by Kirsty Eagar
‘Ah … no. That’s … I don’t think I’m going to make it in there, realistically. She’s pretty bad. Can you ask Stu to cover for me?’
Emilio sighs. He’s not being very gracious about Glenda’s predicament. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Emilio. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
When I hang up, Ryan says, ‘Who the hell is Glenda?’
‘I lie all the time. I told you that at Dee Why.’
He shifts up onto his elbow. ‘So it was all right?’
‘Yep.’
‘Good.’
He starts to stroke me with his fingertips, running them over my belly and along my sides.
I flinch. ‘Tickles.’
‘Just relax.’
I give a shiver and try, making myself breathe. And he’s right, I get used to it and like it. He strokes my shoulder, then lifts my arm up over my head and runs his fingers all the way down the inside of it to my armpit.
‘Sorry, I’m sweaty.’
He leans forward and licks me there. ‘I like you sweaty.’
When he’s stroking the inside of my palm, I feel a heaviness overcome me. So relaxed. Couldn’t move if I wanted to. He strokes my eyes shut, then traces my eyebrows.
‘You’re beautiful.’ Whispered.
He runs his finger over my lips, which are just slightly apart, and along my jawline.
Then he gently circles my breasts and brushes his fingers over my nipples so they get hard. He cups his hand around one of them, lifting it gently.
I tense, opening my eyes. ‘Don’t.’
‘Shh.’
He starts on my nipples again, little brushing strokes.
I shift away abruptly, bringing my arms up across my chest. ‘I said, don’t!’
He frowns. ‘All right, mate. Settle down.’
I reach down and pull the top sheet up over me.
When we get to the Services Club things between us are still out of sync, a film that hasn’t been dubbed properly. We talk in short sentences. Ryan’s face is closed off and shitty, and when he asks me questions his eyes are hard. I don’t bother much with the answers because I know I’m just making noise.
We’re sitting on the balcony. A guy is fishing off the old waste pipe that runs into the ocean, the sand’s golden in the late afternoon light, and the ocean’s still dead flat.
Ryan stands up abruptly, scraping his plastic chair on the wooden decking. I look up at him, half-expecting him to tell me that he’s going home because I’m not worth the effort, it’s just all too hard.
‘Back in a sec.’
He returns with two beers, puts them down on the table without looking at me and sits down heavily.
‘We all right here or what?’
When I don’t answer, he says, ‘Did I do something? Is it work? You worried because you should be there? Your boss give you a hard time or something?’
I shake my head, staring at the guy fishing. I can hear Ryan suck air through his teeth.
‘Okay … so if it’s not work …’
‘It’s not you.’
He mimics me. ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’
‘Don’t.’ I look over and see how blotchy his face is. ‘Ryan, it’s okay if you don’t want to do this. That’s okay. It’s cool.’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
He exhales, then leans forward, reaching under the table to hold my knee. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I want to be here. You know what I kept thinking about while I was away? When we went for a surf the morning after – how I felt coming back up the beach with you afterwards. I was just thinking, “How good is this?” ’
‘Really?’
He nods. He brings his chair around beside me so we’re both looking at the water and closer together. We’re quiet for a while.
‘Ryan, if it’s not you, does it matter what it is – I mean, to you?’
He looks sideways at me, grey eyes trying to read. ‘I couldn’t give a shit, mate. As long as you’re okay and all that. Everybody’s got something.’
I wonder if that’s true, if he’d still want me knowing who’d been there before him and what they did.
27
her
Thursday, 8.26 p.m.
They’ve got me learning the trucks. If I get my ticket, I’ll be driving them. Induction was boring as shit, back to school, learning what signs mean. Yeah, so, it’s Ryan by the way. I know you’re at work, but I just thought I’d call anyway. They’re going to put me on earlys which will be a laugh, getting up at four in the morning. So, yeah … Shift’s are twelve hours, six to six. I’ll ring you tomorrow night, late, after you’ve finished work. Or ring me back tonight if you want – don’t worry about waking me up.
I’m waiting for him to come, pacing around my place, straightening the doona on the bed, checking the fridge because I bought beer, bread, butter, orange juice, vegemite, honey, eggs, bacon – all these things so it would be nice when he came. I feel like I’m a soft drink, shaken while still capped, fizzing up, about to explode, waiting, waiting, waiting. Now he’s on his way back time’s stopped and I know I’m going to be locked in this moment forever.
The whole time he’s been away I’ve been longing for him. Longing’s unbearable, something that can’t be endured but has to be. It’s the worst of all; I didn’t know that. It’s sweet and it kills at the same time, an ache eating away at your heart so that air gets in and you don’t know if what you feel is pain or pleasure.
He rings me from the cab to say he’ll be late – his plane was delayed by twenty minutes and the traffic’s bad getting through the city. It’s like a marathon this is, because he’s going to have an accident or something and I’ll never get to see him. I could send myself mad right now. I have a cigarette, which I suck back quickly, every intake of breath nicotine-laced, because I’m thinking I’ll need all the time I can take to get rid of the smell again. I wash my hands four times and brush my teeth twice and spray on more deodorant. I put some make-up on, but it looks silly so I wash it off. And then I eat some toast, to make sure the smoking smell’s gone. And then I clean my teeth again.
