got the keys and papers?
Yeah, yeah. Listen, sorry about your mum.
Georgie realized that Beaver had probably known about her mother’s death before she did. That and plenty besides, she imagined. More than she cared to think about.
Tell me something, Beaver.
No worries, he said patting his pockets, licking his lips.
Had she imagined the tiny tremor of wariness that came over him?
Did you tow the truck and trailer? she asked.
Keys must be in the ignition.
Beaver? The F-100.
Whose?
You know whose. Lu Fox.
Ah. Melon boy. Nope.
Georgie followed him inside across the oily floor to the tiny yellow car. He had to squat to look in the window.
I don’t know what I’m doing, Beaver.
You’ll be gone soon. Don’t worry about it.
Why d’you stay?
He shrugged. It’s somewhere.
You know anything about shotguns?
Plenty, he said resting his elbows on the roof.
Did you help him?
He didn’t do it, Georgie.
Least you both got your story straight.
It was Shover.
Shover McDougall?
He’s a fuckin loose cannon.
Georgie considered it. Shover McDougall was not an unlikely prospect. He was paranoid and litigious, universally despised as a cutter of ropes and spoiler of potlines. He was a teetotaller and hated drugs. Last season he’d rammed another vessel. He was a supremely successful lobsterman. He had a kid in Josh’s class.
How do you know? she asked.
That’s the word.
From Jim.
That’s the word, Georgie.
But why?
Aw, don’t be wet. Havin a shamateur flittin about on the water’s bad enough, but there’s poachin and there’s poachin, love. Shover probly thought he was doin it for honour. Thinks the fisher kings’ve gone soft in their old age. Figures Jim didn’t know or didn’t have the balls anymore. He always idolized Jim, you know.
Bet he did it out of love. Christ, don’t you ever see his missus drivin up and down like a fuckin spy satellite? The satanic white Camry?
Georgie considered it. Yes, it rang a bell. The car leaving Jim’s the night she returned.
Shover McDougall, she said.
And don’t get any ideas. Loves a feud. He’s the good ole days, Georgie. Not even Jim could see him off anymore unless he killed him.
Georgie blinked at this.
Relax, I’m jokin.
Yeah.
That bloke, he was somethin out of the box.
Shover?
No, your mate. Fox. He could really play. They all could. I towed the wreck, you know. The cab, inside the cab, it was like a friggin slaughterhouse. No belts, I spose. But you never seen anythin like it. Four dead in one rollover. People said it was too freaky, like an act of God. Their kind of luck.
Suddenly so forthcoming, Beaver, Georgie said, unable to listen to any more of this.
You know me. Ingratiatin under pressure.
Georgie drove home via the McDougall place, where she pulled over a moment to stare at its fortress faade. Behind the high steel fence and the avenue of cocos palms it hulked on the foredune, all electric window shutters and security alarms.
Shover McDougall. She’d seen him at school concerts, tall and balding with the perpetual sidelong glance of the maltreated pet.
His wife Avis was a dumpy intense woman with an underslung jaw which Brad likened to that of a potato cod. Shover and Avis. Two more reasons to leave. After Christmas. She’d wait until then. It was only days away.
At dinner that night nobody mentioned the little yellow car in its slot downstairs beside the Cruiser They hooked into their lamb fillets and thyme-roasted potatoes and watched a yacht motor in through the passage and drop anchor directly below them.
Georgie was grateful for the distraction. She admired the boat’s lines. It was a Dufour, she decided, a nice piece of work. A man and woman went about the business of making fast for the night with a weariness she understood too well.
Good tucker Georgie, said Brad.
She picked up her knife and fork, a little startled, and caught the exchange of glances .203
Next morning, on a whim, she swam out to the anchored yacht in the hope of striking up a conversation, perhaps being invited aboard. She needed respite and the vision of the lovely long white boat brought on fantasies she was still not immune to.
She stroked languidly across the seagrass flats. Mooring chains clanked in the water. Sculling closer she saw the kevlar hull stained with rust and spilt oil. The steelwork was dull and wetgear was strung in the lines like a party of flogged matelots.
The steering vane looked battered out of shape and a familiar mouldy locker-smell hung over the water. A rough passage. This time of year you’d be heading south away from the monsoon storms but you’d be punching into southerlies all the way. Georgie thought of offering the use of her washing machine, a meal perhaps. But as she glided within reach of the boat’s transom, the woman rose from the cockpit with such a fierce stare that she swam by as though she hardly noticed the boat was there.
The bleached, strawy hair. Face burnt and peeling. Shadows like kohl-smears beneath the eyes. The thousand-yard stare. Georgie knew all about it. She wondered if, beneath that stare the woman was thinking of her luck, protecting it, even disbelieving it after her passage. Only three years ago Georgie had felt that her crossing of the Timor Sea was a feat of luck from which she might never recover. There were times when she suspected you could use up your allocation of good fortune in a single massive stroke like that. Now she was certain of it. But where did that leave her? How did you live a life knowing you’re arse-out of luck?
