Orion knew adults had it tough. His dad had to get up early and go to work and when he was at home he had to do so many chores. He had to take care of the garden and mow the lawn and chop the wood, and he had to buy food and cook food and do dishes, and he had to go to the hardware store and Big W and, when their car kept breaking down, the mechanic as well. And he had to drop him off at school and pick him up and take him to soccer on the weekends and swimming on Thursdays, and that was tough, Orion knew, but Orion refused to believe that he, a twelve-year-old boy, had it any easier. He had friends to worry about. Sometimes they seemed to like him and sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes he felt like one of the cool and happy kids and sometimes he didn’t. He made up songs and played his guitar. The songs were about being lonely.
‘I’m not like them, Dad. They’ve all got mums. It’s different in our house. They don’t understand.’
‘No, they probably don’t understand. And yeah, it’s very different in our house.’
They’d been slurping up pasta, a plate of buttered bread between them. The house had been quiet. Orion drank from a glass of milk. His dad drank from a glass of beer.
‘I mean, their mums do stuff at school, like they help with reading or canteen or breakfast club, and at home they probably do heaps of stuff with them.’
‘I know. It’s not fair. But we have fun, right? We’ve got a pretty good life.’
Orion nodded yes and smiled, not looking at his dad. He wasn’t so sure his dad understood either, but it was OK, because that was the night his dad had told him they were going on a bike ride. A big bike ride. And now they were on holiday: no issues with friends, no work or school or sport, no chores, no errands: just holiday. By day they rode and at night they camped. At first it felt impossible. No way were they going to cover 383 miles on bicycles. Orion was just a kid and cycling was tough. Sometimes he ached. Sometimes he fought through the ache and was left with pure annoyance. Sometimes there was pain. From exhaustion. From a fall. Sometimes he cried. But then there were daily feelings of joy and pride, like he’d never felt before, where small mountains became big triumphs and fast creeks and surprise waterfalls screamed at him that he was lucky, that he and his dad had it good, that life was actually great.
Today was a day of strong wind; even the blockade of hardwood trees couldn’t lessen its impact. Orion and his dad had debated over their morning tea of Nutella, banana and honey sandwiches whether a headwind or an uphill was worse. Unlike his dad, Orion said an uphill. His dad had said it might seem harder because his body was smaller and his muscles not so strong, but that it could also have to do with his outlook. He’d said when you can’t see the top of the hill, it seems like you’re never going to get there and that’s when it’s really hard, but you’ve just got to remember that there is a peak and, when you get to it, it’s an easy ride from then on, it’s all downhill from there. Orion only knew that he’d struggled so much going through the Ozark Mountains that he’d forgotten what his dad had said and had a breakdown on the side of the road. Tears. He’d said he was not going to ride any further.
‘You’re the strongest boy I know, Orion. If anyone can do this it’s you.’
‘I can’t. I’ve got no muscles.’
‘They’re there; you just can’t see them yet. But you know what I can see?’
‘What?’
‘Your determination. Remember, it’s downhill once the climb is over. I know you, mate. You can conquer anything.’
So he did. They did. Together. And now there was pizza.
‘That was good,’ his dad said after tucking into the first slice, then taking another drink from his beer and looking around at the giant vats that had brewed it. He was calling the trip The Great Bike Tour of Missouri, but Orion was calling it The Great Brewery Tour of Missouri because they seemed to dine at one whenever they could. His dad thought pizza and beer was the perfect combination after a day of cycling (unless he’d ordered a burger) and Orion thought it was pizza and milk (unless he’d ordered pulled pork). He was a seventh grader now, and his growing bones craved milk like nobody’s business. He could match his dad’s two pints of beer every time.
Stan slid an envelope across the table, landing it right by the milk. It had Orion’s name on it. The stamp was from Australia. According to the lettering around the stamp, whoever had mailed the letter to him had done so over two years earlier.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s another letter about Mum.’
Orion had once been accustomed to letters about his mum. They came at a pretty steady pace the year she died. They were supposed to help him remember her, even though the stories written in them weren’t his memories. He kept them in a box under his bed and sometimes pulled them out when he missed her. He tried to imagine her catching crayfish in the creek with Uncle John when they were kids living in Missouri. They called them crawdads; he liked that word and he was going to call them that as soon as he and his dad finally got to that creek. He tried to imagine his mum laughing so hard in the library that she got kicked out. He tried to imagine her in dance school when she was his age, and again when she was older, and again when she’d come to Australia and taught it to little girls. He tried to imagine her, but the image was vague, only solid when found in a photograph. He hadn’t gotten a letter about his mum since he was little: five or six, some when he was seven. Why in the world was he getting one now and who in the world was Charley Cromwell?
