by Tim Winton
THE TURNING
TIM WINTON
PICADOR
for Ken Kelso
And I pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
T. S. Eliot, ‘Ash Wednesday’
Contents
Big World
Abbreviation
Aquifer
Damaged Goods
Small Mercies
On Her Knees
Cockleshell
The Turning
Sand
Family
Long, Clear View
Reunion
Commission
Fog
Boner McPharlin’s Moll
Immunity
Defender
Big World
AFTER FIVE YEARS of high school the final November arrives and leaves as suddenly as a spring storm. Exams. Graduation. Huge beach parties. Biggie and me, we’re feverish with anticipation; we steel ourselves for a season of pandemonium. But after the initial celebrations, nothing really happens, not even summer itself. Week after week an endless misting drizzle wafts in from the sea. It beads in our hair and hangs from the tips of our noses while we trudge around town in the vain hope of scaring up some action. The southern sky presses down and the beaches and bays turn the colour of dirty tin. Somehow our crappy Saturday job at the meatworks becomes full-time and then Christmas comes and so do the dreaded exam results. The news is not good. A few of our classmates pack their bags for university and shoot through. Cheryl Button gets into Medicine. Vic Lang, the copper’s kid, is dux of the school and doesn’t even stay for graduation. And suddenly there we are, Biggie and me, heading to work every morning in a frigid wind in the January of our new lives, still in jeans and boots and flannel shirts, with beanies on our heads and the horizon around our ears.
The job mostly consists of hosing blood off the floors. Plumes of the stuff go into the harbour and old men sit in dinghies offshore to catch herring in the slick. Some days I can see me and Biggie out there as old codgers, anchored to the friggin place, stuck forever. Our time at the meatworks is supposed to be temporary. We’re saving for a car, the V-8 Sandman we’ve been promising ourselves since we were fourteen. Mag wheels, a lurid spray job like something off a Yes album and a filthy great mattress in the back. A chick magnet, that’s what we want. Until now we’ve had a biscuit tin full of twos and fivers but now we’re making real money.
Trouble is, I can’t stand it. I just know I won’t last long enough to get that car. There’s something I’ve never told Biggie in all our years of being mates. That I dream of escaping, of pissing off north to find some blue sky. Unlike him I’m not really from here. It’s not hosing blood that shits me off – it’s Angelus itself; I’m going nuts here. Until now, out of loyalty, I’ve kept it to myself, but by the beginning of February I’m chipping away at our old fantasy, talking instead about sitting under a mango tree with a cold beer, walking in a shady banana plantation with a girl in a cheesecloth dress. On our long walks home I bang on about cutting our own pineapples and climbing for coconuts. Mate, I say, can’t you see yourself rubbing baby oil into a girl’s strapless back on Cable Beach? Up north, mate, think north! I know Biggie loves this town and he’s committed to the shared vision of the panel van, but I white-ant him day after day until it starts to pay off.
By the last weeks of February Biggie’s starting to come around. He’s talking wide open spaces now, trails to adventure, and I’m like this little urger in his ear. Then one grey day he crosses the line. We’ve been deputised to help pack skins. For eight hours we stand on the line fighting slippery chunks of cow hide into boxes so they can be sold as craybait. Our arms are slick with gore and pasted with orange and black beef-hairs. The smell isn’t good but that’s nothing compared with the feel of all those severed nostrils and lips and ears between your fingers. I don’t make a sound, don’t even stop for lunch, can’t think about it. I’m just glad all those chunks are fresh because at least my hands are warm. Beside me Biggie’s face gets darker and darker, and when the shift horn sounds he lurches away, his last carton half-empty. Fuck it, he says. We’re outta here. That afternoon we ditch the Sandman idea and buy a Kombi from a hippy on the wharf. Two hundred bucks each.
We put in two last weeks at the meatworks and collect our pay. We fill the ancient VW with tinned food and all our camping junk and rack off without telling a soul. Monday morning everyone thinks we’re off to work as usual, but in ten minutes we’re out past the town limits going like hell. Well, going the way a 1967 Kombi will go. Our getaway vehicle is a garden shed on wheels.
