Out of Time

by Steve Hawke

  If only Anne would email, he’d thought, or even call, with some inexplicable reason to delay her return. Claire would not abandon him. She would ring Geoffrey and extend their stay.

  Of an evening, once Claire had the kids down, they would sit and share a glass of wine. In smiley, conspiratorial silence as often as not; but some nights they talked. He tried to keep it bland. He’s not as good at subtext as Anne, but when Claire spoke of how much she wanted the kids to get to know him, to do more of this, he could feel her fishing.

  She was trying to draw him out, to get him talking about what was going on inside his head. Subtext; the bag. He could read that clearly enough.

  And it put him on edge.

  The tic. The violent throw of the jaw to the right. Three in a row.

  Claire winced. ‘Mum’s told me about that. Doesn’t it hurt?’

  ‘I’m used to it.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘Another glass?’ he asked, getting up.

  Nothing was said, but he came to realise after a few days—and the realisation hurt—that whilst his little excursions with James were fine, Claire would not leave him alone with Miriam for more than a few minutes. They discovered the baby capsule wouldn’t fix properly to the car. So they were essentially housebound, walking to the shops when they needed. But Claire worked the phones, and one day she booked a kidsafe taxi and they made the trek to the university. She left Joe in charge of James on the lawns, and went in to meet up with a couple of her old lecturers. Claire was starting to suss out her options for their move back to Perth.

  Joe gets up to pin the Captain Whatsisname sketch up on the board above the drafting table. Rubs at his sore back again. Notices the bag hanging above his workbench next to the saws.

  What’s it doing there?

  Remembers. It was only half an hour ago. Or something like that.

  Had to stop Anne hassling me.

  Aggravated now, he prowls the shed. He looks at the cards and crib board. Sees the sinkers are by his chair. Sits down.

  ‘Now what did you play last night, Eric.’

  He peers at the face up cards. ‘Mm, seven, for fifteen two.’ Thinks. Drums his fingers, murmurs the ‘Don’t Recall’ line from the Peter Gabriel song. He picks up his own hand. Smiles. Plays the nine. ‘Nine for twenty-four, and that’s a run of three.’ He moves his peg, saying, ‘You better not have a six you bugger.’ He takes the sheet from under the board, puts another stroke in the ‘Don’t Recall’ column, and moves the sinkers over to Eric’s side.

  TALISMAN

  Anne thinks about the list again. She could make up the beds and the cot for Claire and the kids.

  Later.

  She settles back down to scrolling through the pictures from Ecuador. She does it often, just to get lost in the beauty of the birds and the tropical bush; but tonight there’s a purpose. Birder magazine has expressed interest in the outline of an article she proposed to them. She’s almost happy with the sixth draft. Nearly all the goo and gush has been pared out, but there’s still a sense of the sheer excitement of her adventure, as well as a serious discussion of the birds and the threats they face.

  She has written the odd piece for the English Teachers Association journal over the years, but they don’t count in her mind. She can’t help being excited at the thought of getting published at the age of fifty-seven. But she also knows that if she doesn’t send it off before Claire arrives, the chance may slip away. One more read-through of the article and maybe a tweak or two on page three will do, she reckons.

  What she’s stuck on is the photos. She is keenly aware that hers are not professional quality, but Birder said the two samples she sent would be usable. Now she has to provide eight for them to choose from. The agony! Of culling, and of wondering if they’ll pass muster.

  She knows which one she’ll ask them to feature if they take the piece. The violet-tailed sylph. She still feels a thrill every time she looks at her photo. She didn’t have the equipment or the expertise to capture it in flight, hovering motionless except for the blur of wings as it sucked the nectar from a lurid flower. But she had fluked a snap of it poised on a branch, in all its iridescent glory.

  There are ten photos in the selections folder. The sylph and five other definites. There are four contenders for the last two spots. She’ll do the final cull when she checks the text; hopefully tomorrow. She saves and closes, and gets up from her desk, stretching. She has lost track of time, but it feels like it’s getting late.

