It must have been because of his head.
He touched the cut with his fingers, traced over the butterfly clip. The lump around it was hard as bone, but his eyelid opened properly. His eye was working. He could see that the light coming in the window was mid-morning light. They had slept late.
He slid from under the sleeping bag and stood up. The air was still warm in the little room, warm from the wood heater, but through the window he could see that the sky outside was clear and cold. He put his jumper on and opened the door.
George wasn’t outside; neither was the dog anywhere that he could see. The outhouse was down the back of the paddock and he walked there in bare feet. The earth was cold and damp like always, but at least it wasn’t muddy.
He knocked on the door of the toilet just in case George was in there, but he wasn’t.
When Miles got back, Harry was sitting at the table eating a slice of bread and butter.
‘Your eye looks bad,’ he said, and he pushed a plate of bread over towards Miles.
Miles sat down. It looked good, the bread, thick and dark and homemade. But he didn’t touch it.
‘It’s not our food,’ he said. Harry just stared at him and kept eating.
Miles looked at all the things on the table. Bread, a jar of honey, butter on a small plate.
‘Did you get the butter out of the cool box?’
Harry shook his head. He got up from the table and walked outside. He came back in with the milk, but it wasn’t the bottle from last night. It was a full bottle. He poured himself a glass.
Miles tried to think where George would get his milk delivered. He had never seen a cool box on the road near the property, and there was no driveway. He wondered how George managed with the other groceries, too. Maybe he got a delivery from Dover. Miles wished that Dad would do that so they would know when food was coming and how long they had to make things last.
Harry finished his milk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and Miles gave in. It was the smell of the bread and the smell of the butter.
He held a piece in his hands and took a bite.
Miles got up and rolled the bedding. He put the mat, pillows and sleeping bag back in the cupboard and Harry didn’t help him. He just watched from where he was sitting at the table.
‘We’d better get going,’ Miles said, but Harry stayed where he was. He played with the butter knife, then he put it down on his plate.
Miles walked over and swept the crumbs off the table with his hand.
‘We can’t stay here, Harry,’ he said.
But Harry didn’t look up at Miles.
‘George wouldn’t mind. He’ll be back soon.’
Miles shook his head. He walked over to his shoes and put them on.
‘I’m going now,’ he said, and he paused at the door, looked back into the room. Harry was still sitting at the table with his head down.
‘Joe’s gone, isn’t he?’ Harry said quietly.
Miles heard him but he didn’t answer. He couldn’t.
Harry put the milk back in the cool box, shut the door and ran.
Miles was already all the way across the front paddock and Harry didn’t catch him until they were up near the road. When they stopped, he tried to ask where they were going, but Miles held up his hand to keep him quiet.
Harry shut his mouth. He watched Miles looking up and down the road. Listening. Harry couldn’t hear any cars or trucks, he could only hear his heart beating in his head. He took a few breaths.
‘Where are we going?’ he said.
But Miles didn’t answer. He just walked out into the middle of the road then headed into the scrub on the other side. Harry followed, but there was no path and branches flicked in his face and his feet slipped on all the sticks and leaves and wet earth. Miles was way ahead, blending in with the grey of the trees and the grey of the sky and soon he would be gone completely.
So Harry stopped walking. He stopped and stood still and he waited.
He counted in his head. And he heard Miles crashing back through the bush, cracking sticks with his hands and with his feet, and he thought Miles would be angry. But he wasn’t. He was pale. He talked quietly.
‘I’m taking you to Stuart’s,’ he said.
Harry looked at him. This wasn’t the way to Stuart’s. This was the worst way they could have gone because they’d have to bush-bash and cross fences and go across private land. But he didn’t say that. He didn’t say anything.
It was because of Dad. Miles was scared.
Harry walked faster now. He stayed close to Miles, kept up.
Joe had really gone. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
Stuart’s mum was in her dressing-gown. She stared at the lump above Miles’s eye and Miles said that he’d hit his head on the boat. Stuart pushed past his mum and stood in the doorway. He smiled at Harry and there was warm air coming from inside the caravan. Harry could feel it on his face. He was glad he was here now and he wanted to go inside.