It’s a mad feeling, sitting up so high like that with the road flashing under your feet. For a couple of hours we’re laughing and pointing and shoving and farting and then we settle down a bit. We go quiet and just listen to the Volkswagen’s engine threshing away behind us. I can’t believe we’ve done it. If either of us had let on to anybody these past couple of weeks we’d never have gone through with it; we’d have piked for sure. We’d be like all the other poor stranded failures who stayed in Angelus. But now we’re on the road, it’s time for second thoughts. Nothing said, but I can feel it.
The plan is to call from somewhere the other side of Perth when we’re out of reach. I want to be safe from the guilts – the old girl will crack a sad on me – but Biggie has bigger things to fear. His old man will beat the shit out of him when he finds out. We can’t change our minds now.
The longer we drive the more the sky and the bush open up. Now and then Biggie looks at me and leers. He’s got a face only a mother could love. One eye’s looking at you and the other eye’s looking for you. He’s kind of pear-shaped, but you’d be a brave bugger calling him a barge-arse. The fists on him. To be honest he’s not really my sort of bloke at all, but somehow he’s my best mate.
We buzz north through hours of good farm country. The big, neat paddocks get browner and drier all the while and the air feels thick and warm. Biggie drives. He has the habit of punctuating his sentences with jabs on the accelerator and although the gutless old Volksie doesn’t exactly give you whiplash at every flourish, it’s enough to give a bloke a headache. We wind through the remnant jarrah forest, and the sickly-looking regrowth is so rain-parched it almost crackles when you look at it.
When Perth comes into view, its dun plain shimmering with heat and distant towers ablaze with midday sun, we get all nervous and giggly, like a pair of tipsy netballers. The big city. We give each other the full Groucho Marx eyebrow routine but we’re not stopping. Biggie’s a country boy through and through. Cities confound him, he can’t see the point of them. He honestly wonders how people can live in each other’s pockets like that. He’s revolted and a little frightened at the thought. Me, I love the city, I’m from there originally. I really thought I’d be moving back this month. But I won’t, of course. Not after blowing my exams. I’m glad we’re not stopping. It’d be like having your nose rubbed in it. Failure, that is. I can’t tell Biggie this but missing out on uni really stings. When the results came I cried my eyes out. I thought about killing myself.
To get past Perth we navigate the blowsy strips of caryards and showrooms and crappy subdivisions on the outskirts. Soon we’re out the other side into vineyards and horse paddocks with the sky blue as mouthwash ahead. Then finally, open road. We’ve reached a world where it isn’t bloody raining all the time, where nobody knows us and nobody cares. There’s just us and the Love Machine. We get the giggles. We go off; we blat the horn and hoot and chuck maps and burger wrappers around the cabin. Two mad southern boys still wearing beanies i
n March.
I’m laughing. I’m kicking the dash. That ache is still there inside me but this is the best I’ve felt since the news about the exams. For once I’m not faking it. I look across at Biggie. His huge, unlovely face is creased with merriment. I just know I’ll never be able to tell him about the hopes I had for myself and for a little while I don’t care about any of it; I’m almost as happy as him. Biggie’s results were even worse than mine – he really fried – but he didn’t have his heart set on doing well; he couldn’t give a rat’s ring. For him, our bombing out is a huge joke. In his head he’s always seen himself at the meatworks or the cannery until he inherits the salmon-netting licence from his old man. He’s content, he belongs. His outlook drives my mother wild with frustration but in a way I envy him. My mother calls us Lenny and George. She teaches English; she thinks that’s funny. She’s trying to wean me off Biggie Botson. In fact she’s got a program all mapped out to get me back on track, to take the year again and re-sit the exams. But I’ve blown all that off now. Biggie’s not the brightest crayon in the box but he’s the most loyal person I know. He’s the real deal and you can’t say that about many people.
