by Tim Winton
In the days after poring over the photos, Ricky seemed more tender and solicitous. It was as though he finally understood that they were both motherless. Their Lego projects were quiet affairs. They sat at the table in the weak afternoon light with only the companionable scratch of pencils passing between them.
Dyson began to think about getting a job. For years he taught woodwork and outdoor ed, but after Ricky was born and the depression took hold of Sophie, he spent so much time on leave that he had to resign. So many emergencies, hospitalizations, sleepless nights. When things were stable he operated as a mobile handyman. The flexible hours allowed him to be around to pick up the debris when things unravelled at home. But it was fifteen months since he’d worked at all and he’d come south without any solid idea of what he might do for a job down here. It wasn’t a matter of urgent concern. He owned this house and the place up in the city was let, so he didn’t need much money. A job was more about adding some shape to his new life, meeting people he could start from scratch with, free from pity or recrimination. It would all have to be new. There was no point in seeking out people he’d gone to school with a decade ago. It was a small town but hopefully not so small that you couldn’t choose your company.
The day he got Ricky settled into kindy, he took a walk down the main street with a view to wandering along the wharves to think about his prospects. He was barely halfway to the docks when a woman called his name.
Peter Dyson! cried a tall grey-haired woman in her sixties. It is you!
She stood in the doorway of a newsagency with a girl of seven or so whose lank blonde hair fretted in the wind.
Mrs Keenan?
Marjorie, she said with mock sternness. You’re not a boy anymore.
How are you? he asked.
Gobsmacked. Don’t just stand there, boy. Come and give me a hug. I don’t believe it!
Dyson stepped up and embraced her for a moment. He’d almost forgotten what another adult body felt like. For a moment he found it difficult to speak.
Look at you, she said. Just look at you.
He managed to laugh. Marjorie Keenan was still sprightly but her face was lined. She seemed older than she was.
And what brings you back to town? she asked, composing herself and pulling the child gently into her hip.
Oh, life I spose. I’ve moved into Mum’s place.
I don’t believe it! she declared with delight.
Well, neither did I. But there we are.
Come for dinner. Don’d love to see you.
Maybe I will some time.
Bring your family.
That’d be nice.
You know that I’ll keep you to it, she said with a smile.
I don’t doubt it for a minute.
Dyson looked at the little girl who chewed her lip.
This is our Sky, said Marjorie Keenan.
Hello, said Dyson.
I’ll chase you up, said the old woman.
Dyson laughed and stepped back into the street. He headed down to the town jetty with a creeping sense of disquiet. It was the child, Sky. Of course it was possible that she was a neighbour’s daughter or one of the many strays of the sort he used to meet at the Keenans’ himself when he was a schoolboy. They were warm, kind people, Don and Marjorie, and their place was often a haven for runaways or foster kids, the beneficiaries of one church mission or other. Sky had the shop-soiled look of one of those children. But the dirty-blonde hair and the way she clung to Marjorie made him think that she was a grandchild. She had to be Fay’s.
On the jetty old men jigged for squid with their heads lowered against the wind. Dyson stood out there looking across at the yacht club and the rusty roofs of Cockleshell on the farther shore.
Fay Keenan. He hadn’t even considered that she might still be in town. Hadn’t she left long before him? He had anticipated some awkward encounters. There would be the people he’d gone to school with, the ones who always talked of shooting through to the city at the first opportunity but never actually left. He prepared himself for their prickly defensiveness, consoling himself in the knowledge that after ten years these meetings would only be momentary. Most people would settle for a wave in the street, a brief greeting in Woolworths. But he hadn’t considered folks like the Keenans. They were full-on people. They were salt of the earth. They would never settle for just a meeting on the main drag.
And Fay. With a daughter. He hadn’t considered that at all.
For a few days Dyson kept to the house. He only went out to take Ricky to school and collect him afterwards. All day he absorbed himself in little projects of household repair and modification. He told himself it was the rain that kept him at bay but in truth he had the jitters. He was back to feeling that weird, diffuse guilt which had dogged him all his life. He’d given up teasing that one out years ago. The old man’s early death, the disappointment he was to his mother, the business with Fay. And, God knows, the unravelling of Sophie. It was old news but ever fresh in him. The way he’d jumped, blushing already, when Marjorie Keenan called his name.
With Ricky beside him, he lay awake at night with real misgivings about coming home. Irony he could deal with, but the complications of history might be another matter.
On the third day, in the early afternoon, Marjorie Keenan came knocking as he knew she would. Come for dinner tonight, she told him. She had a lamb leg big as a guitar. There was no way out.
The Keenans lived down by the surf beach in a shabby art deco place beneath Norfolk Island pines. Dyson arrived at six and stood for a moment at the door, bracing himself for the necessary explanations about his status as a single parent. Ricky looped his fingers around Dyson’s belt. Both looked up at the soughing pines before Dyson knocked.
Marjorie squeezed each of them on the doorstep and dragged them indoors. The house was unchanged since the days he’d come here to play pool and grope their daughter furtively in the garage. In the hallway a candle burned before an icon of a severe Russian Christ. There were seascapes on the walls and a portrait of the Pope. The place smelled of meat and potatoes and the strange lemony odour of old people. Somewhere in the house a television blared.
