by Tess Evans
George freezes. ‘That’s city kids for you,’ he says, bundling Rory back into the car.
Rabbit looks even more morose. ‘Can’t say I like kids much meself – but city kids? They take the cake.’
‘This is it.’ The sandstone house, framed in the car windscreen, is long and low, stretched across the flat horizon as though it had grown, fully fashioned, from the soil. A wide verandah on all sides and several large gum trees provide shade from the searing heat. And it is hot. George feels the sweat saturating his collar, running down his face, sticking his shirt to his back. The dogs, with no such city reservations, set up an excited bark, paws scrabbling in the back of the station wagon.
Inside, the house is cool (or maybe just cooler). The curtains are drawn and even when they pull them open, the verandah prevents a direct solar assault. Before unpacking the car, George and Rory sit in the flag-stoned kitchen and wolf down two each of the icy-poles Stella has stored in the freezer.
‘I reckon those dogs must be pretty thirsty by now. How about you give them a drink.’ George points to the bowls by the sink and Rory is delighted to see them slurp up every last drop.
‘That can be your job,’ George says. ‘If you want a dog of your own, you’ll have to learn how to look after them.’
‘I will.’ She’s already refilling the bowls. ‘C’mon, Rusty, Min, Dog. Let’s play.’
Rusty walks out onto the verandah and lies down, head on paws. George has a good deal of sympathy for the dog that continues to ignore Rory’s entreaties. ‘Let him be, sweetheart. He’s a bit like me – all worn out.’
Min and Dog, however, are ready to play, and Rory’s only too happy to oblige.
George refuses his weary body’s call to rest and finishes unpacking the car. When the phone rings, he feels his stomach lurch and almost doesn’t answer. After all, it could be anyone. On the fifth ring, he picks up the phone and almost whispers, ‘Hello?’
It’s Park. ‘Just checkin’ you got there okay. Everything orright?’
‘Good, mate. Good. Got the dogs from Rabbit.’
‘Miserable bugger, but he knows his dogs. By the way, how’s Rory getting on with them?’
‘Running them ragged.’
‘That’s the stuff. See how she goes with Dog. She can have him if they get on.’
‘Geez, you don’t have to do that.’
‘Up to you. They got lots of energy, border collies, but they’re great with kids. If you decide to keep him, let Rory name him. Can’t be called Dog for the rest of his life.’
They are out in the middle of nowhere and George is surprised that there’s plenty to keep them busy. Rabbit drops by to show them how to feed the homestead chooks and collect the eggs. Together with care of the dogs, Rory takes on the hens as her special chore. George, meanwhile, busies himself with some small repairs around the house, and before it gets too hot each day, tends the kitchen garden. He enjoys sitting on the verandah, too, either reading or just looking out to where land meets sky, not really thinking of anything at all. In later years, he will recognise this as contentment.
Park had told them about the swimming hole, and on the second day they drive a short distance to the creek. George spreads out their things under the shade of the river gums, while Rory and the dogs run to the water.
‘Wait till I check the depth,’ George yells. ‘Remember your water drill.’
By the time he is organised, the dogs are swimming out to the middle and Rory capering on the edge. ‘Hurry up, Poppy George.’
The brown water ripples over their sweaty bodies and George splashes and ducks and snorts like a kid. As Rory says, it’s the best fun. Min and Dog chase the sticks they throw, while Rusty, after a brief swim, shakes his fur and settles in the shade. When George joins him, the dog puts his head on his lap and drifts off to sleep. George fondles the silky ears. ‘We can’t keep up with those young folk for long, can we, boy?’
It’s the question that, since his precautionary visit to the doctor, George has refused to tackle head-on. He has skirted the edges once or twice, but that’s all. At home, at the beach with the Parkers – even driving up here – he always had something to divert his attention when the nagging thought arose. But out here, where life is simplified, it presents itself with an insistence he can no longer ignore. He’s an old man and that’s a fact. In no time he’ll be eighty, and Rory will still be at primary school. He does some fuzzy calculations. She’ll need him for at least another eleven, twelve years. What if he dies, or has a stroke? What if he develops Alzheimer’s? Afraid to face his ageing, he stopped checking his hands for tremors a while ago. Though the air feels as hot as anything he experienced in his time as a boiler-maker, George shivers. Someone’s stepping on your grave. That’s what they used to say when they were kids.
