‘Stay out of the reeds,’ he said when they reached the dam’s edge.
Ron remembered his wife’s words before he left: make sure they don’t drown. Not, you’ve been working hard and it’s a worry being the manager for the first time; enjoy taking the boys; you need a break. None of that. Just don’t drown the kids. But if they were stupid enough to drown here, they could drown in a bucket of water. He snatched the bucket now and filled it from a spot where the reeds had separated. He doused the hard earth and put the second stick in the ground.
‘Right, Peter, Simon: that’s where you rest your rod. And you share it, all right? Now come here, both of you, and I’ll show you how to fish.’
The lesson was quick. It was over before Peter had a chance to figure out how to hold the rod for casting, how to shut and open the bail arm, how to get the worm on the hook and what to do if you got tangled. Or how to catch a fish.
‘Right, you blokes ready to roll?’
Simon nodded. He got it. It was simple for him. It was like he’d seen it all before. In a book or something. But he could barely read at all. Still, he could do Lego without looking at the instructions. And the smug look on his face said he reckoned he could have figured out this fishing business by himself.
‘Yep, no worries,’ Simon said.
‘Good. Now let me be for a bit. And look after Terry.’
Ron sipped from his beer can then placed it on the ground beside his canvas chair. The air was cool enough to warrant putting on his velour track top but he didn’t bother. He watched his floater. The sun had started for home and the water was sparkling orange.
Don’t drown the kids.
Terry was under the gum tree playing with something shiny. Hooting at it. The other two were pulling their line out too often and casting it too much—and using too many bloody worms—but at least they weren’t bothering him. He picked up his can and drank. He watched the line, then the floater, and then the line. Clouds were puffing on the horizon. He studied the backs of his hands. They were muddy from digging in the worm container. Greasy from the reel. He should have dried it after he’d oiled it. Stupid. He couldn’t do a bloody thing right. Peter started up some trouble with Simon.
‘Don’t! It’s my turn!’
‘Shut up you lot! Let a man have some peace.’
But Ron didn’t know if he wanted peace. That was the blessing and curse of fishing: if there were no bites and no fish, then it was quiet for sure. But he’d start to think and he didn’t want to. Because it was always the same. If he wasn’t at work, if he wasn’t playing golf and if the fish weren’t biting, it was quiet all right. But it wasn’t peaceful. Because memories came at him like some of his bosses did up the chain: smiling, but underneath they wanted whatever they could get out of you. They didn’t care if they’d dug your gizzards out by the time they’d finished. They just left you like a caught fish on a slimy cutting board.
Christ, he really couldn’t do a bloody thing right.
He could have done more when he was young to help a kid who’d got disabled. All spastic and dumb because of Ron’s brother.
He could have done more for his mum.
Could have stopped his dad from doing what he did.
No, he couldn’t, he was too young. But he could have at least dobbed on him before, couldn’t he? And then there was his sister, in a mental hospital.
Jesus! Years they’d lived together in the orphanage near Horsham. They couldn’t protect each other then and he couldn’t protect her this time either.
But what the hell else? Let her piss all day in front of his kids? What would be next?
He couldn’t fix anything. He worked with trucks, for fuck’s sake, and he didn’t know anything about an engine, only prices and supply chains. He’d never fixed a single stuff up in any car he’d owned and he hadn’t ever told Jules about his father or the orphanage or anything. Because if he did, he thought, he’d somehow end up on the bottom of a lake. In his head, it was like he was already there, in the arse end of a swamp, every day he walked around doing this and that.
He’d be no use to anyone dead as a doornail. If he was any use at all.
Christ, shut yourself up. Fucking sad sacks!
He drank from his can and put it down. Then he picked it up again, gulped and finished it.
Maybe the floater was distracting the fish? They could do that. Fish look up: what’s that red and white thing, that plastic rubbish? We’re getting out of here!
None of his boys were in sight.