In the kitchen Don Keenan rose on sticks and met Dyson with a hand outstretched, copper bracelet gleaming. There were tears in his eyes.
Look at you, he said. Lord, just look at you.
Long time, Don.
The old man sat and wiped his face. Yeah, he said brightly. And time wounds all heels, eh?
Except that it’s his knees that’ve given out, said Marjorie. That’s a lifetime of football for you.
They beckoned him to sit and Ricky edged onto his lap, reserved but curious. Dyson saw that the boy was transfixed by the old man. The tears, the florid cheeks, the Brylcreemed hair, the walking sticks. Ricky curled against his father. Dyson smelled the sweetness of his scalp.
Mister Keenan was my coach, Rick. When I was a boy. He was a gun footballer, you know. Played for Claremont. Three hundred and twenty-two games for Railways – that’s a team here.
You like footy, Ricky? the old man asked.
The boy nodded.
Who’s your favourite player, then?
Ricky looked at his father.
Go on, said Dyson.
Leaper, said the boy.
Ah, said Don. Now he can play!
Lamb’s ready, said Marjorie.
Still cooking on the woodstove, said Dyson admiringly. Look at the size of that thing.
It’s the Rolls-Royce of ranges, that, she said.
Big as a blessed Rolls-Royce, too, said Don.
Just as their plates came and the old man was carving the meat, the thin blonde child came into the kitchen and took a seat.
You met Sky, said Marjorie.
Sky, said Dyson. This is Ricky.
Hi, the girl murmured.
Lo, said Ricky.
There was a brief moment of bewilderment when grace was said. After all the crossing and amens Ricky glanced at Dyson fo
r reassurance. Then hunger got the better of him and he ate unselfconsciously.
The talk was of the town, how the harbour had finally been cleaned up and the whales had returned and brought new tourists to the place. There are wineries now, said Don, and good wine like this one. Dyson didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d given up the booze but he knew that Marjorie wouldn’t have missed the fact that his glass was untouched. The food was simple and hearty and the kitchen sleepy-warm. It was nice to be with them again after all this time. The Keenans were good people and he felt bad that he’d left it so long to come and see them. After all, he’d been closer to them at one stage than he was to his own mother. A long time had passed since the business with him and Fay. He told himself he needn’t have been so anxious.
Ricky pleased Marjorie by taking a second helping of everything. Rain lashed the windows and though he was sober Dyson felt as safe as a man with four drinks under his belt. Eventually the kids sloped off shyly to watch TV. Marjorie made a pot of Irish breakfast.
You don’t need to explain about your wife, Peter, said the old woman, pouring him a cup. We know already. We’ll spare you that.
News travels fast, he murmured, stung.
Small town, mate, said Don. Don’t we know all about that.
Well, said Dyson, doing his best to recover. That pretty much explains why I’m back.
There was a long, hesitant silence. From the loungeroom up the hall came the antic noise of a cartoon. Dyson wondered if that huge ruined sofa was still there in front of the TV. A lifetime ago, on the same cracked upholstery, he felt the hot weight of a girl’s breasts in his hands for the first time, and it was odd to think of Ricky and Sky up there.
Sky, he said. She’s Fay’s?
They nodded.
Staying with you for a while?
Oh, said Marjorie with a tired smile. We’ve had Sky on and off for years. Most of her life, I spose.
Ah, said Dyson.
Well, said the old man. Like you, Fay’s had her troubles.
She doesn’t live in town?
No. She’s been all over.
In trying to mask his relief, Dyson scalded his mouth with tea.
We thought of suing for permanent custody for the child’s sake, said the old man. But it’s a dead loss. Welfare and the courts – it’s all about the rights of the mother no matter what.
Anyway, said Marjorie with a forced cheeriness that made it plain she’d cut Don off before he got into his stride. It’s worked out well just going along the way we have, unofficially. Things are coming good in the end. Fay and you are in the same sort of boat in a way. You know, recovering. In fact it’s amazing you’re here, Peter, because Fay’s due here any day. Maybe you two can catch up.
Well, said Dyson in alarm. To be honest I’m not—
It’s been very hard for us, Peter, said the old lady. Life doesn’t turn out how you plan it. And it’s difficult when you’re old, when you think that your job’s done and you can rest a little. You’re not prepared for dealing with the kinds of things we’ve had to deal with, to live through.
Stinking, filthy bloody drugs—
Don.
She’s abandoned a child, said the old man. She’s stolen anything we’ve ever had. We’ve spent all our savings on treatments and debts and she’s brought thugs and crims into our home and frightened the tripe out of her mother. She’s put us through a living hell.
But, said Marjorie emphatically, we have our precious Sky. And we’re past the worst and we forgive and forget. Don’t we, Don?
Yes, said the old man subsiding, contrite, in his chair.
And we’re grateful for small mercies.
Dyson drank his tea. His mouth felt scoured now. A junkie, he thought. You couldn’t honestly be surprised. It would explain the rash of calls a couple of years ago, the breathless messages on the machine.