But he knew Miles wouldn’t stay.
‘I’ll bring you some clothes later,’ Miles said.
And it nearly made Harry cry now, the way Miles’s eyelid was all purple and cut – the bruise on the side of his face coming up bad. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for the sock that held his leftover money. He pulled it out.
‘You should take this,’ he said. ‘You might need it.’
Miles shook his head. ‘You keep it,’ he said and he tried to smile.
Harry watched Miles walk away. He watched him cross the paddock, walk into the scrub, and he kept on watching even after he had disappeared.
And maybe him and Stuart were playing down the back of the property, or helping Stuart’s mum pick berries for the stall. Or maybe they were inside eating lunch and Miles never even knocked or made a sound, because Harry didn’t see him come back. There was just the backpack with some clothes left by the door of the caravan and, inside, near the top, were some chocolates and the bright orange dart gun from his Bertie Beetle show bag.
Miles walked slowly now.
The earth was heavy with mud and in the pockets of old clearings, well away from the road, you could see where people had lived. Old foundations hiding in the knee-high weeds. Places where houses once stood.
A house. A farm. A family. A home. Hemmed in by forest and mountains and big cold sky. And none of it was any good.
This place.
Dad’s ute was gone.
Miles stood in the lounge and it was silent, the house. It was dark. He opened up the curtains and the light caught all the particles of dust. Full ashtrays, empty bottles; and down on the floor the blood was still there on the carpet. If he used cold soapy water and scrubbed hard he’d probably be able to get it out.
A slice of sunlight hit his face. He put his hand out to block the light, but it wasn’t coming from the window. It was coming off the metal photo frame on the sideboard. A ray of light. The photo of Mum.
Miles walked over and picked it up. She was wearing a summer dress with her long hair down. It was sunny. And he’d never noticed before, but behind her in the photo there were dunes. A familiar shape; and the sand was fine and white. It was Cloudy.
That day at Cloudy.
Uncle Nick rode a long board – the old kind, fat and slow, but he could make it move. Like running free on the water, working the small waves all the way from the point to the sand. Uncle Nick, fluid and silent in all that bright light.
‘You ready?’ he said.
And Miles knew he wanted to feel it.
What it was like.
So he lay on the front of that big board. Held on while the white water splashed up in his face, freezing, and he could see nothing but Nick’s arms reaching out to scoop through the water again and again. He felt the board move up and over, up and over until they were out deep. Until they were out on the clear.
Nick helped him sit upright and tall on the nose of the board, and with his legs hanging over the sides he was
brave. He looked down into the water. All the way to the bottom.
Ripples in the soft sand. Balls of loose seaweed flying free and weightless. The black rock and reef hiding thin beneath the sand.
‘Safe here,’ he said, Uncle Nick.
And when Miles looked up there was a line of water, long and straight and rolling. And it was coming.
Everything was silent then. There was only feeling. Rolling, rolling; and silent.
The pulse. It lifted them up gentle and slow. Lifted them high so they could see.
Then it let them loose. Left them behind. And time came back.
Miles turned his face towards the beach, followed the line with his eyes. He watched it rise up. Watched it crack and peel, perfect, to the shore.
And he saw Mum standing there on the sand all golden in the sun.
He waved to her.
And she waved back.
Miles put the photo down, and he turned the TV on to break the silence. He’d better get started and clean the house.
He cleaned everything.
Miles could smell the fish and chips before Dad opened the front door. He walked in and put the greasy paper parcel down on the kitchen bench. Miles stayed where he was near the couch.
‘Harry’s staying at Stuart’s,’ he said, but Dad didn’t look at him. He just got the tomato sauce out of the cupboard. He opened the fridge and looked inside, but there was no beer. Jeff and him had drunk it all. He stood up straight, shut the fridge door.
‘There’s potato cakes as well,’ he said.
