The Golden Book

by Kate Ryan

  She left the sign and walked along the dusty path towards the falls. It was the same time of year. She wondered again what Jessie might have seen when she looked at letters, at words: dirt, sky, tree, leaf, bird, ant, wallaby, koala, platypus, echidna, possum, glider, potoroo, kangaroo, bush rat, lizard, snake, water.

  She would never know now.

  At the top of the steps there was a new sign, laminated cardboard encased in glass. It looked temporary. Was there another one, the words more permanent, that someone had removed? Ali read it carefully:

  Mumbulla Falls

  Understand Respect Protect

  As a site of great cultural significance, the Aboriginal owners request that you do not swim in the falls.

  An old way of thinking.

  Mumbulla Creek Falls has been used as a swimming area since the arrival of Europeans in the early 1800s.

  Challenge your perspective. We invite you to open your hearts and minds to the ‘vision’ of the Biamanga Board of Management and respect their wishes.

  It was like nothing and everything at once: pleasure and sleep and waking up; and every part of her — legs and arms and neck and face and skin and toes and throat and horrible exciting new breasts — and the rest of her life, all alive. Ali suddenly understood: skydivers, racing car drivers, people who swallowed swords, walked on coals that were red and black and white with heat. She leant back into the water, ducked her head under so her hair slicked back from her face, swam across the pool slowly. Now she was in it, the darkness, the peace.

  She climbed out, gathered her towel around her, and watched Jessie. Over and over. Each time Ali held herself still, but she wasn’t scared now. Not really.

  At last Jessie stopped jumping, stopped climbing. She swam over and climbed out to sit next to her. ‘You don’t have to,’ she said, staccato, her breath quick and warm at Ali’s cheek, her skin smelling of water, earth, cooling now. ‘But I’m going to dive.’ She rushed on, almost swallowing the word. ‘Don’t worry, just from the low spot. I’m not stupid.’ She laughed nervously, strangely. She never wanted to show that she was scared, but she was alive with it, she wanted it.

  Ali felt a sick creeping in her bowels. They were so far from anywhere, anyone, completely alone. ‘No, Jessie. That’s stupid. Crazy. Do you want to break your neck?’

  ‘Al.’ Jessie called her that when she was being particularly beseeching. Ali hated it. ‘It’ll be fine,’ Jessie went on quickly. ‘It’s the last thing, I promise. I’ve done it before, stacks of times.’

  As much as she had loved Jessie before, Ali hated her now. ‘You said sliding was the last thing and then jumping, and now this. You’re just a bloody stupid idiot.’ She pulled her legs out of the water and stood up. She had done it millions of times, and Ali never had, not even in broad daylight. She bent over, picking up her T-shirt, feeling around for her jeans. Jessie was already climbing. Ali stood, staring into the dark at Jessie moving up the rock face like a wallaby. Suddenly the words were coming out of Ali’s mouth, her throat, raspy but carrying in the quiet, ‘Do it then, you dickhead! Dive! Bloody kill yourself. See if I care!’ She turned away and pulled her T-shirt over her wet body, a hot feeling at her eyes. ‘You’re so bloody stupid.’ Her voice trailed away, because Jessie was already far up, getting ready. She pulled her jeans savagely over her legs, nearly slipping backwards onto the rocks. Then she screamed, ‘You’re bloody crazy. I’m going!’ Her own voice sounded frightening to her, alien, as if the bush had opened and closed around the words. She turned away and picked up her runners.

  ‘Wait.’ Jessie’s voice sounded floaty, strange, as if it wasn’t coming from where she was. ‘Don’t go.’

  Ali shoved her towel into her bag and moved towards the path. The rocks were worn and slick, and she had to slow down so as not to slip, inching along on her bum in one spot. She wanted to wrench trees out of their sockets, hurl rocks. But, as well, she wanted to get away.

