Eyrie

by Tim Winton

  He get off orright?

  He nodded.

  Lunch?

  Could hardly fit it in his bag. Mum saw him right.

  You sure it’s cool us bein here? I’m gettin a vibe.

  It’s fine. It’s Doris.

  I should make some other plans. But I don’t have any ideas.

  Have a cuppa, he said. We’ll think of something.

  Should just piss off up the coast – Carnarvon, Exmouth, Broome.

  I think that would be smart, in the circumstances.

  But what about Kai? They’ll cut off me benefit. Won’t they? I’m not even declaring half me wages. And I won’t have a job.

  Not right away.

  Maybe go to the mines? But I can’t take a kid.

  I dunno.

  They’ll take him off me. I know it.

  Gemma.

  Put him into fuckin Care.

  Here, sit down. It’s not that bad.

  Keely got her into a chair, poured some tea and finished sweeping up the remains of the mug. She looked jittery.

  Gotta be somethin, she said.

  Yeah. Just need to think it through. You’re not on your own here, mate.

  He found shortbread, got himself another mug and sat with her. She steadied a little, ate the biscuits quickly, with infantile greed.

  Not exactly the old place, is it? she said.

  No, not really.

  Did you like it here?

  I never lived here. She bought it about ten years ago.

  Old. But fancy.

  It’s a nice house.

  She’s changed.

  Well, she’s an old lady now.

  Not that, she said. All this stuff. Way she talks. Kai, he’s such a delightful child.

  He shrugged. Doris’s accent was as broad as ever but it was true, the vocab had moved up a peg or two.

  When I was little I wished she was my mum. Pretended she was, sometimes. Like her and Nev were me oldies. She let us think it.

  Think what?

  That she loved us. Like we were family.

  Keely didn’t know what to say. Because that was how he remembered it. And it had irked him, as a kid. Not that much had really changed. Last night Doris had nursed her like a frightened child. Hadn’t he seen Gemma luxuriating in the attention? So what else had happened that he hadn’t noticed? Probably nothing. Gemma had endured a long, dull shift, an entire night in which to mull over every detail, letting any tiny change become a disappointment.

  She’s still Doris, Gem.

  Well, Kai thinks she’s the duck’s nuts.

  Yeah, he murmured. But you’ve filled his head with all these stories.

  They’re true.

  Only up to a point. Neither of them was a superhero. They’re just people.

  Maybe she’s just puttin up with us.

  Oh, mate.

  Like we’re gunna break somethin, mess her house up. Ask her for money.

  I don’t think so.

  And now you think I’m not grateful.

  No, he said. It’s a wrench. The sudden move, being in someone else’s place.

  It just wasn’t what I expected.

  Keely wondered what it was she had been expecting. He thought Doris had done pretty bloody well with only thirty minutes’ notice. Okay, maybe she wasn’t quite so ardent as she’d once been. But Gemma was a grownup now, not a little girl. And there was the boy, taking it all in. Of course Doris would be a bit more circumspect. Anyhow, she was an old woman. All this was out of the blue. On her doorstep. In Mosman Park.

  It’s strange, he heard himself say. You know, seeing someone again after so long.

  Gemma shrugged. Almost pouting. He felt a twinge of annoyance. Then talked himself down. The trauma. You couldn’t expect something as petty as good manners.

  What if she doesn’t want us here?

  If she didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here. She’d have written you a cheque the moment you arrived. To get rid of you.

  Gemma blinked, considering this, but she seemed unconvinced.

  She didn’t mind me when I was little. When I was cute. Didn’t have a girl in Bandyup then, did I?

  Gemma.

  She thinks I’m rubbish.

  Oh, that’s just bullshit.

  You don’t know, Tom. You’re like a kid.

  I’m like a kid? he said, flaring up.

  I’m not stupid, she said.

  No one’s saying you’re stupid.

  She knows you fucked me, Tom. She can smell it.

  He let out a mirthless laugh. Not literally, I hope.

