The boat departed (a notice said) at 1.00 p.m. Victorian time, 12.30 p.m. South Australian time. Here on the border, life was lived in dual time zones.
As the captain’s wife took down the chain to let the queue on board, Ant politely slipped around the dithering groups of grandparents and children, Japanese honeymoon couples and German backpackers and grabbed one of the front tables for Tony and himself.
‘Good work,’ his father said, sitting beside him.
The boat was a bit like a café: a long rectangular cabin with ordinary straight walls and a flat ceiling, rows of chairs and laminex-topped tables. At the back of the room was a little counter where you could get teabag tea and instant coffee, packets of chips and Minties, but Tony had brought a thermos of brewed coffee from the pub and a fruit cake from the Nelson shop. (The banana supply was finished, Ant was pleased to see.) The whole of the front of the cabin was taken up by a huge glass sliding door that looked out onto the river.
The captain’s wife cast off from the little deck in front of their window, clasping her coat tight around her, patting at her hairdo as the wind lashed the rain every which way. Then she slid the door open a little and squeezed back into the warmth of the cabin.
There were waves, Ant saw as they headed inland, not just boat wake but waves crisscrossing the river. And the water was – what? – Payne’s grey today, and the shadows of the gorge were . . .
Ant fumbled in his yellow bag, pulled out his sketchbook and pencils. He just couldn’t stop himself.
First a sketch of the landing station, hills and forest in the background. Glenelg River, 7 July, he wrote. Ant always dated his sketches. They were his way of remembering the things he didn’t want to forget.
The second sketch was of the bridge as they approached it, a cluster of little boatsheds behind.
Then around the bend a little way, a view of the left side of the gorge, a rock jutting out, two trees on top.
Now twisting back with the river’s movement, getting looser, a view to the front, the water curving open, a gentle fold of gorge-top.
Snaking again, moving with the flow like a dancer following a rhythm, a quick series of three bends, three inlets, three hills.
Pace building up now, but focus in, a close look at the gorge-side, the tree trunks strong lines with the foliage today taking on the colour of grey river, grey sky, grey rock, 8B pencil. Glenelg River, 7/7 . . .
For some time now Ant had been aware and not aware of people passing from the cabin to the little front deck, pausing to look over his shoulder, observing as he drew; and the presence of his father, not just quiet beside him but almost breathless, as if afraid to break the spell.
Now the grandmother from the seat behind was commenting to Tony, ‘Aren’t they lovely . . . they’re so good . . . he’s so talented, isn’t he? Does he have lessons?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tony replied.
‘Oh!’ said the grandmother, ‘Pardon me, I thought you were his father!’ and she bristled away.
Then the river did a sudden jive and the view opened leftwards again towards a curving bay, a cluster of brightly painted boatsheds with landing docks and piers.
And again a turn – this time towards the side of the gorge, the striations of the limestone reminding Ant, as he traced them, how the land makes itself in layers, by the movement of water. Glenelg River, 7/7 . . .
As Ant again and again wrote the date on this record of his journey, it began to assume a significance, as if the seventh day of the seventh month was like the seventh son of the seventh son in the fairytales: possessing a magic of its own.
Time for one more quick sketch (the river itself this time, boat wash, ripples, a submerged branch) as they headed in to the landing for the caves.
(9) INSIDE
The people from the boat milled around for a while in the National Parks building, buying tickets and postcards, looking at wall charts that explained the geology:
The formation of Princess Margaret Rose Caves was assisted by water from the Glenelg River, which worked its way for 300 m along a faultline in the limestone. This occurred 800,000 years ago when the river was 15 m above its present height. The water scalloped the walls of the cave and created a reasonably level floor.
How the stalactites form
Rainwater as it seeps from the surface acts as a weak acid to dissolve limestone, producing a solution of calcium bicarbonate. When this reaches the air of the cave, carbon dioxide is released and calcium carbonate is deposited in the form of calcite crystals. These crystals make up the diverse and spectacular formations of the cave.
A bell rang, and a uniformed ranger led the way to a door in the wall.