  She looked up just once and saw Jessie standing there, a shape somehow fixed, her arms and legs pale. ‘Wait,’ she called clearly in the dark. ‘Just a sec. Don’t go.’

  Ali turned away.

  41

  After so long there was nothing at first, just a wariness, a waiting. Ali walked down the steps. At the bottom, she sat under a tree and took off her boots, flexed her hot toes. She stood up and moved across the rocks. They were weathered and somehow soft, different from coastal rocks, which might cut, bashed by water and wind, shells. There was something about these rocks that spoke of footprints before: bare, hardened by walking, seamed with cracks and fused into density. They must have rubbed something onto their soles to strengthen them, to make them soft but tough, accepting the rock but deflecting it. She found a spot near the water. The light through the trees was filtered, shadowed. Around the pool was a layer of leaves, faded pinks, reds, and browns, some oval, some ridged. There were seed pods and she-oak needles further away under the trees. The water was calm and flat, the air humid and close. She had forgotten the sound, the sedate trickle of water on rock. She had forgotten bringing the policeman back. What else was gone? She sat awhile and then moved into a crouching position, running her hands through the water. It was warm and felt heavy — though how was this possible? — as if minerals had changed its nature, made it breathe like a body might. She could not see the bottom of the pool, and it was smaller in circumference than she remembered, a few leaves floating across its surface.

  As she sat she heard voices coming closer, and then a young couple appeared, tripping gracefully down the steps. They smiled at her and dropped their towels. The girl put a simple cotton bag on a rock. She pulled off her T-shirt and shorts to reveal a red bikini, pushed her blonde hair off her shoulders. The boy was wearing boardshorts, lines of sunburn around his neck.

  He was the first in, straight up to the top and an unceremonious plunge, taking a while to surface. ‘Ah,’ he sighed, ‘beautiful.’

  But it was the girl Ali watched. There now the intake of breath, the thickness of tears clogging her throat. The girl climbed to the top and stood, two minutes, three minutes. Her toes were curled into the rock, her shoulders set, a silly, awkward smile on her face. She wanted to jump, but she was so very scared.

  The boy waited. He didn’t push, wasn’t impatient, didn’t say anything.

  Then suddenly, without warning, she was down, deep down into the water.

  42

  Jessie was a good diver. She took pride in diving off the tower at the Merimbula pool, something few girls would attempt; a puny white figure refusing to acknowledge a bunch of brown, whooping teenage boys.

  Ali did not watch her that night. She was fed up, angry with her, but as she walked away, the anger shrank to a sick fear. Every part of her longed for it to be okay. Of course, of course it would be okay. But she did not turn. There was the smallest thud before the splash, and she knew immediately a part of Jessie had hit something. She turned and skidded back across the rocks, falling onto her hands and getting up again, and then she saw her in the water, rising to the top, her hair fanning out like seaweed. Relief — so like her to play a stupid game. ‘Jessie, stop it, can’t you? So bloody funny.’ But Jessie did not raise her head.

  She didn’t want to believe it. ‘Jessie. Jessie.’ Her voice was low and croaky. She stood looking at her.

  Then suddenly she saw it was true. She moved quickly, half-slid towards the pool, dropped down onto her knees, tried to tug at her as she floated. It was hard to get a grip on her shoulders, and Ali almost fell in. She lurched into the water, trying to position herself so she could pull her up under her arms, but it was hard to stay afloat. She lost her grip — Jessie’s body was so heavy — and now Ali was crying, swallowing water. She moved behind her again, pulling at her, but each time Jessie’s body floated into deeper water, and Ali was forced to let her go again, because she couldn’t stay afloat herself. She heard her
self sobbing harder now, but it was as if the sound were coming from someone else. For seconds she left her and swam to the side. She thought of leaving, getting help or running away and hiding. But it was impossible.

  There was only her.

