by Steve Low
I began to hear it, the roar of a river in flood, long before its milky surface emerged between the trees. The rain had eased to a monotonous drone, a continuous percussion on the overhead cover. Graham and I hadn’t spoken again during the last of the descent.
There was that smell again - a dense peaty smell. I looked down between my legs. An outgrowth of moss filled a damp nook between two fallen trunks. And I had her there again, in my arms, plump, fourteen; the restless beat of her heart decelerating in the mossy grove. For a moment, the filling of the cup, almost to the rim. The rise and fall of her breasts - the sweetness of her breath. The gentle rush of a summer breeze, the transient flight of a beetle - the sharpness of the mountain range against the sky. And sisterly love - her random kisses and enclosing body – laid all over me. But back at the fireside there was a contrast. My father and brother were cut from a different piece of cloth.
We were there now. I could see the tumble-down of water between the last lines of trees. There were fountains of spray leaping over slate grey rocks, twigs and beech leaves trapped in back eddies, and deeper smoother and altogether more menacing currents, relentlessly pouring downstream.
I forged my way through the last barrier, a soaking obstruction of hanging branches, vaulted over a decaying log, and emerged onto the ledge of riverside grass - a remnant of the river‘s eroding curve. Graham turned his head to look at me, his face displaying concern. “This is going to require a lot of care,” he said, indicating the torrent that we had to cross with a wave of a hand.
I nodded and tried to turn my attentions to the river. But my mind was still in a ferment about Isobel and the part Graham might have played in her fall from grace.
I forced myself to deal with the crossing. Although swift and turbulent, it was not overly deep. I could see a route that was mostly not much more than knee deep. It was circuitous, involving a traverse of a ramp above the worst of the rapids, followed by a move directly upstream through a scramble of rocks. From there we would be in a position to take on a channel running beside the left bank. This channel was too far way to ascertain its depth, but I knew from previous experience that it would be at least waist deep. An errant branch off a young beech tree offered something to grip over the final couple of metres.
“How shall we do it?” I said, turning back to face him.
He continued to stare at the torrent. “We’d better link arms at the elbow,” he said.
I bent down to tighten my gaiters, anticipating a cold flood of water into my boots. Straightening up, I gazed across the river to the meadow, It was dank and wet looking, the tussock grasses bent over under the weight of collected water. Puffs of mist hovered above the bordering forest, a blanket of foliage above an inscrutable darkness. I let my eyes linger on the elevated campsite, where many a time Graham had prepared the evening meal.
Graham was staggering to his feet as I refocused on the present. His feet, he planted wide apart for stability under his heavy backpack. We moved downstream a little, to gain a logical entry point to the riverbed. The bank had partly caved in there, allowing an easy passage. I led the way down onto the stones. The water was only centimetres deep at the edge and I splashed my way out. When the water tipped over the top of my boots, to flood the interiors with biting cold water, I stopped to wait for Graham to come and link arms. He thrust a hand inside the crook of my offered elbow, taking it back to enclose with his other hand. The water was quickly up to mid-thigh and tugged at us expectantly. I kept my feet apart, leaning into the current with my upstream leg. Whenever Graham staggered, a force came on to my elbow and I had to squeeze my interlocking fingers tightly together to prevent our linkage from springing apart. The river started getting shallower as we came up onto the ramp above the rapids relieving the pressure momentarily.
..We were now in about a foot of water. Below us, downstream of the ramp, the roar from the rapids was deafening. A fine cloud of spray hung above the maelstrom. I was walking directly upstream against the current, along the shallow under water island. There were frequent rocks and boulders to place a boot against for a measure of support. At the end of this immersed island, the final few metres to the bank didn’t look far at all. However the volume of water running through this final conduit was formidable. We would have to link arms again.
The meadow was only metres away. Abruptly it was in my nostrils again - that peaty vegetable smell. I staggered under the weight of nostalgia - the young Isobel and a warm sparkling meadow. The summer wind and the promises it seemed to carry . . . of life . . . of love.