Ant and his father found themselves at the front of the queue as the ranger ushered the group through the door and down a flight of extremely steep limestone steps. Although this stairwell was floodlit, it was very narrow; with forty other tourists pushing down behind, it felt as if there was no way back, if you should happen to have second thoughts.
Ant found himself remembering the story of Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole, for there was a giddying feeling about this rapid descent.
And then the stairs opened out into a vast cavern, and all that Ant was aware of was a sense of the earth that overcame him.
Although there was Chapel every morning at school, Ant had never felt religious; now he did. The awe he felt, however, was not at God making the earth, but at the earth making the earth: it was a sense of vastness and smallness coming together, as Ant became aware of how each and every drop of calcium carbonate was part of this creation process: and it was a sense of a combination of oldness and newness, for if this creation had been happening since the very beginning, it was happening still, all around Ant, at this very second. Stalactites were building unseen.
All of this produced in Ant such a feeling of well-being that he didn’t even mind the comments of the other tourists around him . . .
‘Look, darling, it’s just like diamonds!’
‘Oooh, that’s a cute one!’
‘Here’s one that looks like a rocket!’
It was as if the cave was some sort of Disneyland, created for their amusement. Tony of course wasn’t saying any of this stuff; indeed, Ant hadn’t heard him say anything since they’d been down here.
‘I’ll turn the lights out in a moment,’ the ranger announced, ‘so that you can experience the darkness.’
Most of the tourists didn’t seem to be listening, but the ranger kept talking. ‘Even on a moonless night,’ he explained, ‘there is always some light in the sky, and your eyes adapt to it. But down here, there is a complete absence of light. Is everybody ready . . .?’
Despite the warnings, there was a loud gasp from the group as the lights went off.
Pitch – Ant thought, running through the ways he knew to describe black – pitch black, jet black, inky black, ebony, black as coal, black as a crow, but nothing in his experience was black as a cave.
At first Ant was aware of the tourists around him. The darkness seemed to make them feel a need for comedy, and there was a great deal of giggling, interspersed with pathetic jokes.
‘Ooooookie spooooookies . . .’ said one of the women, in a voice you’d expect from an eight-year-old boy.
Soon, however, Ant was able to block them out, by focusing on what was around him. It wasn’t just the depth of colour that was extraordinary to him – it was the density, the complete lack of tones. With no light, there was no shadow. Was this what the colour field painters had been aiming at: pure colour?
And then a man’s voice abruptly cut in: ‘What’s that noise?’
‘The Monster from the Deep,’ one of the jokers replied.
‘No, I’m serious,’ the man said.
‘Yeah, just listen . . .’ said another voice, sounding alarmed.
They all hushed then, and Ant could hear what they meant: there was a terrible sound of breathing, of short loud rasping breaths, as if some huge creature
was in the cave with them, ready to pounce. Although he didn’t himself feel threatened by whateveritwas, Ant was aware of the fear from the rest of the group tingling like electricity through the damp black air.
‘Help!’ someone yelled.
‘Turn on the lights!
’ It seemed to take ages for the ranger to reach the switch, and during that time the monstrous panting seemed to Ant to get closer and closer to him. It was as if he could feel the creature’s breath against his cheek.
‘Ahhhhh!’ There was a collective sigh of relief as light flooded the cavern. And then they were all staring apprehensively around.
What was it?
Where was it?
It was Ant who realised. The monster was his father.
(10) SHRINKING
Tony stood as if frozen beside a pillar of golden limestone, his face whitish-green and covered (Ant noticed) with a film of sweat. The loud panting was still going on, getting faster and faster. It was clear that Tony was breathing too quickly to take in enough oxygen.
‘He’s hyperventilating,’ Ant heard someone say. ‘Get him out of here!’
As the ranger gently took Tony’s arm, he started to shake his head wildly back and forth. ‘I can’t, I can’t,’ he seemed to be saying between huge breaths and – as if against his will – his tall body began to hunch, and now Ant’s father became smaller and smaller, shrinking down in front of the limestone pillar until he was curling at its base like a child.
