Authors: Tim Winton
The microwave, said Rachel as she moved away. Then: Here, hold still. That too hot?
The poultice laid a steady suffusing warmth over the knot in her lower back and it was strangely comforting to feel Rachel binding it to her skin with sticking plaster. Georgie let herself be helped into her clothes. The strapping reminded her of girdles, and she thought of her mother—again.
I’ll take it off in the morning, said Rachel. Just lie flat tonight and don’t bend for anything. You’ll need to be careful.
Oh, I’m the careful type, said Georgie full of self-mockery.
Yes, Rachel said, unable to suppress a grin. That’s what I hear.
Bugger—I can’t believe I just said that.
So what else have you heard? asked Georgie trying to seem unfazed.
And to think I have a degree in the social sciences.
The sociable sciences?
I’ll stick to the back, Georgie. Your life’s your own.
You might as well tell me, she said feeling jangly now and apprehensive.
Oh, it’s just gossip.
In which case it’s bound to be true.
Come on. I’ll drive you home.
Next morning Rachel drove over to collect her. The Land Rover with its rigid suspension was purgatory. Rachel drove barefoot, her high forehead shining. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail that still dripped from her swim.
You know, said Georgie, I’ve always wondered what it is that Jerra does.
Apart from basking in my love, you mean? Rachel said with a grin.
He’s a muso. A songwriter.
No!
Yes.
In White Point?
There’s no law against it. Yet.
I see him down the beach with his surfboard, said Georgie. And I always— Thought he was the local dope dealer.
Georgie laughed. She couldn’t deny it.
Everybody does, said Rachel. What a laugh. Dope wrecked every band he was ever in. Drugs are his pet hate. Fancies himself a bit of a wine buff these days. That’s success for you.
He does okay, then?
Georgie, you’d be surprised.
Well? Don’t leave me hanging.
Okay. You’re looking at a girl who’s spoken to Van Morrison.
Jesus. What’d he say?
That’s the thing, said Rachel steering them into her yard. I have no idea.
Georgie let Rachel help her down from the vehicle. They went inside slowly, like two old ladies. Rachel stripped her again and put her up on the bench. She ripped the sticking plaster off in two brisk swipes. Georgie was finding the patient-role something of a trial.
Jerra played with the Foxes a couple of times, said Rachel. Just for fun.
I never heard them, Georgie said flatly.
There was a sober pause between them now.
I’ve always wondered about you, said Rachel quietly. I’ve always wondered why you came here.
Georgie lay there.
And now I can’t figure out why you stay. You know. After the dog.
Things aren’t always what they seem, said Georgie. As you should know.
Okay. Sure.
But?
Sometimes they’re worse than how they seem.
Meaning what, Rachel?
Well, he’s been a scary person in the past.
Oh, it’s all talk.
Rachel sighed.
Anyway, said Georgie. People have a right to leave their past behind.
I agree. Absolutely.
So what’s the problem?
That everybody else remembers. Here, stand up.
Georgie let herself be stood at right-angles to the wall, one hip barely touching it, while Rachel leant into her. She felt her spine creak as the other woman pressed that hip against the wall and a blast of pain went right through her. Georgie began to sweat, thought she would faint or throw up, but the moment passed and the pain subsided, and within ten minutes there was just the mildest, residual ache. Most surprising of all, her back was straight.
How’d you learn that?
Like everything I know, said Rachel making them chamomile tea. I learnt it when I was supposed to be doing something else.
Jim didn’t shoot the dog, Rachel.
So he says.
That’s the word. Even Beaver says.
The word. The bloody word. Sometimes I hate this town.
So why do you stay?
I dunno. It’s out of the way. And Jerra likes the quiet—well, actually so do I. It saved our bacon in a way. There are a few nice people about, despite the odds. And it’s so damn beautiful— the beaches, the dunes, the island. Not even the savages… can ruin it completely.
It was Shover who shot the dog, said Georgie. You have to believe me.
Oh, I’d believe it. Have you seen the flag he’s flying in his yard these days?
Yeah. I don’t get it. He’s not a war vet or anything, is he?
Oh, you can’t be that na%ive, Georgie. It’s about Lois.