  Look at you, gone all red. You can’t even think about it in your mum’s house, can you?

  Don’t be daft.

  Look at you.

  Why are we even discussing this? There’s stuff we have to deal with.

  Come on. Why don’t we do it now? Right here on her kitchen bench.

  Why’re you doing this?

  Frightened of his mum.

  I thought it was respect, he said.

  Same old goody two-shoes, she muttered, sinking in her chair, tightening the towel across her breasts as her animation subsided.

  He got up and tipped his tea into the sink.

  I need a fag.

  Not in the house, he said dully.

  Don’t worry, Tommy. I’ll take me filthy habits outside.

  He let her go, watched her out on the verandah as she fired the thing up and sucked on it angrily in the hot, dappled light. He wished he could reassure her. Wished just as fervently there was somewhere else she could go.

  He saw her mug on the table and, thinking it was empty, snatched it up. Tea flew everywhere. Before he’d even found the dishmop the stain was deep in the wood.

  It was one of those late-summer days when the river, blown hard against the lee shore by the easterly, smelt rank. Like something left too long in a pot. The thin stews of his early teaching days that languished on the stovetop, half fermented overnight. The sun drilled through his skull and he was glad when they reached the shade of the cypresses beneath the bluff.

  Gemma hadn’t spoken since they left the house. She’d come along at his urging but dawdled and sulked enough to make him regret it. If only he’d brought a pair of Speedos. The sloughy river-bend was hardly inviting, especially now the wind corralled the jellyfish against the bank. The water was brown and chunky as a dishful of steeping mushrooms. He imagined hauling himself through it, all those slick domes sliding down his chest and thighs. Not pretty. But even that would have felt like a few minutes’ reprieve.

  He sat out under the limestone crag where the grand old marri reached across the water. And there it was. The bird’s wingbeats were effortless. It banked and soared on an updraught, turned and eased away, keening. It looked weightless, as if the heaviest thing it carried were that plaintive, querulous call.

  Your idea of a good time, she said, lighting another fag.

  He surveyed the tangled bush, the dancing insects. A bit of remnant wildness. It reminded him of the swamp. Faith and him. The ragged gang of Blackboy Crescent kids plodding single-file through the melaleucas.

  Used to be yours, too, once, he murmured.

  She said nothing. Blew a jet of smoke that ripped away in the wind like a current with its own angry energy. She flicked ash.

  Listen, he said. I’m happy to pick him up this afternoon.

  You don’t look good, she said.

  I’m fine.

  She bit her thumb, tilted the cigarette away from her face. And glanced at him.

  There’s something wrong with you. Doris can see it. I can see it. Everyone ’cept you can see it.

  I think it’s better if I get him today.

  And why’s that?

  He pulled the little yellow Post-its from the pocket of his shorts and flattened them on the rock beside him. Out here in the dappled shade they weren’t nearly as unnerving.

  Cunts, she said wearily.

  Does Stewie have a key? he ask
ed.

  Course not.

  And Carly?

  She shook her head.

  I think they know someone, he said.

  In the building?

  Seems like it.

  She looked sceptical.

  So, I figured it was smarter for me to collect him.

  Like, because you’re smarter’n me. That it?

  Of course not.

  Cause you’re the big fella.

  Keely tore at a clump of sedge.

  Fuck em, she said. It’s my car. He’s my responsibility.

  Okay, but listen —

  Anyway, they really think I’ve got the money.

  What possible difference can that make?

  I drive me own car. I pick up me own kid. They don’t decide what I do.

  I understand the sentiment, but —

  You don’t get it, Tom. If I hide, it looks like I haven’t got the money.

  Wouldn’t it be better if they knew you haven’t?

  Now? Are you jokin? They’d go nuts. They think I’m good for it.

  Shit, why?

  You, ya fuckwit. Isn’t hard to google it, or whatever the fuck people do. You were all over the telly, in the paper, ya must have money.

  That’s how these dickheads think?

  It’s how anybody thinks.

  So glad I had that shave, he said bitterly.