Ron stood and, as if on cue, so did Peter. The boy stepped out of the reeds and back to his rod. Terry came out from behind the tree, carrying a stick and a sandwich. Shit, he’d forgotten to tell them to have dinner. But they were having it anyway. Good. He shouted to Peter, who was twenty yards away and playing with his rod like it was cricket bat.
‘Where’s Simon?’
His eldest pointed to the reeds on the other side of the dam.
Great. He wasn’t fishing properly either. The useless buggers, Ron thought. They’re not coming again.
He moved to sit, but before his bum hit the chair his floater ducked under and reappeared. He sat and waited. Nothing. The floater rested. He wound his line in and the hook was empty. He grabbed a new can and cracked it. Peter yelled across the water.
‘Simon, where the hell are you?’
Ron shook his head.
‘Shut up! You’ll scare the fish!’
Peter left his line and headed through the long grass.
Peter had wanted from the get go to hold the rod, but Simon had done all the fishing.
‘Give it to me.’
‘Come back to school.’
‘Give it to me...’
‘Come back to school! Chicken! Bruck, bruck.’
‘Don’t Simon, it’s my turn!’
‘Shut up you lot,’ their dad said. ‘Let a man have some peace.’
Peter watched his father pick up his beer can and drink.
He wanted to leave his rod and go over and fish with him. He watched his father, motionless in his chair. Hat low on his forehead. All his attention on his line and floater.
Peter wanted another lesson. He wanted his father to stand behind him, hold his arms and take him through the fishing movements.
This way to cast, that’s a boy. That way to tug the line when you get a bite. But he had to keep out of his dad’s hair. Maybe that’s why Ron always wore the hat.
Peter gave up trying to fish and let Simon take over. He watched him cast, expertly. The floater fell flat on the water and waited. Another cast, a re-bait, another cast, a change of direction, searching for a fish. That didn’t come.
‘This is borin. I’m garn for an explore,’ Simon had said.
‘We have to watch Terry.’
‘You do it. I’m garn for an explore.’
And Simon had headed off. Through the reeds then the long grass. Peter had taken hold of the rod, but once it was in his hands he didn’t want it. He didn’t know what to do. He thought about asking his father for help. But Ron’s silence and stillness were two languages, both of which meant keep away. Peter had put his rod on the stick and looked around for Terry. His little brother was under the tree playing with something shiny on the ground. Turning it over. Singing at it. Was it singing back? No, it was Simon.
‘Peter, hey, Peter, ohhhhh, Peter...’
It was like his brother was next to him. Peter had felt around in the reeds and pulled them back, expecting to see Simon’s idiotic, grinning face.
‘Peter, hey...’
Simon was sitting in the reeds on the other side of the dam. It was a miracle.
‘How can I hear you, idiot?’
‘I heard that.’ Simon laughed.
‘How?’
‘I dunno. You just can.’
‘What are you doin’ over there?’
‘Shootin you. I’m a soldja. Bang, bang...’
‘Idiot.’
‘Piss off.’<
br />
‘You!’
‘Why don’t you come to school anymore?’
Because he was scared. Because he woke in the night, every night, and there was a weight on him. And voices. He didn’t know where they were coming from. He heard them at school. And when he drew a picture of his new house, time froze. It can’t do that. He heard the voices then too, and he didn’t know what was happening to him. It must be the UFO aliens from his Biggest, Fastest, Smallest, Strangest book. The same ones that flew around the Bermuda Triangle. And they were talking to him. And he wasn’t going to school. He wanted to be at home and safe with his mum.
‘None of your business, Simon.’
‘Why don’t you come? You a girl?’
‘Shut your face.’
‘Make me... Bang, bang.’
Simon had pointed a stick, shot at Peter, and Peter had ducked into the reeds. He’d soldier crawled, found a stick, and shot back. Simon had fallen, Peter had smiled and Simon had got up. Then Peter had shot him again and his brother had fallen once more. Peter had stood and tried to locate his brother in the far reeds. Get him in his sights.
‘Peter, where’s Simon?’ his father had called.
‘Over there. Somewhere.’