We always loved you, Peter, said Marjorie.
Loved you as our own, said Don. Gawd, we even thought you’d be family in the end.
She needs safe friends, said Marjorie. Clean friends. She’s putting her life back together.
And we need a break, son. Now and then. Just a blessed rest.
You’re a good person, Peter. Say you’ll think about it. Say you’ll come and see her.
Dyson felt the heat of the stove in his bones. He looked at their ravaged faces. And rain peppered the window.
Dyson had no desire to see Fay Keenan. When she called that time he did not respond to her messages. He bore her no ill will but he did fear the force of her personality. The intervening years had not diminished his memory of the time, almost the entirety of his high school life, that he’d spent in her thrall. They began as fumbling fourteen-year-olds when he was her father’s most promising player and she was the flashy captain of the girls’ hockey team. They were a major item, a school scandal, infamous for their declarations of eternal love and the heroics of their lust. By the age of sixteen the love was gone but the lust lived on in a kind of mutual self-loathing. Their relationship had boiled down to a futile addiction, a form of entertainment for their classmates who saw them as a bad show which refused to go off the air.
Dyson’s mother disliked Fay but the Keenans took to him. To the Keenans Fay and him were just two talented kids taking life by the throat. What they didn’t seem to see was how strange and pathological the whole affair became. How these kids isolated themselves in their passion until they became friendless and obsessed. They didn’t see them destroying each other. As a boy Dyson relished the warmth of the Keenan home and although the Catholic business mystified him, he recognized them as people of virtue and kindness, even forgiveness. By comparison his own mother seemed dry and inflexible. She looked down on the Keenans because Don worked for the railways. Dyson came to love them and in later years, when it was all over, he wondered if the whole grisly thing had lasted so long because he liked to be around the Keenans as much as their daughter. But that was just sentimental. What kept Fay and him together was sex. It was a habit only catastrophe could break.
Right from the outset there was something mesmerizing about Fay Keenan. She had a cockiness, an impulsive brio that was exciting. Dyson was never a courageous boy. Even in football he was talented but weak-willed. The coach’s daughter had real guts. She was so pretty, so lithe, with a wicked laugh under all that blonde hair. Fay was smart, too. At school she coasted shamelessly. Her parents were convinced that she was destined for medicine or the law. She could really talk up a storm. Yet in the end Dyson hardly heard anything she said; he settled for the curve of her neck, the heat of her mouth, the spill of her hair across his body, and even when all they had to say to one another was carping ugliness, he was too well-fed, too passive, too lazy to break it off and move on. For the last two years of school they were miserable. They had their disaster and Fay failed her exams. They were just another small-town story. And in the way of such stories they met years later, stoned at a Christmas barbecue in the city, and screwed in a potting shed from which they staggered full of regret and recrimination.
It was so tawdry that it should have been comical, but Dyson could only see the damage they’d done each other.
A week after his dinner with the Keenans, Dyson took Ricky and a boy from his class out to Jacky’s Bridge to fish for bream after school. The boys were new friends and still shy with one another and right from the start it was clear that the fishing idea was a dud. He didn’t know what it was. Maybe they were too young or fresh to each other for the stillness required, but within ten minutes they were restless standing out there on the bank so he packed the gear and led them up to the bridge itself.
This is boring, said the other boy, Jared.
Yeah, said Ricky faintly, treading a line between solidarity and mutiny.
Well, you’ll think differently in a minute, said Dyson. Here, climb up between these big posts. See these little flat bits? Lie there. Here, I’ll show you.
Dyson crawled up beneath the su
pports of the wooden bridge and lay on his back in the moist gravel so he could look up at the sky slatted through the timbers. Sceptically, the boys joined him. He sensed that he was about to make a fool of himself and shame Ricky by association but he didn’t have a better idea to entertain them with. He was also suddenly mindful that this was something he’d discovered with Fay. There was such a long list of local things he couldn’t dissociate from her; she was there at every turn.
Dad? murmured Ricky, embarrassed.
Stay down. I can hear something coming.
The boys fidgeted beside him. Jared smelled of Plasticine or something else slightly musty. He was, very distinctly, a stranger, someone else’s child.
Just then a semi broached the bend and Dyson began to laugh in anticipation. Within seconds the truck was on the bridge and the piles and sleepers roared. Spikes spat and rattled and the dirt beneath them shook. Dyson began to yell. It startled the boys a second until his voice was swallowed up by the great, hot shadow that passed overhead.
Hey, said Jared quietly in the aftermath. Cool.
For another half hour they lay there waiting, giggling, yelling and laughing themselves to the point of hiccups.
As she took delivery of her muddy son, Jared’s mother seemed brazenly curious about Dyson. He stood blushing on her verandah as she sized him up. It seemed that word was out on him. He wondered if it was his apparent availability or his wife’s suicide that interested her. Either way he didn’t linger.
It was almost dark when they got home. The harbour lights were on, the jetties pretty in a way that they could never be in daylight. Dyson was only halfway out of the car before he saw a shadow on the verandah and then the glow of a cigarette. He knew it would be her. Ricky pressed against him as they mounted the steps.