I think I’m exhausted in the end. That’s why I sit down – out on the deck because inside the walls are too tight – and I just wait for him to come.
I don’t hear the cab pull up, but when the security light comes on I hear him walking down the side of the house. I get up then and hover at the bottom of the steps. He’s carrying a black-and-yellow sports bag over his shoulder. I notice his boots straight away – Blundstone steel caps that have got to be mine issued. He’s wearing jeans and a navy blue shirt, which looks nice and soft. When he sees me he gives me a grin, but I can see how tired he is.
‘How’re you goin’? Thought I was never going to get here. Frigging traffic.’
He reaches the bottom of the steps, puts his bag down and there’s an awkward moment when we look at each other. His grey eyes are questioning and I can see that he’s nervous too. Then we hug, and the feel of him, being wrapped up in his solidness, makes me feel small and humble and grateful. It makes me feel safe.
We stay like that for maybe two minutes. I can hear him breathing. Before I pull back I hug him as tightly as I can so he knows I don’t want to let go.
He takes his boots off on the deck and leaves them next to the Rossi boots I wear to work. Then he follows me in through the glass sliding doors and stands there for a second in his thick socks, holding his bag, just taking it all in.
Then he grins. ‘Cleaned up for me?’
‘See that cupboard there? Don’t open it.’
The next morning, I feel like I haven’t even slept when I hear him say, ‘Carly? Carly, wake up.’
I squint at him. ‘What?’
‘Come on, let’s get down there.’
I rub my eyes, trying to get them open. ‘What time is it?’
‘Five. Let’s go for an early.’
‘I thought you weren’t a morning person.’
We’re down there by twenty past five, standing side by side on the lookout seat, checking it. That right there shows how weird life is – I can remember the first time I saw him, how he was standing on the lookout seat looking all shut off and cold. I wonder what I would have thought if someone had told me how important he was going to be to me.
Maybe because I’m half asleep I’m not so enthusiastic at first, but then I really see what’s happening. ‘Holy shit.’
‘You said it, mate.’
The surf is pumping. It’s like a welcome back present for Ryan. Glassy, grey and four-foot, coming straight from the east. The sun isn’t over the horizon yet, there’s hardly anybody else out and the water’s thick like mercury. Perfect conditions.
Once we’re out there we don’t talk to each other – we’re both focused on getting waves. I watch Ryan take off on a left and see the way he powers through his turns, burying his rail deep in the face. He’s a goofy footer. I wonder if he was born a goofy footer or made that way – this break’s known for its left.
At one point I’m paddling hard for a left, really pulling to get on the thing because it’s good, it’s going to be so good, and I hear him shout, ‘Go it, Carly!’
More people arrive and soon there’s a clump of surfers in the water. When Ryan bumps into me in the middle of the arrowhead he looks surprised for a second and I feel the same way. It’s like, Oh hello, I’d forgotten you were here.
He plants himself on his board, giving me his Mr Cool act. ‘Gettin’ a few?’
‘Yep.’
‘Any good?’
I grin. ‘Better than sex.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Is that right?’
There’s a mound of swell rolling towards us and I start to paddle for it. He snakes me and takes it.
‘Oi!’
I drop in on him the first chance I get.
Round three. There’s one coming on the inside and I start paddling for it. He starts for it too, telling me, ‘It’s mine, sunshine.’
‘Get stuffed.’
As I feel the surge take my board, he grins across at me. ‘Split it?’
So we split the peak, he goes left and I go right, and I know, like me, he’s thinking, How good is this?
After our surf we drop into his place. I park the Laser in the driveway behind his Commodore and wait there while he goes up the stairs and steps over all those shoes on the landing. The house looks deserted. Ryan unlocks the front door and goes inside leaving it wide open. He wants to leave some rent money for Shane.
My mobile starts ringing and I hunt around, finding it in the glove box. It’s Mum. I haven’t answered a call from her for weeks. After a second’s hesitation, I answer.
‘You’re up nice and early.’ She sounds pleased, as though this is evidence there might be hope for me yet. ‘Off to work soon?’
‘No, I’ve been for a surf.’ And I sound bright, almost cheerful. I can’t help it.
‘Oh, yes. You always did like that, didn’t you?’
I roll my eyes. It’s harmless, though. She never did get the surfing thing.
‘Your brother’s moved into his unit.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Yes. And he’s found a flatmate. This nice boy from Gos-ford – Matthew, his name is. Keith said he works for …’
She gives me the blow by blow on all that is happening in Keith’s world. Then in my father’s and her world, and in the world of aunties and uncles and cousins – the full report. She sounds quite chirpy today. As though nothing is wrong at all and I just happen to be away from home. My mother is resilient. Well, no, that’s not quite it. She lives on the surface. In the world of routine. That’s what Dad and her have in common – apart from the fact that they both think he knows best – they like their routine.
But it’s not like I’m bitter, thinking all this. It’s just the way it is, the way they are. Today I can see them with some distance and the hurt shrinks a bit. They’re not going to change. I can even feel some sympathy for them. Things must be a lot easier for them now I’m not there. Less disruption. They can focus on getting more things done.