  Well, sorr-ee!

  We’re all bloody sorry now.

  The moment he said it he could have torn his own tongue out. He sat there with the hot wind baking his face, yanking at his sleeve.

  I’ve got a week, she said. Six more days. Because they think I’ve got it. I’m half a chance of lasting the week if they still think I’m good for five grand.

  I don’t understand the logic.

  It’s not about logic.

  She ditched the fag into the water. Got up and picked her way back down the track.

  Keely snatched up the little yellow notes. The adhesive edges had lost their stick. They were dusted with limestone grit, a couple of addled ants. He held them up, let them flutter in the easterly. By way of standover action they looked pretty low-rent. But maybe she was right. What did he know? The whole thing still seemed melodramatic. And yet there it was, that sick, falling sensation. Sitting here on a rock, safe in the shade. With something dark and hot rushing at him like so much wind.

  Doris came in at three and tossed her satchel on the kitchen bench. Keely looked up from the table, whose surface he was still rubbing with oil.

  Where’s Gemma?

  Doing the school run.

  Do I detect a certain atmosphere?

  I spilt tea on your table.

  I’ll live, said Doris, pulling open the fridge door. But I see neither of you kids has thought to do any shopping for dinner.

  I’ll go in a minute.

  Perhaps I should’ve pinned a note to your shirt, she said grinning. She went through to her room and came back in a faded sleeveless summer dress that showed how thin her arms had become. She stood at the kitchen bench a moment. Divining the situation, it felt like. She took an orange from the bowl beside her.

  Good day? he asked, getting in first.

  Not bad. Luxury of being a part-timer.

  Anything interesting?

  Nothing cheerful.

  Try me.

  Just documents for the Ward inquest.

  Oh. God.

  Indeed.

  And?

  Even seeing the medical reports – it’s beyond belief. They cooked that man alive, basically. In the back of a prison van. Fifty-seven degrees, that’s how hot the metal got. What’s that, 130-something in the old money? He was in there half a day, nearly a thousand kilometres, and neither guard thought it was a big deal that he was without air-conditioning.

  I forget what he was even arrested for.

  A traffic offence, she said, beginning to peel the orange. If that man had been a sheep there’d be people marching in the street. But he’s just an Aborigine.

  What about charges?

  My guess, she said, toiling arthritically, is that neither guard will be convicted.

  And the private contractor?

  She looked over her specs at him and he saw the answer in her cocked eyebrow.

  Business first, he muttered.

  So, not a sparkling day. I thought by now I was unshockable.

  You want me to help you with that?

  I can still peel an orange.

  Sorry.

  Anyway, she said, how’s Gemma?

  He shrugged.

  Does she cook?

  Well, yeah. Of course.

  We’ll let her cook tonight, she said before biting into the orange.

  What d’you mean? Why?

  Doris pulled a paper towel from the roll to blot the juice from her chin. Don’t give me that look, she said. It’s not a test. I thought it might help her settle in, give her a sense of control, bit of normality.

  Okay. See your point.

  She’s not helpless. Doesn’t want to feel helpless.

  Please don’t say the word, Doris.

  Empowerment? That word? If I had to see you on the news every night calling an ecosystem a precious asset, or a tourism icon, then you can suck eggs and let me say the E-word.

  Keely raised his hands in surrender, glad she smiled.

  I’ll be gone at seven, she said. Tickets for the Vaughan Williams.

  Oh, he said. Who you going with?

  Well, she murmured, pausing to swallow a mouthful, I had hoped you’d come. But since I booked it, things have developed somewhat.

  Ah. Damn. Sorry, but I can’t leave Kai.

  No. Of course not, she said. I wouldn’t let you.

  Bum, he said. I love Uncle Ralph.

  I know that.

  Which piece is it?

  The oboe concerto.

  Ouch.

  Yes, it’s a shame, she said, rattling her bangles and then straightening all of a sudden. Listen, why don’t you go anyway? I could stay with Kai.

  But you love Vaughan Williams.

  Doris shrugged and took another bite.