Orion flipped the envelope around. It had already been opened.
‘Why didn’t you give it to me when it came?’
‘The time wasn’t right.’
‘And you think it’s right now?’
‘I’ve got no idea, mate. How about after you read it, you let me know if I’ve done the right thing?’
Orion nodded, wanting nothing more than to read it straightaway. He looked at his dad with his eyebrows raised.
‘You want to read it now?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why don’t you wait till you’re alone? When we get back to the tent you can take the torch in with you.’
‘OK, Dad.’
‘OK, son.’
Both took a drink from their glasses and reached for another slice of pizza.
They’d made their campsite in a small clearing in the woods. At the end of every hard ride – and they were all hard rides, just some harder than others – Orion and his dad would veer off the road, take the non-travelled path, which wasn’t a path at all, and find a spot just big enough for their two-man tent and a small fire. Sometimes the remnants of an older fire made their campsite an obvious choice, but sometimes the spot looked as if it hadn’t been discovered by any other human being, let alone two travellers from South Australia.
This one was perfect for the two of them. They’d have to manoeuvre around a small dogwood when going from tent to fire and a decent-sized redbud when going from fire to bikes, but it looked like the kind of spot they wanted to call home for a night. The ground was clear of large roots and clumps of long grass, and it was soft, a bed of leaves and rich black dirt. Squirrels climbed up and down trees.
When they got back from dinner, Orion’s dad busied himself with the fire while Orion oiled their bike chains. It had become his regular job and he could do it almost without thinking. Tonight, as he spun the pedal, he thought about his mum when she’d been alive. He had plenty of memories, but he was old enough to know that some of them might not be his own, that some of them came from the letters people sent to him or, most likely, from his dad. The one he thought of now was of his mum and him playing the animal game, where they had to name an animal then cross the yard being that animal, and he always remembered her as a squirrel, making herself small and running in little bursts, jolting her neck at every noise and puffing up her cheeks as if they were filled with acorns. Most Australian four-year-olds didn’t know what squirrels were,
but thanks to his mum Orion had not only known what they were, he’d known how they moved, what they ate and how they ate. He knew his mum should be here in this clearing with them right now, pointing at the squirrels in the trees, with Orion saying, ‘Remember that animal game? Remember when you were a squirrel?’ The memory of his mum as a squirrel was his and his alone.
‘I’m done, Dad.’
‘OK. Torch is on the picnic table.’
There was still light but it would be dark in the tent. Normally Orion was asleep before the sun had gone down but tonight he was mentally energised, ready for the letter from Charley Cromwell.
‘Night, Dad.’ He kissed his dad goodnight as he did every night, still young enough to not be embarrassed yet old enough to know that his dad felt privileged.
‘Night, Orion.’
As he unzipped the tent, his dad said, ‘Great riding today.’
‘Yeah, it was.’
DEAR ORION,
I NEVER GOT A LETTER FROM A STRANGER BEFORE BUT I AM GESSING ITS PRETTY WEERD. IF YOU COULD SEE ME YOU WOULD THINK I WAS REALLY WEERD. I GOT A GRAY BEERD THAT GOES DOWN TO MY BELLY AND I GOT A RELLY BIG BELLY. I AM VERY TALL. I GOT ME BUILD FROM DEAR OLD MUM WHO WAS A STRONG WOMON. I AM BALD AND I AM MISSING 3 TEETH THO YOU PROBLY WOULD NOT NOTIS THE MISSING TEETH IF I DID NOT TELL YOU. I HAVE 2 TATOOS I WISH WERE NOT THERE AND 1 I LIKE. I GOT A SCAR BY MY EAR I HATE EVEN MORE THAN THE BAD TATOOS. WOW WHAT AN UNLUCKY BUGGER I AM! I HAVE DISLEXIA SO I DO NOT SPELL GOOD BUT I AM NOT STUPID. IT TOOK ME A LONG TIME TO REELIS I AM NOT STUPID. I HOPE YOU CAN READ THIS LETTER OK.
