TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story)

by Matthew Turner

  Stroking her fingers over my left hand, she grips me as I grip the wheel.

  "I think we need a night of relaxation. You're all exhausted," I say.

  "Aren't you?"

  "Not really. I guess I'm used to it."

  Tightening her fist around my fingers, she nudges as close as her seatbelt allows. "Yeah... but hey, it means you can drive as I sit back and relax. I think you owe me after years of behind-the-wheel grumpiness."

  I grin but pout at the same time.

  "How are you feeling, anyway?" she asks.

  "Well, I haven't crashed, if that's what you're asking."

  She tilts her neck.

  "I'm fine. No signs of insanity. I promise."

  "Okay," she says, straightening up. "But I was meaning in general, too. Australia seems to suit you."

  "Yeah, it's strange. I don't know why, to be honest. I keep thinking I should be depressed or something, but I'm not." I glance at her bare legs, the loose skirt riding up and exposing her tanned thighs. "I try not to question it."

  "Yeah." Twisting some more in her seat, she faces me straight on, her right leg folded under her left. She wears a plain white top that hugs neatly to her figure, showcasing her midriff and curves—or in places, the lack of—and all I want is to be alone with her and making the most of this. "We all seem to be doing a little better at the moment. Even Wil. He didn't bite when I questioned his taste in shoes yesterday, although I'm not sure if that's a good sign or not." She laughs, looking in the back seat.

  I can't tell her of his frailties. I can't tell anyone, of course, but I certainly can't share them with Danii. "Yeah... I suppose there's always going to be ups and downs. This, makes it easier," I say, nodding towards the ocean. "Isn't it amazing?"

  "Yeah. I'm glad you finally get to see Australia. I know you've always dreamt of it."

  "You're enjoying it too, right?"

  "I am," she says, with a complementing softness to her soothing stroke of my arm. "I can't believe it's Christmas in a few days. This isn't Christmas weather," she continues.

  "I know. Can you imagine what it's like back in York? Give me sunshine and surf over wet and windy any day."

  She takes her hand back and looks out the passenger window. Curling both feet up onto her seat, she sighs. "It's getting easier, isn't it?" She hesitates a few seconds, seeming to choose her next words carefully. "What I mean is, we seem to be adapting, which is crazy because I don't think we should ever feel comfortable about this. Any of this."

  I take my eyes off of the road and stare at her. In this light, she's a masterpiece no artist could improve. A blur of green against blue is her backdrop, and the ever-darkening light mixes with the bright rays from in front. Part of her tanned and scrumptious face is aglow, and the rest is in shadows: her hair golden, then blonde, and then a rich dark brown.

  "I don't know if we're adapting to anything," I say, "Right now, it's peaceful. That's all that matters."

  "Yeah..." She twists in her seat, away from me, and plays with the loose strands of hair overhanging her shoulder. "I start to feel guilty, though. It's stupid. I've spent so long hoping it would get easier, but now it is, I fear it shouldn't be. Like being happy—no, not happy—happy isn't the right word." She sighs. "I don't know what this is, but whatever it is, it feels wrong. We should be sad, right? We should be... suffering."

  "I think we've all suffered enough, sweetie." Each day brings Danii and me closer together, and each lonesome conversation edges us deeper into the other. But right now, I can't do this. This road is too incredible for such thoughts. "Like I say, I try not to question it."

  "Sure, you're right. You're right. Sorry." She twists in her seat again, this time facing me. "You know, I could get used to you driving with a smile. For years, I dreaded getting in a car with you."

  "Oh come on, I wasn't that bad.”

  "Are you kidding me? You were dreadful. I spent many a moment worrying for our future children, sitting in the back and having to listen to your..." She hesitates, like we always do when the conversation takes a turn we cannot handle. The future... children... our family... we usually share a glance, turn away, and change the subject with careful precision. Then again, this road...

  "I used to think about that, too, you know?" I say.

  Her eyes widen and she drinks her next breath. "About what?"

  "You getting our children lost on every family outing."