‘Is he claustrophobic?’ the ranger asked Ant.
‘I don’t know,’ Ant said, and then found himself admitting, ‘I don’t know him very well.’
‘C’mon, mate . . .’ The ranger bent over the frightened body. ‘You really do have to let us help you.’
The ranger and Ant managed to lift Tony to his feet, then slung his arms around their shoulders and struggled their way up the shaft steps and onto the rim of the earth.
(11) OUTSIDE
Tony sat on the bench outside the exit door. He seemed to be concentrating very hard as his breathing changed over from the hysterical panting to something a little slower, a little deeper.
He was still shivering, though.
Ant took his parka off, wrapped it around Tony’s shoulders, then found himself rubbing up and down Tony’s back in long, firm strokes.
Click.
Ant’s mind saw this picture, and then imposed over it – or maybe under it – an almost identical picture of a tall thin bloke comforting a sobbing child.
Dad-and-me. That time I got caught in the channel at Nambucca Heads, and he swam in and pulled me out, and he rubbed my back till I felt better, and he didn’t go crook at me even though he’d told me there was a bad rip that day and I was to stay in the camping ground.
Click.
So he did take me on a holiday at least once before, Ant realised. He took me camping. He saved my life. What other nice things did he do that I’ve forgotten?
‘Here you go, mate.’ The ranger handed Tony a cup of tea. ‘Lots of sugar in it. That’ll fix you up in no time.’
‘Thanks,’ Tony said. He looked at Ant. ‘Both of you.’
(12) THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER
As well as collecting colour words, Ant would sometimes scrawl phrases from art books on to the inside flap of his sketchbook. One of these caught his eye as he opened the book back in the hotel room:
Landscape: a view or prospect of rural scenery, such as can be taken in at a glance from a single point of view . . . a picture representing such scenery . . .
He had read it a hundred times but now he found himself wondering: what if the same thing was looked at from two completely different viewpoints?
(13) ECONOMICS
The archaelogist wasn’t in the bar that night, but Ant again saw how easily his father could make friends with people. It was an abalone diver this time, a huge bloke with raw red hands and a scar running from eyebrow to jawline. Ant watched as Tony got the bloke talking about what he did – where he dived – how big the average catch was – how long he’d been diving – hazards and dangers . . .
‘Yeah, it can get pretty dicey down there at times,’ the diver said.
Tony shuddered. ‘I don’t know how you can stand it. I’d be hopeless. Got petrified just going down the caves this morning.’
Ant was surprised to hear his father come out with his fear in front of this bloke, but the ab diver nodded.
‘Everyone’s afraid of something, I reckon,’ he said. ‘With me it’s moths. Put me in a room with a bogong and I’m screaming in five seconds.’
Ant found himself remembering the woman in the aeroplane: her white knuckles. His own fear wasn’t triggered by a sense of physical danger, but by social things.
Ant could feel nervous about something as simple as telling his father he didn’t like bananas.
Tony pointed to the abalone diver’s glass. ‘What would you like?’
Over the next couple of drinks the diver asked Tony what he did for a crust, where he came from, and then the conversation moved back to abalone: prices, the Japanese market, fluctuations in the dollar, the value of the yen.
‘Course,’ the diver said, ‘it’s the licence fee that cripples you.’ He took a long swig of his beer. ‘They reckon it’s to protect the species or something,’ the diver went on. ‘Bloody conservationists.’ He made a spitting sound.
‘But – ’ Ant began. Then he was suddenly aware that every bloke in the bar was watching him, listening to him. He remembered the bumper stickers he’d seen on some of the utes in the carpark. ‘DOZE IN A GREENIE.’ ‘SAVE JOBS, NOT TREES.’
Tony deftly fielded the conversation in a safer direction. ‘It’s the same in my line of work,’ he told the abalone diver. ‘It costs an arm and a leg, before you earn a cracker.’
‘How come?’ the guy asked. ‘I’d’ve thought barristers would be on Easy Street.’