  He’s still not in? I better go down and check.

  ‘Pop goes the weasel!’ She hisses it out loud, surprising herself.

  How she’s come to hate his damned kit. She shudders every time she sees him with it.

  And now sick jokes!

  She tries to be ever patient and understanding as she witnesses his shrivelling. And mostly—nearly always—she succeeds. But sometimes it is too hard.

  I should chuck the bloody thing.

  But she knows that the backpack is one thing that he would notice, should it go missing.

  They may have got past the days of denial and deception, but he is still Joe: holding himself in, holding himself back. The confessions, the fears, the sharing are always tortuous. And in between he is as hard to read as ever.

  The bag has become some weird talisman. Sometimes she thinks of it as his security blanket, like James’ bunny rug.

  She goes to make up the beds instead of heading down to the shed.

  AT THE PARK

  James is engrossed in the sandpit with an array of toy cars and a plane. Joe is reminded of Calvin and Hobbes, and wonders what is going through the youngster’s head. Miriam is dead to the world. Claire idly rocks the pram every now and then with her foot. They came down to the park just after Anne set off for work, and they have the place to themselves. Not even Old Frank with his fold-out stool and fishing rod yet.

  Joe is biding his time, watching the birds on the water. It is Claire’s call where she wants to take the conversation, after last night. Maybe she just wants to sit in the morning sun.

  Claire and the kids had flown in from Karratha yesterday. She was frazzled from the flight, with a screaming baby with addled ears, and a whining three-year-old. But once they made it back to Bassendean the day had slowly settled, and then turned joyful as they all revelled in each other’s proximity.

  But once the kids were down, and there were only grownups in the room, Claire had spilled the beans on all the fears and doubts that are swirling through her. And for a short while, she’d also let loose the anger she has been suppressing.

  ‘He doesn’t want me to work. He reckons he earns enough to keep his family well, and my responsibility is to the kids. No child of his is going into childcare. He actually said that, would you believe. Not as an opinion. As a statement of fact! If I try to talk to him about it he just says it’s not God’s way. Clams up. End of story.’ There is a bitter sadness to her tone when she says, ‘I sometimes wonder if we’re praying to the same God.’

  They had let her vent, and heard more than perhaps they wanted to. But she kept coming back to the job. It would be perfect for her. Part-time. An on-site crèche. The research is exactly in her field, even if she is a bit out of touch now. Her favourite professor as the team leader. Who knows where it could lead. ‘I’m not going to let him stop me,’ she’d said.

  But then she turned the tap off. The effort was visible.

  ‘The kids.’

  It was almost a whimper.

  On the river a duck bobs under the waters of Derbal Yerrigan.

  ‘It’s just a sprinkle isn’t it? Not the full body immersion thing?’

  ‘What?’ Claire is puzzled.

  ‘The christening.’ Joe sounds annoyed, as if she is wilfully misunderstanding him. ‘I’ve said I’ll come. I just want to know what I’m in for.’

  Shock seizes Claire. She buries her head in her hands, totally at a loss.

  ‘What?’ he demand
s.

  She shakes her head. There are no words.

  ‘Tell me.’

  She can’t look at him. ‘You were just asking about James’ christening.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She points at the boy in the sandpit. ‘Dad, it was three years ago.’

  The head jerk. A desolate, ‘Oh shit.’

  She slides a hand towards him. He grips it tightly, and sits there beside her on the park bench, rocking.

  When he eventually speaks again, it is barely a whisper. ‘Loops are one thing, but coming back out in the wrong place! The wrong time. Fuck. I don’t think that’s happened before. But I don’t know. That’s the thing, Bear, I’m not sure about anything any more. Remind me to ask Anne tonight. Fuck.’

  WONDERLAND

  They walk home in silence, Joe pushing the pram, Claire hugging James to her.

  Joe retreats to his shed, leaving Claire to see to her children.