  "Excuse me," she says, pushing up on her feet and nearly hitting her head on the roof. "I only got us lost on a few occasions.

  I raise my eyebrows, words not required.

  "Fine, maybe more than a few, but it still wasn't bad. Anyway, it's a lot of pressure being in a seat next to you. You never know when 'Bad Dante' will rear his ugly head. Seriously, when you get behind the wheel, you digress into a sulking thirteen-year-old."

  Pouting, I try to replicate her damning image of me.

  "That's the one. Oh yes, driving would most certainly be your biggest downfall as a father."

  "Yeah? There would be more than one?"

  Biting her bottom lip and blinking twice, she stares past me and out towards the ocean. "There would be one or two, yes," she says, taking my hand. "Overall though, you'd be amazing."

  Keeping my attention on the road, I take a deep breath. "Well, I'd have a marvellous teacher by my side."

  Rubbing her hand gently up and down my thigh, she places her head on my shoulder. Another beach town is near, the tops of buildings sneaking out from behind the trees. This road. This inspiring sea. This delightful sky, and tedious grey path before me. Never has driving been like this.

  25th December—Melbourne:

  Recommended Listening:

  Baby, It’s Cold Outside—She & Him

  When The Sun Goes Down—Ben Gibbard

  Hallelujah—Thao & Mirah

  Mykonos—Fleet Foxes

  I remember waking up on Christmas morning as a child with so much energy and excitement. It's a shame how life takes this away and makes it just another day, but on this occasion, I awoke to a feeling of festive joy. True, it was coupled with a striking headache that reached a seven on my measure of torture, but as far as agonising headaches go, this one had spirit.

  We all stirred early this morning and shared a merry breakfast in the bar/cafe/hangout area downstairs. Surrounded by travelling nomads, each far away from home on this day of all days, we had no desire to interact or let others be part of our clique. This occasion was for the four of us.

  The mid-morning sun decked the small garden in luscious tones, the greens of the leaves and yellow of the petals bright, so contrasting to the darker colours Christmas usually brings. Taking the festive supplies we bought yesterday, Ethan and Danii cooked a variety of meats over the small barbecue we picked up, the four of us hidden away in a private corner in the hostel's garden.

  "I'm not sure this is as good as my mum's Christmas roast," said Ethan, stuffing a sausage in his mouth. "But I could get used to the sun."

  "Ah yes, I was thinking the same," replied Wil, mixing an array of drinks, his sole duty to keep us topped up and merry. "Christmas in new light, but Christmas all the same."

  Laughing and singing out-of-tune carols, we left the morning behind and welcomed the afternoon with full and bulging stomachs. I lay on my back, Danii resting on my thigh, and stared up at the quilt of blue. As chatter and laughter died down, an ache roamed my inners, but it wasn't the tumour's work on this occasion, it was a longing. A longing for home, for York, for my parents, for a time of year I used to treasure so dear.

  "I think I need to walk on my own," I told Danii, after guiding her away from the smouldering barbecue.

  I anticipated a torn reaction, but it never came. "I think that's a good idea," she said, rubbing my arm.

  Unintentionally, I've been beside at least one other person throughout this journey, which is nice, but also pathetic. I left for the airport alone, a lone nomad embarking on a meaningful journey. My onl
y lonesome moments are awake in bed, but even then I'm in a room with three other people. Walking the Melbourne streets right now is my first lonesome stroll, but it should be one of many. I'm glad Danii's with me, and Ethan and Wil, too, but I wonder if I'd have learned more had I been alone all this time.

  The desolate streets of Melbourne are peaceful. I hadn't considered Christmas at any point during this trip, and until we reached the City and saw large triangular trees and flashing lights, I assumed Christmas wouldn't occur this year—as though it was a holiday reserved for the English.

  It's different, but still rather familiar. Everywhere is quiet and closed, just like back home, but there's a certain energy despite the lack of people. Walking past storefronts still brings a twinkle of festive tunes, and unlike previous years, where I'm tired of every single song by the time December blossoms, I now appreciate every chord, even those from the dreaded voice of Sir Cliff. It's sad to consider, but I've probably heard the majority of Christmas songs for the final time.