My mother won’t chase me up; she’s kind of preoccupied. She’s in love with the deputy principal. He’s married. He uses the school office to sell Amway. Both of them believe that Civics should be reintroduced as a compulsory course.
We get out into rolling pasture and granite country and then wheat-lands where the ground is freshly torn up in the hope of rain. The VW shakes like a boiling billy and we’ve finally woken up to ourselves and sheepishly dragged our beanies off. The windows are down and the hot wind rips through our hair.
Biggie must have secrets. Everyone dreams of things in private. There must be stuff he doesn’t tell me. I know about the floggings he and his mum get, but I don’t know what he wants deep down. He won’t say. But then I don’t say either. I never tell him about the Skeleton Coast in Africa where ships come aground on surf beaches and lie there broken-bellied until the dunes bury them. And the picture I have of myself in a café on the Piazza San Marco leaving a tip so big that the waiter inhales his moustache. Dreams of the big world beyond. Manila. Monterey. Places in books. In all these years I never let on. But then Biggie’s never there in the picture with me. In those daydreams he doesn’t figure, and maybe I’m guilty about that.
After a while we pull over for a leak. The sunlight is creamy up here. Standing at the roadside with it roasting my back and arms through the heavy shirt, I don’t care that picking guavas and papaya doesn’t pay much more than hosing the floor of an abattoir. If it’s outside in the sun, that’s fine by me. We’ll be growing things, not killing them. We’ll move with the seasons. We’ll be free.
Mum thinks Biggie’s an oaf, that he’s holding me back. She doesn’t know that without Biggie there’d be nothing left of me to hold back. It sounds weak, but he saved my life.
We didn’t meet until the second week of high school. I was new in town and right from the start a kid called Tony Macoli became fixated on me. He was very short with a rodent’s big eyes and narrow teeth. He sat behind me every class he could and whispered weird threats under the uncomprehending gaze of the teachers, especially my mother. He liked to jab me in the back with the point of his compass and lob spitballs into my hair. He trod on my feet in passing and gleefully broke my pencils. I’d never been a brawler but I was confident that I could knock him down. Trouble was, my parents were new to the school – this was before the old man pissed off – and I didn’t want to make trouble. I already sensed their mutual misery and I felt responsible somehow. So I put up with it. I hadn’t even spoken to Tony Macoli. I was shocked by the hatred in his wan little face. I couldn’t imagine how I’d put him out so thoroughly. It seemed that my very existence offended him.
The little bastard kept at me but I didn’t touch him. After a week I didn’t even react. I wasn’t scared. It wasn’t passive resistance or anything. I just got all weird and listless. I reckon I was depressed. But the less I responded the more Tony Macoli paid out on me.
On the second Monday of term I was shoved into a hedge, tripped in the corridor so that my books sprayed across the linoleum, and had my fingers slammed in a desk – all this before morning recess. Each little coup brought out Macoli’s wheezy little laugh. It rocked his body and tilted his head back on his neck so that the whites of his eyes showed. At morning recess I was wiping mud from my pants while he gave in to that convulsive laugh. The wind blew his tie over his left shoulder and my pulse felt shallow, as though I was only barely alive. As I got wearily back to my feet, a shambling figure passed me and I saw the flash of a fist. One second Tony Macoli was laughing himself sick, and the next his nose was pointed over his shoulder in the same direction as his windblown tie. Blood spurted, Macoli went down and I can still hear the sweet melon sound of his head hitting the path. Macoli went to the district hospital and Biggie Botson began two weeks’ suspension.
That’s how it started. A single decisive act of violence that joined me to Biggie forever. If you believe him on the subject he acted more out of animal irritation than charity. But I felt like somebody ransomed and set free. Until that moment I was disappearing. School, home, the new town, they were all misery. If Biggie hadn’t come along I don’t know what would have become of me. Exam week, five years later, wasn’t the first time I thought of necking myself. Biggie became my mate, my constant companion, and Tony Macoli was suddenly landscape.
For a while my mother thought Biggie and me were gay. She did a big tolerance routine that dried up when she realized we weren’t poofs.