What—the Australian flag?
Patriots. That’s what these people call themselves now. Wrap themselves in the flag. Have you noticed the bumper stickers in this town? Notice many dark faces? Avis has opinions about immigration.
Oh, God.
What an irony, huh? Without Asia this town’d close down inside a week.
Georgie thought of Shover McDougall. So that’s how he saw himself, as a patriot, a standard-bearer for the good ole days.
Through the kitchen window they watched Rachel’s son Sam while they drank their tea. Sun-bronzed and shirtless, he knelt solemnly in his long floral baggies to wax his surfboard. His hair fell in his face.
Sixteen, Rachel said.
He’s beautiful.
Some days I can’t believe he’s mine. Come on, I’ll drive you home.
On their way back, while Georgie enjoyed her deliverance from the worst of the pain, Rachel swung by the jetty and drove the Land Rover down onto the shore beside it so they could stare a little while at the lagoon which still lay flat before the fierce morning easterly. Georgie sensed that the other woman wanted to keep talking.
You know I only met Lu Fox a couple of times, said Rachel.
Yeah? murmured Georgie neutrally.
Jerra said his brother was kind of sly, said he had the junkie look, whatever that is. Didn’t care for him. And he thought the woman, his wife, was a bit dim. Seemed an odd pair to me. But they could play. Like they were naturals. And they didn’t actually play that often, not as much as you’d have thought, given how good they were. Wouldn’t travel more 268 than an hour in any direction. Could have recorded, you know— they were good enough.
And Lu?
Talked to him in the pub carpark. It was cold. Spring, I spose.
He had the two kids under a tarp on the back of that ute. Those poor kids. I remember him leaning in, singing to them. Later I saw him with the little girl. She adored him, I think. He was rocking her to sleep with this look on his face, that look you see on breast-feeding women. You know, that dreamy, satisfied, slightly defiant look.
Quite an impression.
Well, said Rachel sheepishly. I’d had a few drinks. I spose I expected something else. From all the stories, the way people talked about the family. I thought he’d be a bit of a dill. But he was funny and smart. He asked me if I knew the words to “Amazing Grace”. I flunked, of course. We talked about growing asparagus. And some book he was reading. I forget the book…
He’s nice, Georgie.
Well, he’s gone, said Georgie retrieving herself from this. And you’re married.
Rachel squawked with laughter. Yeah, to a bloody drug baron!
Within a few weeks, thanks to Rachel, Georgie’s back had returned to normal. The school year began and she had the house to herself again. In fact, in many ways she felt restored to herself. As a gesture of gratitude and a stab at friendship she invited Rachel over for morning tea. She made madeleines and found some chamomile at the local store. She couldn’t wait to give Rachel the latest instalment in the Jutland family saga. Himself QC, recipient of a cruising yacht left to him by his devoted ex-wife, had decided to give it to faithless daughter Georgie for old times’ sake. Georgie really didn’t understand her father. But she read the family uproar clearly enough. She was, of course, refusing the gift. He was asking her twice a week by snail mail to come down and see the boat but she was holding out against him. She was, she had to admit, beginning to enjoy it.
When Rachel arrived in leather sandals and a sleeveless summer dress of pale green cotton, Georgie brought out her little spread with a flourish but Rachel, who seemed edgy and preoccupied, didn’t seem to notice. Georgie wondered if it was because Jerra was in Los Angeles for the week. She realized that this was the first time in three years that she’d done anything as simply social as this—invite a friend over for a cup of tea. God, how isolated, how uncertain she’d become.
Have you seen Beaver lately? Rachel asked, smoothing down her frock with the palms of her hands.
Georgie shook her head with a pang of guilt and poured the tea.
Last night, said Rachel, I went over to rent a movie from him and there was a four-wheel-drive tour-bus pulled in at the pump. You know the ones. Full of carsick Japs. You know the deal. A day of bashing through the dunes thinking it’s the almighty outback.
Poor buggers, said Georgie. All they want is the live rock lobster promised in the brochure.