I barely noticed his arm had linked in with mine. Absently I plunged into the conduit, immediately having to brace against the thrust of the current. Despite the danger, my focus continued to be 1966. I took the penultimate step towards the bank and towed him after me. He stepped straight into a hole. His feet were whipped from under him and I felt myself going over. I lunged with my free hand at the overhanging branch above. As I had it in my grasp, Graham’s hands blew apart and his arm flipped away from the crook of my elbow. My right hand groped and found contact, his fingers interlocking with mine. He was off his feet, the river tugging at the full weight of his body, trying to force our fingers apart.
And in an instant he was gone, submerging into the river, leaving a ripple that was quickly erased. He rolled slowly like a sleepy dolphin, his backpack the rectangular dorsal fin. Within seconds he was shooting the gap that led to the rapids. And over that edge he went, disappearing from my sight.
I stayed in the water, gripping onto the branch, gaping at the extent of the river. Then in a moment my paralysis resolved and I wrenched my way up onto the riverbank, jettisoning my pack at the old campsite, to race down the meadow towards an orange disc that indicated the track. I sprinted through the bush, propping right and left along the twisting track, hyperventilating, my mind held on the brink of astonishment. The track crossed a terminal spur of the western range before dropping to the river again. Here the river was in something of a canyon and accessibility to the water’s edge was dicey. I stood there for half a minute, waiting for Graham to appear. Nothing came into view. I began to clamber along the bank, weaving in between narrow trunks where the bush closed in. At times the undergrowth forced me away from the precipitous edge, out of sight of the water. I came around a sharp bend, the terminus of the same spur I had crossed minutes before. To the south, I could see the dark flanks of Mt Travers disappearing up into the mists. I was almost back at the meadow. The river side was more benign now and I was able to get down to the water’s edge. And there he was, clinging to some tree fall that was partially submerged in the torrent. He was in a pool fed by a back eddy. It was deep but with little current. A quick exchange of words and I ascertained he was able to hang on but unable to pull himself out. He’d run out of strength. I jumped into the river downstream of him where it looked shallower. It was waist deep and the current minimal. I told him to float down to me and I would get him out. He let go and drifted down, awkwardly sweeping his arms across the surface to aid floatation. I arrested him and shepherded him to the bank. I got his pack off and threw it up onto the bank. He wasn’t strong enough to stand at that stage, weakened from the cold and the struggle against the river. I had to man handle him up on to the bank where he lay panting and shaking. He recovered reasonably quickly on the bank however and after half an hour we walked up valley along the track to the John Tait Hut in order for him to dry out for the night and re-gather strength. Once he was dry and a roaring fire was set, I went across the meadow to locate my pack where I had dumped it.
But first I slowed to a languid walk and diverted into the middle of the meadow, amid a renewed tumultuous downpour. I felt euphoric and I raised my face to the rain, stumbling drunkenly along to Isobel’s gulley. And in my stomach, a tickle arose, an infectious symptom that was seeking to become an up-roar. The gulley was awash with rainwater. I lay down in it, supine, the heavy raindrops pounding my upturned face. And I laughed, splashing about the puddle wit
h my hands. It felt like there had been a big change in the order of things. I didn’t know what it was specifically. Then I cried, my throat engorged, my breast bone the weight of lead. I jumped up on my feet, again euphoric, but suddenly responsible. I struck out to the river bank then back to the hut.
Graham looked at my sodden clothes without comment. I’d been very wet from the river anyway. And later over plates of steaming pasta, he started to speak and for the first time in my life he was showing humility. He apologised for being a ‘bit of an old fool’ and for a past riddled with intolerance and bigotry. I didn’t feel I needed to say anything. My anger over past deeds seemed to have evaporated. I found myself saying it hadn’t been that bad. However he insisted that it had indeed been ‘that bad.’
The next day it was the same. He was all consideration for me and mocking himself. He thanked me for saving his life, something which I denied. I felt he would have floated into shallows and climbed out himself once he was forced by exhaustion to release the windfall branches. But he insisted he wouldn’t have had the strength to get out of the river by himself. I could have said that it was my fault he’d fallen in the first place. I knew I’d absently pulled him into the deepest part of the river without my mind being focused on the job. I didn’t say any of that though and much of our return trip by boat and then car was conducted in silence. But it wasn’t the pregnant silence of old, when you could be sure a judgemental comment was going to be forthcoming sooner than later. No this silence was companionable and peaceful. The near drowning in the river had changed him. For how long I wondered.