  It is not until Claire has put Miriam down for her afternoon nap, and settled James in front of the TV, that they find themselves in silence together.

  ‘D’you remember the fights we used to have?’

  ‘You always told Mum they were spirited discussions.’

  ‘I’m thinking of starting one now. We’ve been tiptoeing around each other all day. It doesn’t feel right.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because we’re both feeling a little bit fragile? What with one thing and another … Any particular topic in mind?’

  ‘Don’t think I’ve got any bones to pick with you I’m afraid. Wouldn’t mind a ding-dong blue with your other half though.’

  ‘So last night’s rant registered hey?’

  ‘Every word.’

  ‘If you say I told you so, I’ll throttle you.’

  He puts his hand up in surrender. ‘I’ve got traces of empathy still.’

  ‘I know you’re thinking it though.’

  He says nothing rather than lie.

  ‘It’s good in Karratha. Mostly. There’s something real about the place, for all its mining town strangeness. I love the church there. We’re all—I don’t know—engaged. We pray together on Sundays and get on with our lives. But something’s shifted since we started talking about coming back down here. Head office. Big house round the corner from the in-laws. Different congregation. It doesn’t feel the same, Dad. It’s like Geoffrey’s moving along this preordained path. Sometimes it feels like I’m just another box ticked as his life plan falls into place.’

  She gets up, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. Checks on James in the living room, still happily watching Sesame Street. Gets a load of nappies from the dryer. She snaps and shakes each nappy hard, two times, three times, before she folds it.

  ‘His bl–… His parents. Esme’s ok mostly. She’s basically kind. Just cowed I reckon. But Geoffrey’s dad … I don’t know, he’s not just stern, he’s hard. Harsh. I’m scared of what I’m in for when we move into that mansion we’ve bought. I’ll have to play the loving daughter-in-law day in, day out instead of twice a year.

  ‘I’m having doubts, Dad.’

  ‘So I gathered. That’s the human condition.’

  ‘It’s not the same in my world. I haven’t lost my faith. But I’m questioning everything else.’

  Nappies done, she moves over to the kitchen bench and starts preparing a snack for James. ‘We’re shopping for new curtains and linen tomorrow. That’ll be fun.’ Her tone gives lie to the words. ‘Esme’s picking us up at ten.’

  ‘You don’t want to leave the kids with me?’

  She doesn’t look up from spreading the vegemite. The silence and body language say it all though. That is not an option.

  Another door closes.

  ‘She’s entitled to some time with the grandkids too, Dad. You can take charge on Wednesday. I’ve got to shut myself away upstairs then and prep for this interview.’ She passes him the plate. ‘Here, take these through to James while I check on Miriam.’

  Miriam is still asleep. Sesame Street has given way to junk cartoons, but that’s ok today. Claire takes the cuppa Joe has made, and they settle back down.

  ‘That’s the first time is it? That you’ve … you’ve, what did you say … come back in the wrong place?’

  ‘Is that what I said?’

  ‘Yeah. What’s it like?’

  ‘It’s scary as all fuck, Bear. Scary as all fuck.’

  ‘And that’s the first time?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Oh Dad.’ She is quietly weeping, and not trying to hide it.

  ‘I might be getting this wrong—I think the last time I read Alice in Wonderland was to you, twenty years ago—but I get this mad image in my head that I’m like Alice in this long corridor, getting bigger and smaller, with the vials and keys, and trying all these doors, and they’re all closing, closing in on her, on me, and the light at the end keeps getting further away, and dimmer, and smaller. And I want to fucking scream, and I want to kick a door down, but I’m an old man, and far too weak to do that. It’s closing in on me, and I’m trapped.’

  He is gasping. She is sobbing. He reaches across and takes her hands. ‘I’m sorry.’ Breathlessly. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘No!’ she cries.

  A hand to her cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She lifts her head. Looks at him. ‘What are you going to do?’ ‘I don’t know.’

  They disengage their twined fingers, ease back, breathe deeply.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he whispers.