He begins to worry about what’s happening at home. Has Angie been persuaded to stay? That’s by far the best outcome – all of them living together in Mercy Street. Over time, he could get Angie on track, so that if anything happened to him, Rory would be secure. He begins to feel anxious that they aren’t where they can hear the phone. They’ve been here two days and there’s still no word from Bree. According to his original plans, he is now three days overdue and Angie must be wondering what has happened to them. ‘Five more minutes,’ he calls. ‘We have to go back soon.’
‘Not yet. I’m teaching Dog how to do a duck-dive.’
It’s a good forty-five minutes before they’re ready to drive back to the house. George, happy to settle with his book, is relieved to see that Rory and the young dogs have worn each other out. ‘Quiet time,’ he says. ‘You can draw or read, maybe.’
‘I’ll draw Aunty Bree and Redgum a picture of Dog,’ she decides. ‘And one for Aunty Shirl and Mr and Mrs Nguyen. And one for Maryam and one for Kirsty.’ She comes over and kisses his bald head. ‘And a special one for you.’
‘That’s the way.’ George opens his book at page twenty-four. By page twenty-seven, he’s asleep.
Turning the corner into Mercy Street, Angie experiences the unfamiliar sensation of coming home. She has some awesome presents for Rory – a Barbie with a glamour wardrobe and a backpack shaped like a koala. She even got George a present – a tea towel saying ‘Mermaid Beach’ with pictures of the sea and stuff. He went somewhere up there with his wife. Not bad – remembering a thing like that.
The front windows are shut, the blinds drawn. Like it was the first time I saw it, she remembers. Not very welcoming. After they had been living there a while, somehow the blinds were always open in the daytime. Much more cheerful, if you ask me. Angie hesitates at the gate, hoping that George doesn’t get all preachy. She’s reluctant to admit it, even to herself, but she misses him sometimes. A dad like George would’ve been a pain, but he did what he thought was best. Like he cared what happened to her.
She frowns at the straggly lawn. Unusual. George is so fussy about his lawn. The front door is closed. Should she knock or use her key? Her key is somewhere in her anarchic backpack so she knocks several times before deciding to check with the Nguyens.
Mrs Nguyen gives her the evil eye. ‘They go on a holiday.’
Angie is shocked. She had expected to come back and find Rory waiting right where she left her. They had plans, she and Charlie. He lived in this West Wyalong place when he was a kid, and he reckons they can set up there on the cheap and keep clean. No drugs there when he left twenty years ago. They’ll have this nice house and Rory can go to school and George can come to visit. Though, admittedly, the last was more her plan than Charlie’s, but George was all right and the kid liked him. He’d be pleased with her, would George. In some obscure way, this is important to her. I have a plan, she sees herself telling him, all responsible and mature. When we get to West Wyalong, we’ll have a house and we’ll be a proper family, Charlie and Rory and me.
But where has he taken Rory? Now she’s here, she realises that she wants to see her daughter more than she ever imagined. At a loss,
she looks up and down the street, as though George and Rory might appear from somewhere around the corner. ‘Let’s try Bree.’ Angie gets back on the bike, which has been revving for some time. Charlie’s scowl tells her his patience is wearing thin. Fortunately, it takes no time at all to get to Mill Street.
‘It’s me, girlfriend.’ Angie throws her arms around a surprised Bree’s neck. The other woman pulls back and, piqued, Angie cuts to the chase. ‘Where’s George taken Rory?’
‘Down the beach,’ Bree tells her. ‘Don’t know where.’
‘There’s a nice homecoming for you.’ Angie glares at Bree. ‘Me kid gone and me bestie sounding like she’s got a broom stuck up her arse.’
But she’s back, and she wants to see Rory. Soon – sooner than soon. Is that too much for a mother to ask?
