Goodwood

by Holly Throsby

  Smithy told Mack all he had to tell and went back to humming ‘Whiskey in a Jar’. In regards to anything personal, he was unforthcoming. All Mack could muster was a cryptic statement, which may have been quoted poetry—‘the fields are filling with blood’—and Smithy had said it to the beer taps rather than to Mack directly.

  ‘Smithy’ll be all right—I’m more worried about Terry and Jude,’ he said. ‘And I’m mostly worried about what I’ll do to fucking Carl White if I see him showing his face in town.’

  The unusual instance of Mack cursing at Nan’s table went by without comment. There was an aura of despair in the dining room. Mum leant back in her chair as if resigned to tragedy. Pop didn’t have any puns. Mack looked exhausted. Backflip sat under the table waiting for someone to drop food.

  ‘Well,’ said Nan to the lasagne, ‘most of you are too young to remember, but this whole time we’re in right now? It reminds me of the war.’

  •

  When we got home that evening, Mum pulled up two chairs on the pavers and we sat and watched the garden. Big Jim and Fitzy had their back door closed and were quiet. Con and Althea were safe behind their roller shutters on the other side. Backflip sniffed around under the big flowering gum by the back fence, but she was too brown for us to see in the dark and all we could hear was her snuffling.

  Mum made us peppermint tea and I held on to my warm mug.

  I thought about everything everyone had said at dinner. I thought about walking to the clearing with Mack. I had no idea who took that plastic horse from the tree hole. I had no idea who left the plastic horse in the tree hole. I had no idea what anything had to do with anything else.

  Mack and I had walked back to Cedar Street with few words. I said, ‘Don’t tell Mum,’ and he nodded that he wouldn’t.

  Then, before dinner that night, Mack had pulled Mum and I aside about Bart’s stolen Corolla, ‘Don’t tell Nan,’ he said, and we nodded that we wouldn’t.

  I looked at the dark garden and imagined Bart: emerging from the lake, dripping with brown water, running past the paddocks, finding his Corolla, and driving off somewhere else to be gone.

  22

  George, who had always been fond of a conspiracy theory, found the whole thing highly suspicious.

  ‘So, Bart didn’t report his car stolen. And he lied to Mrs Bart about it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, as we sat cross-legged on the grassy hill at lunch.

  George looked perplexed. She stared off towards the fence.

  ‘And so, okay, if he did steal his own car: first, would that be called stealing, and second, why would he do that?’ she said.

  I thought about it. ‘I don’t think you’d call that stealing,’ I said.

  I remembered that when the divers searched for Bart—and we huddled on the shore of the lake with the other concerned townsfolk—we’d heard the police from Clarke speculating that Bart had done a runner. Toby had driven us there that day—George had made him. He’d smoked cigarettes and kicked tufts of brown grass while we watched the divers. We’d wanted to stay longer but Toby complained of boredom, and the lack of a dead body, and we reluctantly agreed to go home.

  The huddle from town included Big Jim and Merv, who’d brought Coral along with them at her insistence; as well as Irene Oakman, Carmel Carmichael, Smithy, and several fisherdads who spent their weekends on the lake. They all spoke over each other, and then not at all, and then over each other again when it looked like the divers might have something.

  They never did.

  But Sergeant Simmons from Clarke stood at the back of the group with Mack and two other officers, casting doubt over the likelihood of Bart’s drowning.

  ‘Fellas, he might not be there to find,’ said Sergeant Simmons, looking cocky.

  Why would he think that?

  Was it that Bart had debts? Was it that Bart had a secret lady friend stashed in a nearby motel? Was it that Bart had an entire double life with a different family in a different town and decided now was the time to make a break for it and be gone?

  The latter was George’s most recent theory and she was very fond of it. She’d read an article in the newspaper a while ago about a podiatrist in England who had a whole other family secreted in a town only twenty minutes away from his wife of twenty years.

  ‘He had two sons in the first house and two daughters in the second house, and the women had no idea! They just thought he fixed feet and was normal.’ George spoke fast, nodding. ‘Seriously, it happens all the time.’

  ‘I don’t think all the time,’ I said. ‘And when would Bart have had time for a whole other family?’

  George didn’t have an answer to that. She frowned. Bart opened Bart’s Meats six days a week and fished on Sundays. He rode in the foothills with Pearl of an evening, under an orange sky. He took Mrs Bart out for nice steak dinners; he met his mates at the Bowlo or the Wicko most Fridays. He knew our names, our families, our months of birth. He chose thoughtful gifts and was always generous. He asked questions and he listened when we answered.

  ‘I don’t think Bart did a runner,’ I said, after we’d gone around in several of these circles.

  ‘But I’m just saying that if he did run somewhere, he would’ve needed a getaway car,’ said George.

  I lay back on the hill and looked up at the bright sky, squinting.

  ‘I still think he seemed to drown,’ I said.

  George lay back too and looked up at the bright sky and sneezed.

  ‘Bless you,’ I said.

  She sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve. She sighed. ‘He did seem to drown,’ she said.

  •

  Davo Carlstrom had slept late and spent until lunchtime lying on his bed, smoking. His mum, Linda, had left for work at the Ingham Further Processing Plant. Her day consisted of breading chicken limbs, which rolled away on a large conveyer belt to be packed in plastic, and then in boxes, and then into trucks and, eventually, into supermarket freezers. Linda and her colleagues wore sanitary gowns and gloves and masks and, under them, frowns. Due to her work, and the way it gradually sickened her, the Carlstroms did not consume any chicken. Linda rolled home most nights after the men had eaten, and was met with silence and disapproval. Her face was puffed and beery from too many schooners at the Royal Tavern.