  The biggest contrast is how everything is light and bright and full of colour. I'm used to Christmas Trees hypnotising me with their vibrant distinction against the dark and dreary backdrop. Here, the colour of the trees never matches the glimmer of that beside it. Whether it's the blue sky or the sun reflecting in a wall of glass, or simply the playful brightness of the day, the tree is lost in a beautiful array of visual noise.

  I find this both wonderful and sad, because I've always believed Christmas Trees hold power and magic, and no matter what the setting, they would always stand out like certain flowers do, or striking faces with flawless features. Then again, maybe this is how Christmas should be captured. So often, we associate snowy scenery and a well-layered Santa, but maybe a bright and joyful season is the only way to understand such splendour.

  Surrounding a table with family is great, but enjoying the meal in the sunshine is better.

  Cuddling up under a blanket is one thing, but sitting around a fading fire and enjoying a beer is another.

  It's all rather different, but still somewhat familiar, and although it isn't the same as it once was, today is the day I would always sit in the same room as my parents for hours on end. Maybe it's the lingering aftertaste of childhood, but I'd feel at ease around them. On any other day, I'd avoid their company. But on Christmas Day, I'd cling to it.

  Shining bright, the sun consumes every part of me. Sweat tingles on my forehead, running down my face one bead at a time. It's nice. The warmth is soothing and sleepy, and here, alone and resting, fatigue eats away at my shoulders.

  Suddenly, a shadow crosses me, cooling the air in an instant. A strange-looking chap stands slightly to my right, just in front of the large Christmas Tree covered in chunky golden stars. He isn't looking at me and doesn't seem to be looking at anything in particular, but he's close despite the desolate public space. He could choose anywhere to stand, but he's chosen the one place that steals my sunshine.

  "Merry Christmas," he says, his harsh Australian accent rolling his s.

  I nod, immediately shifting away from him. "Merry Christmas," I mumble.

  Silence once again returns, the gentle hum of something Christmasy in the distance, the wind and birds providing its melody.

  "A lovely day it is, too," he says, sitting down and releasing the sun's rays. "Barely a cloud in that true sky."

  I anticipate an unsavoury smell, but one doesn't arrive. His jacket is torn and his trousers grubby, and although each colour on his patterned shirt is faded, his face is clean and his grey beard trimmed neatly against his skin. From afar, you'd assume he's one to avoid, but up close, he's somewhat welcoming. "It sure is," I say, tipping my head back and breathing in the warm air.

  "A little different to back home?" he asks. "You POMs don't see the sunshine at this time of year."

  I nod.

  "I spent Christmas in England once. Absolutely devastating. I thought the least I'd get was snow, but all it did was rain. And the wind, boy, never have I seen wind like it."

  "Sounds about right," I laugh.

  The aged man smiles, releasing a set of perfectly white teeth, all lined in order. I barely see his lips for the white whiskers surrounding them, although they're not out of control, each patch purposeful and sculptured. The only free-roaming part of his face is the tail-like flap hanging loose from his chin, waving in the gentle breeze like the long, uncut grass in the springtime fields of North Yorkshire.

  "They call me Jake, by the way, although that isn't my name."

  I squint, confused. "And what would that be?"

  "Edward."

  "Where does Jake come from, then?"

  "I have no idea. I've been called it for so long now, I forget when it all began. A lifelong love affair with scotch doesn't help matters, either."

  "Yeah, that'll do it." I laugh again. "I'm Dante, but that happens to be my name, too." I sigh and look away. "I understand the forgetfulness, as well."

  "Nice to meet you, Dante," he says, holding out his hand. "On such a lovely day, as well."

  Shaking it, and surprised at how soft his skin is, I nod. "Nice meeting you, too."

  He takes his hand back and pulls his right leg up and over his left, revealing a rainbow-striped sock below his tatty grey trousers. "So, tell me, Dante, what brings you to this particular spot on Christmas Day?"