His brother had groaned and Peter had lowered his voice.
‘Simon? You all right?’
Another groan.
‘Simon, where the hell are you?’
Ron had shook his head and leant for his can.
‘Shut up. You’ll scare the fish!’
And Peter had headed for his brother.
He found him motionless on the bank.
‘Simon? You all right?’ He tugged at him. He was heavy and covered in dust. ‘Simon?’ He touched his brother’s leg, looking for a snakebite. The touch tickled him and Simon giggled. He sprang up and poked Peter in the stomach.
‘Ha, tricktcha!’
‘You idiot!’
Peter fell on him, punched his chest, but not hard enough to do any damage. He wanted to warn him never to do it again. But Simon didn’t get it. He never got anything. Except Lego. And fishing, it seemed.
‘Rack off!’ Simon shouted and his blows came hard and fast. Peter rolled away and got to his feet. The pair scrapped, but when Peter copped a blow to the temple that made the sight of his marauding brother wobble, he gave up.
On everything.
He fell backwards into the dam and lay in a foot of water. His eyes stung, but he didn’t care and he didn’t close them. Through the murk he saw his shimmering brother. He was shouting across the dam. Peter could have got up but he lay in the cold water holding his breath. It was so quiet. He heard his heart in his ears. He let his breath out slowly. Time froze. There were bubbles in his face and he choked. He thought he could hear his head breaking up and disappearing into the silt. His brother’s muffled shouts were cool on his body, caressing him, sending him to sleep. It was peaceful. Something tore him from the water.
‘Jesus, Peter!’
He coughed. It was his father’s face. He’d never seen it so close. Each piece of stubble was magnified. Ron pushed his son to arm’s length.
‘Are you alright?’
Peter nodded.
‘You’re dripping bloody wet!’
He nodded again.
‘What the hell did you do, Simon?’
‘Nothing. He fell in.’
‘I fell in,’ Peter echoed.
‘Jesus. You blokes are useless. We’re going home. And you’re not coming again.’
Terry looked at his brothers and laughed. ‘We’re not coming again,’ he said, and threw the silver thing he’d been playing with into the dam.
‘What was that, son?’
‘What was that?’
‘Jesus, Terry. Are you a parrot?’ ‘Are you a parrot?’
Ron reeled Simon and Peter’s line in. It jammed halfway.
‘Christ. It’s a mess. It’s tangled to shit!’
The two boys looked at their fishing rod then each other. Simon smiled. Peter couldn’t tell if that meant, you’re a hopeless fisherman or this is a cack. Either way, Peter wanted to run.
‘I’m going to have to get in that bloody water now and untangle the line from that log. Did you notice there’s a log there, Peter?’
‘I didn’t cast.’
Ah, Simon, gotcha. Dickhead! Peter gave him two fingers.
‘Simon?’ his father went on. ‘Did you see the log?’
‘Yeah, but...’
Ron shook his head.
‘That’s a decent rig I’ve got on there for you. You’re not coming again.’
Ron waded into the dam. When the water was almost touching his shorts, he plunged his arms into the dam and brought up the bulk of the tangle in one swoop. And a good-sized redfin on the end of it. Terry squealed.
‘A fish!’
Simon was ecstatic.
‘We caught a fish, Dad! We caught a fish!’
The fish was in Ron’s arms. It was dead, wasn’t it? Several pounds with the requisite red fins. And something silver stuck in its large mouth along with the hook hanging from its bottom lip. Ron began to edge the hook out. Peter shivered. How much would the fish hurt if it were alive? He watched his dad work at the hook, pull it this way and that, then out. He realised then his dad could probably do anything. If he wanted to. He could fix anything. Stop any sound, tell anything to shut up and leave Peter alone. But when they’d got home that night and Peter’s mum had told them all that Sheree had died, his dad had just slunk off to his bedroom. He’d left their mum to hold her boys and they’d cried together until they’d all got tired. But they’d still sat up and talked well past bedtime.