Orion was glad Charley told him about the dyslexia because he was thinking the guy might be a bit slow since he misspelled so many words and he’d actually been thinking it was strange that his mum would even know somebody who couldn’t spell.
NOW I HAVE TO BE ONEST AND SAY I DID NOT KNOW YOUR MUM SO WHY WAS I AT THE FUNREL? GOOD QUESION. I MUST HAVE ASKED MESELF THAT 12 TIMES AT THE FUNREL. ITS BEN A LONG TIME NOW AND I AM STILL ASKING IT. SOMTIMES THINGS HAPEN AND THEY ARE RELLY BIG THINGS AND THEY MITE NOT HAPEN TO YOU OR EVEN SOMONE YOU KNOW BUT THEY ARE SO BIG THAT YOUR LIFE CHANGES. I CULD SAY I AM WRITING YOU THIS LETTER BECAUSE I WAS AT THE FUNREL AND THEY TOLD US TO BUT ITS MORE THAN THAT. ITS BECOS I WANTED TO TELL YOU THIS IN PERSEN BUT I AM NO GOOD WITH WORDS WHEN I HAVE TO SPEEK THEM.
YOU PROBLY HERD THE STORY BY NOW ABOUT YOUR MUMS ACCIDINT. SOMONE OPENED A CAR DOOR WICH NOCKED YOUR MUM OFF HER BIKE AND THEN SOMONE RAN OVER HER. I AM SORRY TO SAY THAT WAS ME. I AM THE ONE WHO RAN OVER HER.
The tears came immediately. Orion didn’t know if he was angry with this man for running over his mum or shocked from having just read about it or sad because now the vision of the accident was somehow clearer simply because the driver had been given an identity or horrified that the man had the guts to send him this letter, but he was crying. A private cry, and he didn’t want his dad to hear and he didn’t want to hear it himself. So he stopped and listened for the sound of the creek, where they had rinsed off the long ride after their tent was up, where they would rinse away their long sleep the next morning. He calmed then and sniffled slowly, afraid to make any noise. He breathed through his mouth until he felt better.
I DID NOT KNOW YOUR MUM BUT I THINK OF HER EVERDAY. JUST LIKE I DO NOT KNOW YOU BUT I THINK OF YOU EVERYDAY TO. SOMTIMES THE WIND PICKS UP AND I THINK OF HER LIKE HER SPIRITS BEN CARRIED BY THE WIND AND IT BRUSHES PAST ME JUST TO REMIND ME THAT I AM SPOSED TO BE HAPPY FOR LIFE. IT IS A HARD THING TO DO. ALL WAYS HAS BEN. ITS BECOS I WAS A LONLY KID AND I GREW UP TO BE A LONLY MAN. I DO NOT KNOW WHY THAT WAS. I USE TO THINK IT WAS BECOS I DID NOT GROW UP WITH A DAD. HE DIED WHEN I WAS LITTLE LIKE YOU WERE LITTLE WHEN YOUR MUM DIED. THAT CAN MAKE A PERSEN MAD. BUT NOW I AM PRETTY MAD AT MESELF BECOS I SHUD HAVE BEN OK WITH ONLY HAVING MUM AROUND. SHE WAS A GRATE MUM. SHE FED ME AND KEPT ME IN CLOSE AND TOOK ME PLACES AND TALKED TO ME. SHE LOVED ME. AND I LOVED HER TO BUT I WAS TO ANGRY TO SHOW IT AND YOU KNOW WHAT? ITS TO LATE NOW. SHE DIED TO AND NOW I GOT NO MUM BUT I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT SHES NOT GONE. TO THE OUTSIDE WURLD SHE IS BUT NOT TO THE INSIDE OF ME AND HAVING YOUR MUM ON THE INSIDE IS A BEUTIFUL THING MATE. ORION I AM RELLY SORRY ABOUT YOUR MUM. IF I COULD CHANGE ANTHING ABOUT MY LIFE IT WOUD BE THAT DAY. I COULD HAVE LEFT 10 MINITS ERLIER OR 10 MINETS LATER. I COUD HAVE DRIVEN IN A DIFRENT LANE BUT I CANT CHANGE IT AND I HAVE TO LIVE WITH IT. ITS HARD BECOS I MISS MY DAD. I MISS ME MUM AND NOW I MISS YOUR MUM TO AND I NEVER EVEN NEW HER. SOMTIMES I EVEN MISS YOU. I AM PROBLY SCAREING YOU NOW BUT I AM NOT SCARY. JUST SORRY. ANY WAY THANKS FOR READING.