‘Oh, some of them,’ Tony agreed. ‘Some make a packet. But I’ve always mostly done Legal Aid work, and that’s really dried up now. The government just isn’t funding it any more.’ He nodded to the publican to order another round. ‘But whether I get any work or not,’ he went on, ‘I’ve still got to pay for my room in Chambers. And that’s on top of the rent for my flat. Still,’ Tony smiled, ‘I shouldn’t complain. There’s thousands far worse off.’
‘That’s for sure, mate,’ the diver agreed. ‘That’s for bloody sure.’
(14) THE FINE ART OF CONVERSATION
Later that night, lying in darkness in their room, Ant listened to the tempest. The roof had come off the fish cannery at Port MacDonnell, the publican had told them, and the harbour was closed at Portland. Some of the old-timers reckoned they couldn’t remember a storm quite this bad.
From the other bed, Tony asked tentatively, ‘You OK there? Not scared or anything?’
‘No,’ Ant said. The pub was an old stone building, huddled down into the earth. It felt safe.
But now that Tony had started talking, Ant wanted to keep going, wanted to say something – but how? Even in the dark, it wasn’t easy.
Just start . . .
‘Um,’ Ant said.
After a while came the reply: ‘Um what?’
‘Um, can I ask you something?’
‘Go on.’
Losing courage: ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes it does.’
‘No it doesn’t.’
Losing patience: ‘Come on, Antony. Out with it.’
‘Well. Um. You know how you’re really broke?’
‘No,’ said Ant’s father. ‘I am not really broke. I am just not really rich.’
‘Yeah, well, I was thinking . . .’
Silence.
‘Thinking what?’
All in a rush: ‘Thinking about how, if I changed over to the Creative Arts High School, then you wouldn’t have to pay my school fees?’
‘I am happy to pay the fees for your school.’
‘Yeah but . . .’
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‘I went there, and I am happy for you to go there.’
So that was that. Mum had said not to waste his breath.
Then out it spluttered.
‘Yeah, but I’m not happy to go there. How do you think I feel, going somewhere you went? Hearing about you from the teachers, every day of my life? Looking at your name, on the board in the chapel? Having the same name, and being told all the time that I don’t live up to it?
How do you think I feel?’
‘It was the same for me, remember?’ Tony’s voice murmured. ‘I followed Grandpa there.’
‘Yeah, but you were good at the same things as him. I’m different.’
Silence for a moment.
‘I just don’t fit in there. And anyway, I hate it.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Worse. And I want to go to the Creative Arts School, and study something that I want to learn about.’
After a while: ‘It was your grandfather that put your name down for the school. Day you were born. I guess I just went along with it.’ Silence again. ‘I’d have to talk to your mother about it.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ It was the first time he’d called his father that for a long time.
(15) DAY FIVE
Pancake time again. At some point in the night, the wind had dropped. Now sunlight was trying to break through the drizzle.
Ant was studying the map. Working out a route that would take them back to Melbourne a different way from how they’d come. His flight went at 5.15. Nine hours from now. Mum would pick him up from the airport; he’d be home in time for tea. Then he’d have nine days to potter about before school started.
‘I guess we could head inland to Winnap,’ he read off the map. ‘Then up a bit to Casterton. Join the highway and come down through Hamilton, back to Geelong, and up to Melbourne. Or after Hamilton we could just head east towards Ballarat, then come down to Melbourne.’
Tony squeezed lemon over his pancake, sprinkled sugar. ‘Which way would you like to go?’
Ant’s eyes scanned the map, flicking over exotic place names, blue threads of rivers, green patches of national park, an ochre colour towards the centre . . .
‘The way I’d like to go,’ he joked, ‘is straight up north, to the Little Desert National Park, then on from Dimboola, through Hopetoun – there’s another national park there – to Ouyen, or however you pronounce it. Up through the Hattah-Kulkyne National Park to Mildura, then all the way up the Silver City Highway to Broken Hill.’ Ant laughed, scoffed down his orange juice.
Listening to Mondrian Page 12