‘There’s just some things in life that are very hard to explain, boys,’ their mum had told them, watching her closed bedroom door.
The dam’s silver sheen brightened now and Ron smiled.
‘Well, you blokes, you’ve done a good...’
The redfin gave a sudden wriggle and Ron yelped. The fish dropped headfirst from his hands and into the water. There was nothing Ron could do. He couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t. That bloody fish. He stood stunned and motionless in the dam with his hands turned out. As if the fish might think twice and launch itself back into his arms.
4. Ron, Stan and Ken Stevenson
Ron wasn’t supposed to be there, no way; it was his brother Stan’s and his mates’ party, outside Laharum at McKenzie Falls. They’d have said piss off, Ron, if he’d asked them if he could go. He wasn’t even supposed to know about it.
They all went to the Falls on their bikes. In the dark, just a kero lamp between them to light the way on the dirt road. They dropped their bikes where the valley started and Ron hung back, then dropped his too. He didn’t have a light, but he could see theirs, heading down with them as they walked through the scrub. And once they got to the Falls, he could hear them.
God, who couldn’t?
They were drinking beer out of big bottles, yelling and laughing as if they were men. The Falls were smashing down and glowing in the light of their bonfire. They were all hanging around the flames, and Ron smelt the gas when they threw in their mums’ empty Taft hairspray cans and watched them explode. They were pretending WWII hadn’t finished after all, and they were troops getting bombed. They yapped about Crete and the Middle East as if they’d been there and shot blokes, like some of their dads had.
There were six of them: Stan and Ken, Bob McKinnon, Trevor Randall, Willie Thompson, and Willie’s younger brother. The freckly one.
And Ron. Hiding in the bush. Watching them.
He heard his brothers in the lounge one night after school talking about the party they were going to have. They were sitting near the fireplace and yapping about how they were going to sneak out the bedroom window, meet their mates at the start of Mt Victory Road and ride the eight miles to the Falls. They’d have a bonfire and chug on some grog then ride back, drunk as skunks they said they’d be, and no one would be the wiser. They�
�d only get two hours sleep they reckoned. Then they’d be on the school bus the next day as if nothing had happened. But, by Jesus, it’d be a rip snorting night, wouldn’t it?
Yeah, sure would. Until macho Trevor Randall started giving them all lip. They should have expected it. The bloke was a mouth, plain and simple.
As one of Ron’s teachers used to say: live by the mouth, die by the mouth.
Ron had followed them to the Falls that night, but on the way he did some hunting. He hunted a few times a week. When Stan and Ken were asleep, Ron snuck out the bedroom window and went searching for UFOs in the paddocks above the Grampians, those mountains that looked like witches hats in the moonlight. He usually saw some UFOs, though deep down he knew they were only stars or night birds the moon was shining on. But he went home shivery, telling himself he was one of the few, one of the special ones. Like those army blokes in Sydney.
He’d had the news clipping stuck to his bedroom wall since he was seven. It was yellowing at the edges, but the black and white photo of the bell-shaped UFO was clear. He didn’t know it then, but that photo wasn’t of the UFOs in the article. It was just one put in the paper to show what the real ones floating over Sydney Harbour on the night of July 9th 1947 might have looked like.
Two army officers had been out for a late night stroll at Eliza-beth Bay. They were alone on a strip of sand, with just a few moored boats for company. Silver dishes were suddenly in the sky about 10,000 feet above them, they reckoned. The UFOs flipped on their sides, had a look at the Sydney Harbour Bridge, then exploded off again to wherever they’d come from. There were a few other witnesses, but they weren’t as ‘reliable’ as those two blokes. If they saw something, then there was something there. End of story.
Start of story for Ron. He clipped the article and pinned it right next to his pillow so he could see it before he went to sleep. But UFOs wouldn’t come into his dreams so he had to go hunting. And they were there, he’d found them. It proved what Mrs Larson had told them at school, her bum in a grey skirt wiggling and her chalk fierce on the board.
‘We may not be alone in the universe.’
We. Are. Family. Page 3