Back on the road again I’m thinking boab trees and red dirt, girls in sarongs, cold beer, parking the Vee Dub on some endless beach to sleep. And mangoes. Is there anything sexier than a mango?
I suppose we’re all wrong for each other, Biggie and me. He’s not a very introspective bloke. Sometimes he makes me restless. But we get along pretty well most of the time. We go camping a lot, hike out to all sorts of places and set up on our own. Biggie loves all the practical stuff, reading maps, trying survival techniques, learning bushcraft. I’m more into the birds and plants and stars and things. Some mornings out in the misty ranges the world looks like it means something, some simple thing just out of my reach, but there anyway. That’s why I go. And both of us dig the fact that nobody else is out there pursing their lips at us or taking a swing.
Biggie truly is a funny bugger. He can do Elvis with his belly-button – thank you very much – a toothless King sprouting manky black hairs in a face made of fat. He can fart whole sentences, a skill St Augustine admired in others. He’s not much for hygiene. His hair’s always greasy and that navel smells like toejam. He doesn’t swim. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket but he can find true north by instinct. On his day he’s a frightening fast bowler but most days he can’t hit the pitch for love or money. He once surfed a school bus thirty miles. He caught nineteen herring with the same single green pea and an unweighted hook. And he was the only one in the class brave enough to hold the bin for the student teacher while she puked so hard it came out her nose. His sole academic success was his essay on the demise of Led Zeppelin, but then I wrote that for him.
Friendship, I suppose, comes at a price. There have been girls I’ve disqualified myself from because of Biggie. Not everyone wants to have him tagging along everywhere, though in the days before we get our licences there are those who don’t mind walking out with us to the drive-ins. I figure we’re not glamorous but we’re entertaining in our way. Right through high school I have occasional moments, evenings, encounters with girls but no real girlfriend and mostly I don’t regret it. Except for Briony Nevis. For two years we’re sort of watching each other from a distance. Sidelong glances. She’s flat-out beautiful, long black hair like some kind of Indian. Glossy skin, dark eyes. She’s funny in a wry, hurt kind of way, and smart. In class she goads me, says I’m not as stupid as I make out. I kiss her once at
a party. Well, maybe she kisses me. Hair like a satin pillowslip. Body all sprung as though she’s ready to bolt. A long, long kiss, deep and playful as a conversation. But there at the corner of my eye is Biggie alone on the smoky verandah, waiting to go home. I don’t go to him straight up. I do make him wait a fair old while but I don’t go on with Briony Nevis the way I badly want to because I know Biggie will be left behind for good. Not that I don’t think about her. Hell, I write poems to her, draw pictures of her, construct filthy elaborate fantasies she’ll never know about. But I never touch her again. Out of loyalty. Briony isn’t exactly crushed. If anything she seems amused. She sees how things are.
And she’s right, you know, I’m not as stupid as I make out. It’s a survival thing, making yourself a small target. But even now, feeling kind of euphoric, buzzing up the highway, I know I’m stuck in something that I can’t figure my way out of.
You see, back in first year, right at the beginning when Biggie was my saviour and still doing his two weeks’ suspension for busting Tony Macoli’s nose, I kept notes for the full fortnight and more or less wrote Biggie’s essays for him when he got back. He didn’t care if he passed or failed but I wanted to do it for him, and so what began as a gesture of gratitude became a pattern for the rest of our schooling. I made him look brighter than he was and me a little dimmer. His old man preferred him to be a dolt. My mother expected me to be an academic suckhole. Most of the time Biggie couldn’t give a damn but sometimes I think he really got his hopes up. I feel responsible, like my ghost work stopped him from learning. In a way I ruined his chances. For five years I worked my arse off. I really did all our work. Out of loyalty, yeah, but also from sheer vanity. And the fact is, I blew it. I got us both to the finish line but ensured that neither of us got across it. Biggie hadn’t learnt anything that he could display in an exam and I was too worn out and cocky to make sense. We fried. We’re idiots of a different species but we are both bloody idiots.