Miles walked over and served himself some chips and a potato cake. There was a piece of grilled fish under them as well as two pieces of battered flake. He didn’t know whether he should take the grilled piece of fish. Dad never got him grilled fish. It was too expensive. Miles usually just got chips and sometimes potato cakes because he never ate flake. Even the smell of it made him sick. It was bad luck to eat shark.
‘It’s grenadier,’ Dad said, but he still didn’t look at Miles. At the bandage on his head, at his eye.
Miles slid the fish onto his plate. He sat down on the couch, started eating chips, and Dad came over. He turned the TV on and stood in front of it. The news was on but the volume was down. There was footage of a car crash on the Tasman Bridge and traffic banked up on both sides of the road. One of the cars was pinned up against the railings, squashed in half.
‘No chance they survived that,’ Dad said.
He turned the volume up then sat down in his chair. ‘I’ve been tuning the boat,’ he said.
Miles looked at his plate and chewed a mouthful of fish. It was soft and didn’t taste of much except salt and oil, but he ate it all and he ate all his chips and the potato cake. Then Dad asked him if he wanted more and he said no. He sat there holding his empty plate and they watched Sale of the Century. Miles didn’t know the answers to any of the questions and a blonde woman in a blue shiny blouse won the game by thirty points. The prize at the end was a baby grand piano. She didn’t take the piano. She decided to come back and play again tomorrow.
‘Engine’s sounding good. We’ll be right for the morning,’ Dad said.
Miles sat there for a while, then he got up. He took his plate to the kitchen and rinsed it in the sink, stood there with a tea towel in his hands. He wanted to ask about Fisheries, about Dad’s licence. But he didn’t. With Harry gone for a few days maybe it would be OK. Maybe Dad would be OK. He dried the plate and put it back in the cupboard.
‘See you in the morning,’ he said, and he walked into the bedroom.
A girl with a round face and yellow hair leant against the wall of the rusty bus shelter next to the shop. Harry didn’t know her, hadn’t seen her before, but that didn’t mean anything. He hardly knew anyone. It was windy, but she only had bare legs, and they were blotchy and purple and her short skirt looked too tight. She rubbed at her legs with her chubby hands, all the while looking down the road. It was past nine. Maybe she’d missed the bus. Maybe the bus was late. There was only one. If you missed it, there wasn’t another.
‘What do you think you’re look’n’ at?’
Harry stood still. He didn’t know what to do, but Stuart pulled at his sleeve, dragged him forward towards the shop.
‘That’s Robbie Pullman’s sister,’ Stuart said.
‘She’s a fat bitch.’
He must have said the last bit too loudly because his mum turned around and gave them both a look. She didn’t say anything though. Stuart’s mum didn’t talk much.
Inside the shop, Harry and Stuart looked at the poster of all the different ice-creams. Harry could feel all the coins in his pocket. There were a few notes in there, too. He could buy them both an ice-cream if Stuart’s mum didn’t mind. Stuart moved away after a bit and joined his mum who was busy filling a wire basket with tins and groceries from the two small aisles, but Harry stayed where he was. He kept looking at the pictures.
Bubble O’ Bill, Eskimo Pie, Splice. It wouldn’t cost much to get two Bubble O’ Bills.
Harry could smell the hot chips that had just been dumped into the bain-marie. He turned and Mrs Martin was looking right at him. Watching him. All the kids hated her. Sometimes she locked the door so kids from school couldn’t get in while they waited for the bus. Some of the older boys called her ‘troll’ through the windows, but she knew all their names, knew who they were.
‘I’ll tell your parents,’ she’d yell out, and the boys would just laugh at her and throw stones at the glass. Harry and Miles never had any money so they never had to worry about Mrs Martin shutting the shop or not shutting the shop. Harry only ever came in here with Aunty Jean, or Stuart’s mum. Even so, Harry thought that Mrs Martin probably knew his name, too, and knew Dad.