One afternoon, without any warning or precedent, Georgie’s sister Judith turned up at the door in a sundress, mascara in wretched streaks down her face.
Josh looked on horrified as Jude fell into Georgie’s arms and wept in the hallway. After a few moments he retreated to the games room and Georgie took her sister out onto the terrace where the sea breeze was only just stirring.
I just. Miss. My mum, Jude said between awful gulping sobs.
I know, sis, Georgie murmured. I know.
Jude was scalding to the touch. Her lavender scent had a cooked smell about it and the back of her neck was livid with a pimply rash. When Georgie brought her sister’s face up to hers she saw that there were blood vessels burst in her eyes from force of weeping. It was a chastening sight. Georgie had only ever achieved red blots like that from kneeling at the 205 toilet bowl, poisoned with booze. It made Georgie feel low: she’d never cried that hard in her life.
Where’s Chloe, Jude? School’s out, isn’t it?
She’s at a friend’s. Her friend Angela has such a happy family.
She pulled her sunglasses down over her eyes.
Aha, said Georgie.
What is it with us, Georgie? Us and men.
Georgie hesitated.
I mean, Jude went on, look at Ann. She’s married to a— Shit.
Well, yes. He doesn’t love her. She’s an incubator for his offspring. He makes her feel so small and inadequate. It’s like watching Mum all over. Dad was such a pig to her and she couldn’t see it.
Georgie knew that this talk of Ann’s marriage was little more than Jude’s veiled confession about her own.
What about Margaret, though, Jude? She’s no victim. She eats men.
That’s just insecurity.
Georgie laughed at this. Her sister seemed surprised.
How bout a swim, sis?
Jude shook her head. I didn’t bring anything to wear.
Borrow mine. I’ve got spares.
Jude looked mortified at the idea.
So, just go in your smalls.
What, like you in Mum’s pool? In front of the kids, Georgie—I don’t think Ann’ll ever get over it.
It’s not in Ann’s nature to get over things, Jude. Anyway, I paid for it. Out of my own hide, no less.
The sou’wester began to stir the cotton palms. Jude knitted her lips. She looked out across the brilliant lagoon as though it were no more interesting than an eight-lane freeway.
This is about Bob and you, isn’t it?
I just can’t believe she’d give Dad everything.
Have you thought about counselling? Georgie persisted.
You know I always admired your spirit of adventure.
Oh, Jude, stop it. You always thought I was bringing the family into disrepute.
That was Ann. She thought you might be… playing for the other team.
A lesbian?
It was that photo you sent from America. You and the other girls with that big car. Like Thelma & Louise.
Geez, I hate that film.
But Brad Pitt.
Jude—
Anyway, you sailed to Asia with that bloke.
Brad Pitt?
Near enough.
Jude, that guy was a dickhead.
Gorgeous, though.
He couldn’t even navigate.
Dad’s going to give you the boat, you know. The yacht she left him.
Hell, said Georgie, aghast, I don’t want it.
We haven’t talked like this in ages, said Jude airily. Have you got a glass of water?
Georgie fetched her a drink and watched her swallow a couple of tablets.
I was the one who loved you, George. But you never took me along.
Oh, Jude.
No matter. Must fly.
Georgie found herself trailing her sister to the door as Josh sidled out from his room. She kissed Jude fiercely and felt her sudden stiffness, the self-consciousness returned. As she swayed across the buffalo grass in that sundress Josh stood at Georgie’s side.
That your sister?
Yeah.
Oh. She’s pretty.
Yeah.
They watched her fold herself delicately into the black Saab.
She’s gonna back into the tree, said Josh.
You could be right. Don’t look. Ow!
Josh shook his head the way his father would and their eyes met, but the boy sensed that it was best to say nothing and Georgie was glad of it. Jude had made a five-hour round trip for a fifteen-minute chat. She’d never been here before. The pills were Valium, she was certain, and Jude was blasted. She was totally stuck; they both were. They’d gone in opposite directions to the same end, to become their poor hopeless mother.
With the Bette Davis festival suspended by tacit agreement, Georgie sat out on the terrace to watch the masthead light of the yacht anchored below and think of the adventures that Jude pretended to envy. Chances were she’d gilded the lily in the recounting of them at miserable family barbecues, and now she felt like a phony. She had driven down the west coast of the States and into Mexico but it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounded, even after the austerities of the Arab world. And Tyler Hampton was beautiful in his bermudas and open silk shirts but there was less to him than met the eye. That wild 208 drive through the States had been mostly bitching and collapsing friendships, and the voyage with Tyler from Fremantle to Lombok had been marked by fear and confusion. Yet some things lingered untainted in the imagination. Like the gulf they had come to as they ran before a squall at the extremity of the Australian coast. It was a long gut of milky-blue water edged by beaches and belts of mangroves. Around its mouth was a rash of islands and at its end loomed a great steamy plateau. In the lee of the biggest of the islands, only half a mile from the mainland, they had anchored in the late afternoon, silenced by fatigue and relief.