  TIMING

  ‘Good luck darling.’

  ‘Thanks Dad.’

  Joe can hear the nerves in Claire’s voice. He puts on a smile as he waves them off, but it fades the moment they pull out of the driveway. The plans have been made around him. He gets it, but it still pisses him off. Neither of the women are willing to leave both or either of the kids with him for the time it will take to get into the uni for the interview and back. So Anne takes the day off to take Claire in and mind the kids.

  He spends the hours cleaning his rods and reels, sorting through his tackle box, and checking out lures online. He is determined to catch that Bullfrog Hole barramundi this time round.

  They’ve locked the trip in. The urge to get back there is strong in both of them. Both the urge, and a sense of urgency. Their lives seem to have become a race against time in which they have no idea how fast their opponent is travelling. Calculations, predictions, estimates and guesses; some of them discussed openly, some assumed by one or the other, or sometimes both. But when they started talking about doing Bullfrog Hole again there was a sense that if not this dry season, it may well never happen.

  Timing is the issue. The three of them had talked about it last night. Anne is adamant that they will be in Perth when Claire makes the big move down, especially if—she had stopped mid-sentence. ‘Let’s see how the interview goes tomorrow,’ Claire had said. ‘I won’t get an answer there and then, but the picture might be a bit clearer.’

  TOO PERFECT

  ‘It’s just too perfect. It’s like they designed it for me.’

  ‘Maybe they did,’ Anne suggests. ‘Once they knew you were interested.’

  ‘It’s only as a research assistant, but it’s exactly the same territory as I was exploring in my own third-year research. I’d be working under Jillian. Remember her? She was in the same year as me. Really clever, really nice. Two days a week—that’s got to be manageable somehow doesn’t it?’

  ‘When will you find out?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Not sure. But it’ll be fairly soon.’

  As she has four times already this evening, Claire flips from excitement to terror. ‘What am I going to do, Mum?’

  ‘It’s your call girl, but you know what we think.’

  ‘Geoffrey’s got no idea. How am I going to tell him? What will he do if I say yes?’

  ‘All we can say is we’ll be here for you. Won’t we Joe?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The
Kimberley can wait if needs be.’

  Joe looks at Anne, startled.

  ‘No way!’ Claire exclaims. ‘You guys are doing that trip, whatever happens.’

  August 2007

  FRAZZLED

  Anne whispers goodnight to Claire, checks in on James, then diverts into her study to look at the proofs for the fifth time. They were in the inbox when she got home. The title is a bit twee: ‘An Ecuadorian Odyssey’. But the by-line is what matters: ‘By Anne Woods’. And they have gone with the sylph as the feature photo.

  As soon as she’d printed them out she ran downstairs and waved them at Joe, grinning broadly, but all she’d got was a vague ‘That’s nice’. He was in that disengaged, introspective state that seems increasingly common, especially later in the day. She’ll show him again in the morning and he’ll probably be over the moon.

  Claire was more responsive, but not as enthusiastic as Anne had expected. Too exhausted, and more pressing things on her mind, poor thing. Esme will be here at lunchtime tomorrow to collect James for his weekend at Geoffrey’s. It has been traumatic every time so far, and heart-rending for all the adults, including Esme, to see the lad crying hysterically as he is driven away.

  One day at a time Anne, one day at a time, she tells herself.

  Who’d have thought that having her girl back home would be so … So? She’s not sure what the word is. Not stressful, exactly. Hard work? Sort of. Nothing’s easy at the moment, that’s for sure. Between managing Joe, and the needs of Claire, and of the kids, it seems that she is on the go every minute of the day; too many balls in the air, too many sensitivities to be catered for, too many contingencies to be considered. She feels frazzled nearly all of the time.

  Less than two weeks now until they fly to Broome and head for Bullfrog Hole. Getting Joe through the trip might not be all plain sailing, but at least she will have a single focus, and she’ll be out bush, in Gouldian finch country. It is calling to her.