George and Rory are playing Uno when the phone rings. It’s Bree, who tells him she’s ringing from a public phone. (Where she managed to find one, George can’t imagine.)
‘Angie’s getting restless. And so’s Charlie. He pretends he wants Rory, but I reckon he just wants to get going.’
‘What about those mates of his?’ Suddenly nervous, George sees a phalanx of leather-clad hoodlums roaring into town, turning his harmless lie into a terrifying reality. Has he covered his tracks well enough? He’s read loads of detective thrillers and knows there are ways and means. He blanches as he pictures what the means might be.
Bree is quite blasé, considering. ‘Don’t worry about that. He’s not making any threats. If we’re lucky, he’ll get tired of waiting and go. With or without Angie.’
‘You must get her to stay.’ George can’t impress Bree enough with the necessity of this solution and imbues his voice with as much urgency as possible. ‘Get her to stay but encourage him to leave.’
‘Like I’ve got any say.’ Bree sounds annoyed. ‘She’s driving me crazy with questions, but there’s no way she’ll listen to any advice I give her.’
George is fearful, not far from panic. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘Give me a bit more time. I don’t think Charlie’ll last much longer. Then it’ll be easier to work on Angie.’
George returns to the game, but his concentration is shot. Putting down his wild card, he calls the wrong colour.
‘Green. You should’ve said green.’ Rory gives an exasperated sigh. ‘I don’t want you to let me win. I’m in Grade 2 now and I can win all by myself.’
‘I’m trying very hard. I really am. It’s just that I’m not very good at this game.’
‘Mummy was.’
George flinches. This is the first time she has mentioned her mother in months and he has an awful feeling that he’s a long way from winning the endgame.
‘You mean we can keep him? Take him home?’ The delight on Rory’s face is matched only by George’s. He has consulted Rabbit, who is helping them train Dog (now known as Richie) and the man agrees, with a few caveats, that Rory is worthy.
‘He’s not such a sissy after bein’ out here for a bit. Long way to go, but.’
George still sometimes forgets Rory’s new identity as his grandson, and wonders for a moment who Rabbit is referring to. ‘Yes. Of course. Roy.’ It’s pathetic, but he wants full endorsement from this dour old bushie. ‘The kid seems to have a way with dogs, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Wouldn’t go that far.’ Rabbit scratches his chest where a few grey hairs escape the confines of a grubby singlet. ‘All dogs is different. He’s lucky this fella’s got a good temperament.’
Old bugger. Why can’t he admit Rory’s done a good job? George is annoyed but can’t afford to antagonise the man. ‘Yeah. It all goes into the mix. Thanks for your help, anyway.’ He indicates a box on the verandah. ‘A slab. Fourex okay? For helping the kid with the dog.’
Rabbit goes off with a brief nod and George and Rory high-five in the way she has shown him. ‘Here’s to you and Dog – known forever after as the mighty Richie.’
17
The kitchen calendar hangs right at eye-level, so George can’t ignore it. Every day it brings them closer to the end of the month when Stella and Park are due home and he and Rory will have to leave. If things aren’t sorted by then, where can they go? Richie, who is having an identity crisis and still answers to Dog, flops at his feet and George’s head begins to ache. You can’t just wander the country with a school-aged kid and a dog. George curses under his breath as Richie licks his bare foot. Why on earth had he complicated things by taking on a dog? Even as he asks himself the question, he knows the answer – they now own a dog because he had anticipated Rory’s delight and that was good enough for him.
The phone rings at about four o’clock. It’s Bree, with an urgency in her voice that fills him with dread. ‘Don’t let Rory watch the news tonight. Angie’s gone and told the police.’
George dredges his response from somewhere beyond his day-to-day experience – a fictional world, inhabited by fictional characters who commit fictional crimes. ‘The police, you say? Why? What about Charlie?’
Bree’s voice is grim. ‘Charlie left yesterday and Angie went out and got drunk. I mean really, really drunk. When the cops picked her up, she blubbed all over them and said her daughter had been kidnapped – George, are you there?’
‘She left Rory with me – asked me to look after her. How’s that kidnap?’ Something prevents George from taking in the situation. ‘Kidnap? There’s no logic in that. Once they know the truth, the cops’ll understand.’