Anyway, I’m on my bike. And the driver’s putting air in the tyres and I see these three kids, locals, about twelve, on their bikes in Beaver’s driveway. And they’re doing these big doughnuts. You know, circling the bus. And I get closer and I see these faces in the window, up in the vehicle, these wide eyes. And there’s gobs of slag on the glass and nobody’s getting out of the bus and the driver’s just hanging the airhose up like nothing’s going on.
They see me, these kids, two girls and a boy, and they just look at me. Defiant. And there’s Beaver and Lois in the office.
Looking out. The kids ride off. And I get to the door and Beaver just says that they’re closed. That’s it. Won’t even talk to me.
Georgie could see it, even down to the kids’ faces, their 271 sunsplit lips and she knew how it would be. They’d have those nasty white trash buzzcuts with rat-tails and BMX bikes rusty from being ridden through the shorebreak of the lagoon. Proud products of the community.
Why didn’t he see them off? Georgie asked, appalled. Beaver’s the size of a Kelvinator.
Rachel looked at her. Georgie felt she was being examined.
Georgie, he’s scared. Wake up. He can’t touch those kids. Think who they belong to. And Beaver’s position.
What is his position?
Jim never told you?
Told me what?
He’s got a criminal record as long as your arm, said Rachel.
Armed robbery, mostly assaults.
Nobody told me this. Nobody.
So I see.
So what’s his story, Rachel?
The biker mob, said the other woman. He turned crown witness. A pack rape. But the case failed. And now there’s a lot of people with something on him or against him.
Nobody talks about it, said Georgie.
Not everybody knows. But the people who matter. They know.
Rachel, how do you know?
I knew him when he was in prison, she said. My other career, remember? I was—allegedly—a social worker for the Department of Corrections. But neither of us acknowledges our old life.
Jesus. Why does he live here, then? Wouldn’t you bury yourself in a city somewhere? Here he’s in the open.
His father was a fisherman here in the sixties. Maybe it’s somewhere he’s comfortable. And it’s only an educated guess, 272 but I imagine that Beaver knows a few things from the good ole days. Lots of nasty secrets in this town, Georgie. Knowing a few things about your fellow townsfolk—well, that’d be money in the bank, wouldn’t it. That’d explain why he feels safe.
Well, you’ve thought about it a lot, I gather.
Hey, I’ve had the time.
The good ole days, muttered Georgie bitterly.
I don’t think he pines for them. His old days or anybody’s. I think he just wants a new life, a quiet life. Anyway, I doubt the good ole days are as far in the past as you might imagine. God, look at that view. Jim must feel like king of all he surveys.
After Rachel left, Georgie was restless and despondent. There had been something prickly about Rachel, something more than the lefty paranoia she suspected her of. The whole time Georgie had felt a mounting irritation coming off the other woman. The morning had not been a success.
She went down to the lagoon for a dip. The air was dry and hot, the water gorgeous.
When she got back to the house there was a message from Ann on the answering machine. Judith was in hospital. There had been a scene. Bob had taken her somewhere discreet. Georgie knew the place.
She called Jim first and then Rachel who agreed to collect the boys from school at three. Then she called her sisters but got either secretaries or answering services. She felt absurdly calm and it bothered her.
Beaver was short with her as he filled the canary Mazda with unleaded. She wanted to ask about the events of yesterday 273 but his glare was enough to hold her off until he slapped the tank hatch home and brought back the keys.
Beaver, Rachel told me about those kids last night.
Gets better, he said. She pissed off.
Lois? No!
Shoulda known better. No way to get a wife. It’s undignified.
Those little bastards.
Back to Mrs Palmer and her five daughters.
She was nice, Beaver. I liked her.
So did I, he said bitterly.
I feel so terrible.
Don’t worry, he murmured. You’ll get over it.
Georgie drove out stung to the edge of tears. Her recent calm was gone. She missed it.
The hospital was close by the river and, as Ann said, very discreet. It was the establishment that Perth’s favoured families used for their elective procedures and their private weeks of drying out. After the mad, dysfunctional teaching hospitals that Georgie had trained in, the atmosphere of this place struck her as perfectly languid. There was no one at the nurses’ station crying into a pillowslip, that was for sure.
When she was finally allowed into Jude’s room she found her sister looking exhausted. Her skin was waxy, her lips chapped.