He moved away from the ice-creams and stood behind a shelf so Mrs Martin couldn’t watch him anymore. There were jars of instant coffee and sugar and cans of condensed milk and tea on the shelf. There were all different kinds of tea bags in boxes. All different kinds. And there was one shiny black tin with silver writing on it that said English Breakfast. It was the loose tea, the kind George liked. Harry picked it up. The price at the bottom said $3.25. It was nearly all the money he had left.
Stuart’s mum had paid and she and Stuart were waiting for Harry by the door. Harry walked over and put the tin on the counter, but Mrs Martin ignored him and stayed near the bain-marie.
‘I’ll buy this, please,’ Harry said, and he looked right at Mrs Martin, but she still didn’t move.
Stuart’s mum came over.
‘Harry, if you need tea at home, I’ll get it. But your dad would use tea bags. We’ll put this one back.’
Harry pulled the money out of his pocket and put it on the counter. He looked up at Stuart’s mum. ‘I need this one. It’s for Aunty Jean.’
Stuart’s mum didn’t say anything else but she stayed near him, and Mrs Martin came over, started counting the money on the counter.
‘I’ll get two twenty-cent bags of mixed lollies as well,’ Harry said, and he smiled at Stuart. Stuart smiled back.
The girl was still there by the bus shelter when they left the shop. She was smoking a cigarette now, still looking down the road. She had definitely missed the bus. As they drove off in the car, Harry turned and looked through the back window. The girl chucked her cigarette on the gravel and kicked at it with her foot. Then she kicked the bus shelter.
She was stuck here, too.
‘You can drop me off near the bridge.’
It would save him having to walk all the way to George’s from home, only he regretted saying anything now. He could see Stuart’s mum’s eyes in the rear-vision mirror and she looked worried, like she was about to ask a question.
‘Aren’t you coming back to ours?’ Stuart said.
Harry shrugged. He felt bad. Stuart was nice and staying there was good except that they had to sleep in the annex of the caravan and the air was a bit cold on your face. But Stuart’s mum always put hot water bottles in t
heir beds so that the sheets and doona were already warm when you got in. So warm you couldn’t help but go straight to sleep, even if you didn’t want to, even if you wanted to stay up talking.
Harry put his hand in his pocket, felt for his dart gun and pulled it out.
‘You can take this. You can keep it till I come and stay again.’
Stuart took the orange plastic gun in his hands.
‘When?’
‘Maybe tomorrow, or the next day? Don’t lose the darts.’
Stuart nodded. He took the darts from Harry’s hand and put them in his pocket. Harry knew Stuart would lose at least one.
Near the bridge the car pulled over. Stuart’s mum turned. She looked right at Harry, held onto the seat with her arm.
‘Maybe you should come home with us, sweetie. I’ll make some lunch later.’
‘There’s food at home. Dad will have left something out. Thanks for having me, Mrs Phillips.’
Her eyes were big, but she didn’t say anything else.
Harry got out of the car and shut the door. He waved to Stuart and Stuart waved back. And Harry kept waving, hoping the car would drive away. But it didn’t. Stuart’s mum was taking ages. She was worrying, having one of her moments where nothing happened and she just went still for a bit. Went quiet. Dad said she was cracked, but Harry thought she was nice. She was just nice.
Finally the car pulled off. Slowly. Stuart turned in his seat and pulled a funny face and waved again with the dart gun firmly in his hand. Harry coughed in the dust, waved one last time. When they were gone, he ran down the road to the path that led to George’s, clutching the tea.
Harry knew it now – every step, every tree, and the tea in his hands shook inside the tin, a hollow metal ring with each step. He couldn’t wait to give it to George. They would have tea and sandwiches and sit down and it would be warm in the shack. Jake would be excited, then he’d settle down and fall asleep right on Harry’s feet like he always did. But where was Jake? Usually he’d run up to meet Harry by now. Jake could always hear Harry coming long before he reached the shack, and the shack was in view now. No smoke coming from the chimney. No Jake anywhere.
Past the Shallows Page 9