YOUR FRIEND,
CHARLEY
Orion put the letter back in its envelope and put it under his pillow. His body was sinking heavily into his sleeping bag, but his mind was racing as fast as his bike on a downhill ride. He’d just read a letter from the man who’d killed his mum; now everything was different. It had to be, right? He turned off the torch and listened to the fire sparking the air outside the tent, his dad making small swishing sounds and thumping about when he moved. The boy could see Orion’s Belt when he looked up because they hadn’t put the tarp up tonight, wanting to wake up with the sun, and there was a mesh opening above him which let him see the stars. The constellation was upside down here, though his mum would’ve said it was right-side up as it had been from the beginning of time. Maybe things weren’t different.
He was confused. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel so he just let sadness wash over him. It was so sad that he only had his mum on the inside because he wanted her on the outside too, and it was so sad that Charley didn’t have his mum on the outside either, and not only that but he didn’t even have a dad. Orion had the best dad in the world who was taking him off-roading tomorrow, which made Orion nervous but really excited too. He had a dad who told him that he was strong, even though he was skinny and short. And he had his Grandma Pearl and his Uncle John and his cousin Coco, who he was going to see in a few days when they got to Lesterville. And he had his Very Viv and Funtastic Phil, who were going to meet them in California at the end of their trip. They were all going to go to Disneyland and swim in the ocean. And he missed his nan too, but she was on the inside, right? That’s what he’d tell himself from now on. Like Digger. Digger would always be on the inside. Best dog ever. Even better than Juni’s new pup. And he had his friends at school, so many friends at school, who he sometimes talked to about his mum, but not much because she was just on the inside, right? And they couldn’t understand that. Charley Cromwell understood.
He switched the torch back on and turned it to his pannier, which he brought into the tent every night. His dad carried all the camping gear and clothes while Orion carried things one might find in an adventurer’s junk drawer, things like maps, a pocketknife, a compass, bike tools and a patch kit. He carried his dad’s phone, an address book, a journal and some pens. In his mind, he could hear his dad saying, ‘Big day tomorrow. Best to get a good night’s sleep.’ But how could he do that now? He got out the journal and a pen and, without a plan as to what he was going to write, he began writing.
Dear Charley.
Acknowledgements
This book was a wonderful collaboration between myself and the four women I’ve come to call the Extremely Nice Ladies Club, in which there is no president because all of the women are equally nice and intelligent and passionate: my agent and friend and favourite reader, Jo Butler; my publisher, Madonna Duffy, for life-changing encouragement; and my two editors, Clara Finlay and Cathy Vallance, both of whom have taught me so much. Greatest respect to you all. And thanks to everyone at UQP, for making gorgeous books.
To other women like Tessie Delaney and Nancy Koreen, like Alison Flett and Rachael Mead, for inspiring such love between a trio of friends. Women need women and I’m so lucky to have you. To the Archetiers – Katherine Arguile, Rebekah Clarkson, Rachael Mead and Anna Solding – for early reads, useful feedback and practical conversation like, ‘Just turn it into
a novel!’ Thanks to Brian Castro and Matthew Lamb, for reassuring an emerging writer and including the chapter ‘Apricots’ in the Review of Australian Fiction. Thank you to Sharon Holmes, for all the work you do with dyslexic children, mine especially. Thanks to Penny Strickland, for lending me your beautiful home in Far North Queensland so I could finish the first draft of this book. And thanks to Mike Hopkins, for joining me on an epic bike ride with a mid-way break in a cottage in the Yorkshire Dales, where I finished the final draft of this book. The cycling was as important as the writing.
To Mom and Dad, for always asking how my writing’s going and listening when I carry on for far too long. Thanks to my dog, Tom, the inspiration for Digger the dog, who gave me such joy when writing about the animal–human relationship. And thanks – enormous thanks – to my children, Guthrow, Sunny and Matilda, who’ve indulged me by becoming regulars at book launches, and especially to my partner, Dash, who understands the value of a literary culture and loves me for my contribution to it (among other things). I love you, too – the entire clan – so much.
First published in 2017 by University of Queensland Press
PO Box 6042, St Lucia, Queensland 4067 Australia
www.uqp.com.au
[email protected]
© Heather Taylor Johnson 2017
This book is copyright. Except for private study, research, criticism or reviews, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
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