It was mid Monday afternoon when we pulled up outside the Nile St house. The weather had cleared and it felt quite humid as we got out of the car. There were left over puddles in the depressions of the footpath and the doormat was still quite wet. There was a rim of dampness showing underneath its front edge. School was still in so it was quiet in the street with the occasional car meandering past. The front door was locked so Graham had to go back to the car to get a key. Inside it was silent and dark. Graham went up the staircase and I went through to the kitchen. There was no sign of life in the kitchen – nothing left over from lunch, no signs of food undergoing preparation for the evening meal. I looked out the kitchen window. There were no clothes on the washing line either. Turning back to the kitchen table I saw it - an envelope standing up against a fruit bowl. I felt the blood drain from my face. The truth started to hit home. Julia had gone. I could hear Graham coming along the corridor. The door opened and he was there in the entrance.
“Her clothes have gone,” he said. I nodded, dumbstruck by the development. I gestured to the letter on the table. He went and picked it up, ripping it open. I looked at my feet as he read. His voice was matter of fact when he spoke. He didn’t display any emotion at all. “She’s gone to Australia,” he said. He stowed the letter into a pocket of his khaki shorts. “Well,” he said. “I’ve got my just desserts.”
I didn’t have anything I could say. Nor could I go over and put a consoling arm around his shoulders. He’d never been party to that type of empathy before.
“Better unpack the car,” he said. He went out of the room and I was left to marvel at the turn of events in the preceding 24 hours. Most of all I wrestled with the transformation in him since the immersion in the river. It seemed he’d instantly adapted to his new single status. He came back and said he was going to the supermarket to get food for tea. Graham at the supermarket? Graham never went to the supermarket in his former persona.
“She’s gone to Francis you know,” he said later. We were gnawing at lamb chops. He said the name without rancour. “She waited until you were going to be around.” he continued.
“I guess,” I said. But was her exit planned or was it spontaneous? Whichever the case, clearly she had been in contact with Francis. For how long I wondered. Weeks? Months? Years? But the remarkable thing was that Graham didn’t seem to mind the rejection that had occurred. His ego seemed to have shrunk away to virtually nothing.
Chapter 7
“Time to go then,” I said. They looked at me and nodded – two blonde girls who could easily be mistaken for sisters. Not so much because they looked alike. There were similarities . . . but also differences. It was more the way they interacted. They had bonded so well. They laughed at the same things and they sang together so well. The singing was a new thing for one of them. She was learning the guitar off the other one and it was happening very easily. She was a natural. And they were focused on a healthy future. They didn’t smoke anymore. They didn’t smoke anything. Who needed drugs anymore to get into a therapeutic window?
I opened the apartment door and we slipped out into a wall of heat. Sweating under the withering sun, we walked about a kilometre, the roadway flanked by row upon row of up market accommodation blocks. We were going to meet them at a restaurant where Francis worked – as a jazz pianist. This revelation of musicality had been quite a talking point amongst the three of us. We were almost at the bridge over Noosa Sound, the shopping precinct now only minutes away. My heart was racing – my mouth parched.
When we got to the river, I saw Julia, a slight fragile figure, standing on the other side of the bridge. They hadn’t waited in the restaurant after all. In behind her was a tall man, with a shock of white hair. I stopped and pulled on Isobel’s arm, pointing ahead. She looked up and she and Julia saw each other at the same moment. I walked on quietly, one hand travelling on the rail, watching Julia and Francis approach us. They walked haltingly, a tall erect man and an elegant waif of a woman, slowly closing the distance to the middle of the bridge. Preoccupied, I barely noticed the swirl and sparkle of the tide below.
“Mum,” said Isobel, and she started running, flying into her mother’s arms. They cried and laughed while Joanna and I shook hands with Francis and asked him how his day was.
The end
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