Bree continues as though he hasn’t spoken. ‘Stay put for the moment. No one knows where you are except the Parkers, Redgum and me – and we’re not telling. When Angie has time to think, she’ll tell them the truth. Trouble is, it might take a while. They’re kind of making a fuss of her – the cops, social workers, telly news reporters. She’s enjoying all the attention.’
George can’t fasten on the facts and is incapable of making a decision or even formulating the question. ‘We can’t go off half-cocked. Ring back after nine,’ he says. ‘Rory’ll be in bed by then.’
Five forty-nine and Rory is watching some animated rubbish about a pig. ‘What about you hop in the bath and have a nice play while I watch the news.’
Rory looks up, surprised. He’d often told her that they had to be careful with water, but as she prefers a bath to a quick shower she doesn’t argue, and George closes the bathroom door just in time to catch the beginning of the news. The first item is about the floods up north, followed by a horror smash on the Princes Highway. Then a not-too-recent photo of Rory appears on the backdrop.
‘Police are seeking the whereabouts of schoolgirl Aurora Jane – Rory – Wilson. They are concerned for the welfare of the six-year-old from the Melbourne suburb of Fairfield, who was last seen at the Red Dolphin Caravan Park, Pambula, in the company of one George Johnson . . .’
Rory’s likeness morphs into a photo of George standing in the kitchen at her birthday party. No sign of the food, the cake, the Happy Birthday sign. Just an elderly man. An odd-looking elderly man with a faint smirk and a stain on his shirt.
George feels sick. What do they mean ‘concerned’? She’s with her Poppy George. Angie knows that. Even so, he’s heard of reporters getting the wrong end of the stick, deliberately or not, pumping up a story. When Angie actually listens to what they’re saying, she’ll put them right. He needs reassurance. She will, won’t she, Pen?
He returns to the screen in time to see the Crime Stoppers number and hear that anyone knowing his whereabouts should make contact. Then, a minor sop to his outraged feelings: ‘The man is not believed to be dangerous, but police advise that he should be approached with caution. Stay tuned. After the break, we have Bonza, the young koala found after the bushfires in Victoria’s Grampians region . . .’
Checking in the mirror over the mantel, George is relieved to see that he’s pretty much unrecognisable as the man in the photo. He has kept his head shaved and over time grown a grizzled beard, which he thinks makes him look d
istinguished. (A look he had never dared aspire to in the past.) So he’s okay, but what about Rory? He can’t remember seeing the lighter roots he was supposed to look out for. How long does it take? Thank goodness Bree had given him a good supply of hair dye. It’s comb-through stuff, so he’ll manage without help. He has to, doesn’t he?
When Rory comes out from her bath, shining and pink, George switches off the television and peers at her head. So far, so good.
‘Are you all right, Poppy?’
‘Yeah – yeah. I’m fine.’
‘You look like you’ve been crying.’
‘Just the onions, love.’ George blinks. ‘Come and give your Poppy a big hug.’
Skinny arms twine around his neck. And at that moment, George becomes a confirmed outlaw. He can’t, he won’t let her go.
Their new bedtime ritual includes a quiet time, cuddled up on the lumpy verandah sofa. On one of the untidy bookshelves, they had found an astronomical atlas, and every night regard each other with delight as they identify the evening star, the Southern Cross, the Saucepan, the Milky Way – all burning intense and white in an unpolluted sky.
Tonight, George’s storytelling takes on a mythic quality. ‘There was once a beautiful princess,’ he tells her, ‘and she lived in a blue and white palace with a man who wasn’t a prince and who wasn’t handsome, but she loved him anyway.’
‘Was he rich?’
‘No. He wasn’t rich, but he loved his princess more than anything, so they married and were very, very happy. But one day, she told him that she was a sky-princess and that it was time for her to return to the stars. “I’ll come, too,” he said, but she smiled a sorrowful smile and said that she had to go alone.’
‘Was he sad?’
‘He was very sad. But before she went, she told him that he could look up at the stars every night and she would be there, watching over him.’