  "I just needed to be alone for a while."

  "Absolutely, good call, especially on today of all days. It gets a little manic, although I take it you're a traveller, which makes that statement false, because nothing is ever hectic in the life of a nomad."

  "Of course," I say, beaming at his own contagious offering. "It's a tough life."

  "Indeed it is. I know it well." Rubbing his ankle, he leans in towards me. "So tell me, are you running or searching?" he whispers.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, every traveller I've ever met—including myself—is either running away from something—or someone—or searching for something—or someone. Which are you?"

  I glance past him for a second, considering my answer and focussing on the large tree behind. It's mostly bare, with just a few golden stars sporadically dotted around. "I guess both, although I doubt many are doing it for the same reason as me."

  "How mysterious," he says, tapping his thigh. "I love it. Well, I think it's fine to be both running and searching. It improves your chances of success."

  The sun hides behind one of the few clouds in the sky, placing us both in a temporary shadow. "Yeah, I guess so. What about you? You say you're a traveller?"

  "Indeed, although I like to look at myself as a born-to-be-lifelong-wanderer".

  "I see, I bet you have quite a few stories."

  Beaming, he bounces on his bum. "You have no idea. You don't get to seventy-three without the odd tale in your locker."

  My confused squint returns. "There's no way you're seventy-three."

  "I sure am. People say life makes you old, but I couldn't disagree more. Life makes you young. It's sitting around, doing the same thing day-in-day-out that ages the skin. Seriously, I can always spot a traveller. There's something in their eyes. An element of openness. A desire for change and adventure and freedom."

  "So that's your secret?" I ask.

  "Oh, Dante, living life is no secret. It's merely something most overlook."

  I look past him again, this time considering Wil and how he'll grow old. This is he in fifty years time. From afar, you assume he's homeless and crazy, but up close, as you listen and take in his words, you realise he's a genius, only in a way most can't comprehend, including myself, of late.

  "Do you know something, Dante," he asks, placing his hand on my arm. "This is the seventeenth year in a row I've come to this spot... at this very time... on this very day."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, and this is the first time I've ever spoken to anyone."

  "I see. May I ask why you keep coming back?"

  "Ah, it's a story you seek. Okay
, okay. Well, I was born and raised here in Melbourne, but as a youngster, I was somewhat rebellious. My friends and I used to loiter around these parts, nothing too dangerous, merely juvenile nonsense like drinking and gambling. It was different back then, of course. That coffee shop over there," he says, pointing towards a sparkling new build, "used to be a butcher's, and that," he continues, now pointing to a row of parked cars, "is where the best ice cream in town was served. We weren't allowed in there. Like I say, far too juvenile and reckless.

  "Anyway," he continues, standing up and shuffling to his right. "This is where I had my first run-in with the law, and it's this reason why I keep coming back each Christmas. Right here," he taps his foot, "is where it took place, and although I wish I could say it was my last, it wasn't. Life has been a maze since. I've spent time inside, travelled the globe, spawned a few children along the way, but here I am back where it all began.

  "I remember returning home seventeen years ago. I was lonely and tired, and, I'm sorry to say, a little unstable. Christmas is a tough time for a person in that position, and for some reason, I took a walk and found myself here—at this very time. I didn't recognise it at first, but it all came back to me: the drinking, the scampish behaviour, the first time I was cuffed and pushed into a car. I had been around the planet several times and come full circle, and for some reason, it helped. I finally knew returning home was the right thing to do. I'm not religious by any means, but I felt a sense of faith right then. Every time I return, so does the feeling: free abundance, a sense of acceptance, all the memories of the past.

  "I don't always stay in Melbourne, of course. You can't teach an old dog new tricks, and travelling is simply what I do, but I always make sure I'm here at this time of year. I love Melbourne at Christmas, and believe me, I've spent a few Christmases elsewhere."

  I sway with his words, but deep down I'm empty. "That's amazing," I say, and although I smile, it's lifeless. I too have stories and wisdom to share, but mine will remain locked away, lost in the maze of history's wayward tales.