  The silence was all around her, and she could hear a keening noise. She thought it came from her but how to tell? The barrier between her mind and everything else was broken. The breeze shifted in the scrub. Nothing. She swallowed her sobs, wiped her nose on the back of her wet hand, forced herself back. She was shivering. But then she heard herself inhale, felt for something quiet inside. She dropped into the water and swam towards Jessie again. Positioning herself behind, she put her arms under her armpits, pulled at her torso, trying to kick with her feet at the same time. Gathering all her strength, she tugged and dragged, tugged and dragged. Close up, even with the movement and exertion, she could hear Jessie’s breathing, and this made her keep going, gave her a sliver of hope.

  She was close to the edge of the pool, and she grazed her back against the side and half-fell against the rocks. As she pulled herself out of the water, Jessie’s head jerked and went under. Ali gasped, tugged. Jessie’s wet hair flicked into her face as she heaved her out. She lay for seconds with her wet bony body on her. Jessie’s feet and calves were still trailing in the water and she edged out from under her and pulled her again, Jessie’s back scraping against the rock. She dropped onto her knees next to her, turned her on her side. Her neck flopped, and she groaned, and water came out of her mouth. She coughed and more water trailed out. When the water stopped, Ali waited for a few seconds and then turned her onto her back once more.

  She leant into her chest now and listened for her breath. ‘Jessie, Jessie. It’s okay.’

  Ali could hear her breathing, rasping, but even in the dark she could see her head was at the wrong angle. She sat back on her haunches, and as she scrambled up again, she remembered that you shouldn’t move people with spinal injuries. She pushed this away and for a second her thoughts were precise. I need to keep her warm. She felt around for Jessie’s towel, brought it back and laid it over her, and grabbed anything she could find, scrabbling around in the dark: her T-shirt, her shorts, her damp towel, patching them gently over Jessie’s body. Then she remembered the sleeping bags. They would be warmer. She was frantic again, blindly searching around again until she found one, wrenching it out of the bag, unzipping it.

  She was scared to take anything off her and it seemed terrible, exposing her again, but the bag was warm and dry, and once she had removed the damp patchwork of clothes and towels and laid it on her, she felt better for a second, as if Jessie might just be asleep, as if nothing had happened.

  She stood for a moment above her. On her feet, she had the urge to run — strong, sickening — back through the bush to her bike. Maybe she could leave her there, and no one would ever know. Then she looked down at Jessie, and the sickness settled in her again. She began to cry.

  ‘Jessie,’ she said, ‘I’m going to leave you. I’m going to get help for you. I’ll be very quick, Jessie. I promise.’

  Kneeling down, she listened to her chest again. She was sobbing harder; she wanted to leave. Scared of doing more damage, she gently rested her hand on Jessie through the sleeping bag. She stood again and ran, somehow not slipping, across the rocks to the path. She turned once to look at Jessie again. Could the water move up and over her? What if it rained? Was she far enough away from the edge? She thought of running back, pulling her further away from the water, but now she had started moving she could not bear to go back.

  The running. Branches scratching at her face, and more than once she tripped and fell onto the dirt. The sandy soil slid and crunched under her runners, and twigs she couldn’t see cut into her ankles. The track seemed to last too long, longer than she remembered, and then she was at the end, and there was the glint of spokes and a sob rising in her throat again. No Jessie to ride the second bike. She felt the pull to return to her and the desperation to flee. She climbed on her bike and rolled out onto the road. It was lighter there, the road stretching out away from her. She hesitated. I should go back, I can’t leave her, and then looking at the road, it will lead somewhere and someone will help. Once she was riding, she cried again — it was such a relief to be moving, to be away from her, and that made her cry more, please god, make her be okay, please god, make her be okay. After a while, as she rode, it was too much to say this out loud, but she said it in her mind, over and over. Please god. Please god.

  She rode and rode. There were hills and curves, and she was soon very warm, and sometimes, in an effort to go faster, she scraped her ankles against the pedals. The pain was good. She was glad of it. She could see the road and its sides quite clearly, but even once her eyes had completely adjusted, potholes were on her before she could avoid them, and she bumped through them, and had to slow down and steady herself. Once, taking a corner, she skidded and nearly came off, and this made her want to cry again, but she swallowed her tears, punched a fist into her thigh and kept going.