  Mum, I couldn’t.

  We’ll see if Kai’s comfortable with it. If he’s iffy I’ll leave him with you.

  Thanks, he said, looking hopelessly at the watermark in the jarrah. Really. But you go.

  Come on, then, she said. I’ll finish this on the way to the shops.

  * * *

  There was a peaceable languor to Doris’s riverside quarter where the shady streets smelt of cut lawns and lavender. They walked in equable silence, eking out the orange, segment by segment. An Audi slid by sedately and when they saw the personalized plates they both erupted in laughter. MINE, it said in powder blue. And in that moment of lovely wordless understanding he thought of what he’d lost and all there still was to hold onto.

  The little retail enclave was bustling. He followed, like a boy shopping with his mum, mortified by how quickly he subsided into the role. But it was worse than that, weirder than just his own submission, because after a few minutes he could see that Doris was not so much shopping for their dinner as parading him through the cluster of neighbourhood businesses. She twirled her plaits in the butcher’s and jangled her ethnic hardware in the fruit and veg shop, chatting with those she passed and everyone who served her, and as the glances of cashiers and floral dears became ever more obvious, his irritation mounted. Clearly people knew and liked Doris. Their curiosity about Keely was palpable.

  Well, she said when they were back on the street. You caused a stir.

  Oh? he said. I didn’t notice.

  I don’t think they quite believe you’re my son.

  Well, he said. Sometimes I find it hard to credit that myself.

  I always said I had a son, she said loftily. But maybe I sounded like a lonely old duck spinning yarns.

  Okay, Doris, he said. Point taken. You’ve had your fun.

  Heading downhill, they sought the mottled a
fternoon shadows of the plane trees that lined the street.

  What are you thinking? she asked.

  Nothing, he lied. He was wishing he’d been more forthcoming about the situation with Gemma.

  Kai’s a curious little boy, she said, steering him into a backstreet of heavily pruned peppermints.

  He doesn’t really remind you of Gemma at all, does he?

  No, she said. Apart from the situation, the damage. Gemma was only cunning. Kai’s bright.

  Cunning?

  She had to do what she could to survive. You had the sense she’d endure. Suffer, Doris said bitterly. But endure. Kai seems more fragile.

  He doesn’t believe he’ll ever grow old, he said, hating himself for letting it out, relieved he had. He thinks he’ll die young.

  Well, she said without emotion. That’s upsetting.

  It kills me. Hearing him say it.

  Maybe he’s a realist.

  What do you mean? he said, horrified. What are you talking about?

  You’ve met his father, I gather.

  Seen him.

  Can you imagine him growing old?

  Keely thought about that. I guess the odds aren’t great, he said.

  And where are all the other men in his life? she asked. Maybe there just aren’t any examples of a benign old age. How can he conceive of what he’s never seen except on TV? Gemma’s father’s dead. She hasn’t mentioned her daughter’s father.

  She doesn’t talk about it, he said, still troubled. You think she’s cunning?

  Was, I said.

  Still, you sound —

  Does he ever give an indication of hurting himself?

  Kai?

  Does he talk about it, give you that impression?

  No, he said, unable to bring himself to mention his sense of dread, the pernicious image of the kid standing at the balcony rail, leaping. It was always there now, like a dark thought, something shameful he could suppress but not expunge.

  No, he said again. Not really.

  Well, that’s something.

  Yes, he said, unconsoled.

  How to express his fear that the kid was enchanted by something obscure and awful, some terrible certainty? Because it was as if the boy were leaning out towards it, resigned to meeting it, only seeking what lay in wait for him. How could he tell her that? What would Doris hear except confirmation of his own mental unravelling?

  Keely knew he should tell her about the boy’s dreams, at the very least. The drawings, the outline he seemed to have already filled with his own body. But Doris was so vigilant. He could feel himself beginning to fall to pieces under her gaze. And he could see it now, his mother stepping in, catching him, relieving him of responsibility. Half of him wanted that, to be found out, sent home, set free.