‘So how are things with you?’ she asks, warily pleasant.
Things are good, Mum. So good it’d scare me if I thought about it. This guy called Ryan seems to like me for some reason and I like him. He’s just out of jail, actually, used to be a drug dealer.
I laugh. ‘Things are good, Mum.’ Ryan appears in the doorway, carrying an armful of clothes. ‘But sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll speak to you soon, okay? I love you. Bye.’
I switch my mobile off and stow it back in the glove box. Ryan tosses the clothes onto the backseat. When he gets into the car the Laser shifts with his weight.
I look at him. ‘Was Shane there?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Like what?’
‘About … I thought he might give you a hard time for staying at my place.’
Ryan shrugs, looking puzzled. ‘None of his business. I’m still paying my share of the rent.’
‘Are you worried sometimes that he mightn’t pay his?’ I mean because of the drugs. He might use the money for them instead.
Ryan laughs in a way I haven’t heard before. ‘Nah. He wouldn’t do that.’
I don’t ask any questions but I think it’s got something to do with logistics. There are parts to Ryan I don’t know, but they don’t matter to me.
We make bacon and eggs back at my place. I’m hopeless, I don’t know why but I’m all over the shop, and in the end Ryan pushes me away from the stovetop.
‘Jesus, Carly, what are you doing to those eggs? Let me. I thought you were supposed to be a cook.’
‘I never said I was a good one.’
He takes the spatula and scoops out the eggs, which are fried to buggery and crispy around the edges. ‘Let’s start again.’ He throws them in the bin.
‘Fussy.’
‘The hard bits make you burp for ages. Can’t be good for you, that. How do you want yours?’
‘However.’
I sit up on the bench, watching him clean the pan with detergent and a scourer. Then he starts again, this time with the bacon, which is where I should have started. He puts the bacon in the pan while it’s cold so by the time it’s hot the bacon has released its fat.
While it’s cooking, Ryan looks through my cupboards. ‘You’ve only got one pan?’
I sound surly and defensive. ‘I don’t know. The place came furnished but I haven’t really cooked since I’ve been here.’
He laughs. When the bacon’s done, he puts it on a plate and leaves it in the oven to keep it warm.
Then he cracks eggs into the pan, cooking them in the bacon fat. ‘Here, you make the toast, Cook.’
So I do.
‘You know something about you?’ he says. ‘You’re impatient.’
‘No shit, Sherlock.’
We eat out on the deck. I’m still in my bikini and Ryan’s in a pair of shorts. Hannah’s gone to work and I’m relaxed because no one’s going to come and bother us. It’s a beautiful morning, the sun feels good. I’m sitting in a puddle of it and Ryan’s sitting next to me, in the strip of shade from the bamboo.
He finishes eating and pushes his plate away. ‘I want to talk to you about something. I’ve been thinking about this job …’
‘Yeah?’
‘I got my ticket – for driving. The money’s really good. Really good. The work’s hard, but I’ll get used to it. It’s sort of like jail in a way – there’s a real routine to everything. Like when you’re out there, you work, then you eat, shower, sleep and go to bed early. Everything’s geared towards making sure you can perform your shift. Anyway, I’ve been thinking that if I stick with it for a couple of years I can set myself up. Save hard, watch the expenses – don’t spend too much time in the wet
mess.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Where they drink after work. The wettie.’
That’s funny to me: mining must have its own language in the same way surfing does. In surfing, a wettie is a wetsuit. In mining, it’s a place you wet your throat.
‘Put the money to work, buy a couple of units, get people in ’em renting, paying off the mortgages for me. Property prices go up, I make a profit on one of them, sell it and use the cash to help clear the others. By the time I get out, I’ll have an income stream.’
‘Wow.’ I’m in awe if you want to know the truth. It seems so big picture, so – I don’t know – like Ryan’s completely got his shit together.
‘Yeah, it’s a long way off, but that would be the plan. Because I don’t want to go through life working a shitty job. I’m happy to work like a dog short term if it means I get the long term thing right.’
‘So you can surf all you want then.’
He raises his sandy eyebrows. ‘Yeah. And it’s two weeks on, one week off, so I get to surf, you know, a third of the time, a third of the year – better than a regular job. Then in breaks, we can go places if you want. Like Laurieton, or Crescent Head, or wherever. Do a few trips.’
I nod, suddenly shy. It’s all so big picture.
There’s a bunch of rainbow lorikeets in one of the eucalypts down at the bottom of the garden making a racket.
‘Noisy little shits, aren’t they?’ Ryan clears his throat. ‘I just wanted to see what you thought about it, but. Because that’s important.’
‘I think it’d be good.’
He gives me a look, making sure I understand why he’s asking me. ‘All right then.’
Later, I ask him what he wants to do. I keep thinking that I’ve got to go to work at four-thirty.
He stretches and lies out flat on the deck. ‘Mate, I’m buggered. I’m happy to do nothing all day. Just hang around with you, if that’s okay. I mean, yell out if you’re sick of me taking up space.’
‘No, no. That’s … No, stay.’