  After so long, she didn’t know how long, the road smoothed out, and she knew she was nearly there, back where people were. She felt afraid at this, the unreality of sickening fact. Even the thought of speaking made the terror greater. How could she say the words? How could she have left her there?

  Then there she was, not thinking for a second, dropping her bike at the edge of the road and pushing her way through a gate because a light was on, up onto a falling-down verandah, cluttered with paint cans and bits of broken chair, and banging on a door with her fists.

  She told the old man something, words come out and she was crying again, and he was saying, ‘Where, love? Where? Is she out of the water?’

  He took her into his small, cluttered kitchen, with its piles of old newspapers. Other things: books, an open toolbox, a chess board, bottles, cans and jars. You couldn’t even see the surface of the table. He pushed some magazines off a chair, sat her on it, left the room and came back with a blanket, put it around her shoulders, and went to the phone, which was on a table by the door. He spoke to someone. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Accident. A girl. Dunno. I’ve got her friend here. Mumbulla. Yeah. No, don’t know. Yep. Okay. She isn’t going anywhere.’

  He hung up, and Ali watched as he rubbed at his rough head as if he didn’t know what to do. He moved across to the stove, picked up the kettle, took it to the tap, filled it, and she felt her legs shaking, her teeth chattering in her jaw.

  Later, she was not sure how much later, her father came and took her home. She must have told the old man her number; he must have called David, but there was no memory of these words. No memory of what Aggie had said, either. Of going back. Of showing them where Jessie lay.

  No memory of anyone ringing Jessie’s family, Aggie, or Cal or Matty or Eli. The phone ringing, who was home? Who was out? Were Aggie or Matty stoned? Was Cal drunk? Was another bit of that house rotting, dropping off, paint flaking from a door, cobwebs falling, dust descending, a bit of the verandah post or the steps or a branch from the flowering gum breaking off, no magic now?

  David took her home, and Ali slept.

  When she woke he was sitting on the end of her bed, and she pulled herself up, reached for the glass of water he offered. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s alive. She’s in hospital. You rest now.’

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘She’s coming.’

  Ali lay back down and closed her eyes.

  43

  She was driving back to her parents’ house. The clouds had moved away, and there was a pale glare to the sky. The car was air-conditioned, but she knew it was hot outside. She thought of Jessie’s haphazard methods of stopping her fair skin getting fried. A wet towel draped over her face and neck so that her whole face was obscured; the long black T-shirts covering her back and bum, but her legs left to blaze. She remembered sitting on the front steps and
watching her use a fingernail to peel off bits of skin.

  She had learnt since that Guluga was the women’s mountain, the birthing place, a place for women’s business, storytelling, retreat. There were places women would go if they wanted to fall pregnant or were pregnant already. They would eat the clay for zinc. She imagined this: the ingestion of earth, of place, the screams of the women giving birth, the cries of the babies, laughter, tears. Coming into the world with the trees and rocks and water to greet you.

  As she drove, she thought of their different houses, how Aggie never made them sit down for meals. She believed the very idea of it signalled middle-class conformity and control. If there was a meal — some gluggy stir-fry or greyish vegetable–nut creation — the boys would grab a plate and take it out onto the verandah to sit on a step or the grass. Jessie would sometimes sit in the hammock, rocking and eating as if she were on a ship, or eat standing up, in quick little bites, before rushing off to do something. Aggie would nurse a bowl in her lap, gazing into space. No one talked.

  At Ali’s place there was always dinner-time conversation, and Jessie appeared to thrive on it. ‘How are your brothers?’ Diane wanted to know. Everyone knew them. The boys were popular, not part of the straggling hippy families, the poor whitebread families, or the stodgy farming ones, but some gilded place in between them all.