  When Davo woke, Dennis Carlstrom was toiling with an automobile in the yard. He’d dragged home a wounded 1980 Torana from the wrecker just outside of Clarke. Pop told me torana was an Aboriginal word meaning ‘to fly’. Dennis and Lafe Carlstom, who had bent themselves under the bonnet, were determined to make it fly once more.

  Relations between Davo and Lafe had been frosty in the few days since their lawn fight. Lafe drank by himself in his caravan. Davo stayed out late and avoided his house. He’d been seen on the oval, drinking; he’d been seen in Sweetmans Park, drinking; he’d been seen at the Wicko, drinking, and ‘steaming’ as Smithy said, which was Irish for drunk. George saw Davo walking up their street at night, off towards the dark, looking abandoned and savage.

  Davo had been nothing like himself since Rosie vanished. His shoulders were less broad. His back was more stooped. His rebellious good looks became anguished and dishevelled. He’d lost weight in his face and chest, like a tyre with a slow leak.

  But that day, after he slept late, he got himself out of his smoky bed. He wore his favourite Big W blue-checked flanno over a black T-shirt and jeans with no knees. He walked in heavy boots that were neglectfully untied. He ambled up his delinquent street, across the train tracks, up to the shops under the mountain. He went past Woody’s, averting his eyes so he didn’t have to see the place where Rosie should have been. Then he crossed the road directly and went straight into the Goodwood police station.

  Mack’s head was just visible above the pinewood counter. Posters for domestic violence services and Neighbourhood Watch hung crooked and faded. There was a smell of Pine O Cleen and Nescafé. Mack looked up and said, ‘Davo. What can I do for you?’
r />   Davo leant on the bench with his arms folded. He looked shrunken. He was pained. Mack could see it. It sat in his eyes like the grief that floated all over town. Mack stood up and said, ‘Davo? Mate?’

  Davo pulled a little plastic horse from his pocket and put it on the pinewood counter.

  •

  At the same time, down the hill from Cedar Street, the bell rang to announce the end of lunchtime and we had school assembly. The entire student body of Goodwood High was corralled into the gym, where blue plastic chairs were set in rows. A little demountable stage was wheeled out with a microphone on it. Kids from all years filed in noisily.

  I sat next to George in the back row, closest to the big double doors. The light from outside poured in the high windows and made white squares on the dusty wooden floor. George talked at me while the chairs filled up around us. Our principal, Mr Cooper, stood waiting by the microphone. Teachers lined the walls. Mrs Gwen Hughes stood alone and rubbed her amethyst necklace like a mystic.

  Evie came in behind us.

  There were three spare chairs to my left, and then the aisle. I saw her out of the corner of my eye. She stopped before the double doors in the white light and looked at the section assigned to Year Twelve. She could’ve sat in any row. She could’ve sat in any chair. But she came to our row and shuffled along three seats and sat down right next to me.

  It was the closest I had ever been to her. I’d seen her in the library; in the playground; in the canteen; at the lunch tables. She was always by herself and often reading. She always seemed as if she was in a faraway and much more interesting world.

  George, on my other side, was talking away, even though I had stopped listening properly. Bec Fisher and Bec Kelly, reeking of Impulse, sat down in the two seats next to Evie, and our row was full.

  Mr Cooper began to speak. It was a tough day to be Mr Cooper. He was never good at addressing difficulty, and this was a particularly difficult time. For us as a school and for Goodwood as a town. All of us knew Bart McDonald. He was a terrific bloke. Very generous to the school. He put together the meat tray for the raffle; it was always a great tray. He was very generous, a really terrific bloke. We all think of his family, and—of course—Rosie. As for Rosie, cough cough, she just graduated last year—as we all knew. Worked up there at Woody’s Take Away—up there. Really terrific young girl, with a lot of potential. It’s a very difficult, very tragic time—but if we all just stick together. Terry White—we all knew Terry. Terrific kid. Year Eleven student here at Goodwood High. It’s a very difficult time for Terry and his family. Terry is absent for the time being as we can all understand. Let’s all keep hoping they come home safe and sound: Bart and—cough cough—Rosie.

  Beads of sweat had sprouted all over Mr Cooper.

  ‘Have mercy on that poor man,’ said George.

  He soldiered on. Matters of upcoming exams and sports couldn’t have come soon enough. He began to recover his voice. The Gather Region Athletics Carnival was imminent. Goodwood could be very competitive, he said, particularly in cross-country.

  ‘Maybe because everyone wants to leave town so bad and no one has a car?’ whispered George.

  He moved swiftly along from sports to aspiration in general. He found his stride. Mr Cooper claimed that we, the students of Goodwood High, would be successful Twentieth-Century Global Citizens. In eight short years we’d inhabit the Twenty-First Century and beyond. He reminded us of our school motto. ‘Strive for the Summit,’ he said, which always made me think of the deep green mountain.

  ‘And once you get to the summit, go down the other side and don’t look back,’ whispered George.

  The Goodwood High School band performed a shaky version of ‘Top of the World’ by The Carpenters. The clarinets let the whole thing down. Poor Emily Ross. I had no idea why someone with so much asthma would choose a wind instrument. George and I clapped loudly to compensate for the lacklustre applause. We loved assembly. Especially George.

  A school counsellor from Clarke High made a speech over half-moon glasses. She was going to be at our school on Fridays for one month in case anyone needed to talk about their feelings. She had an inkling that some of us might be sad or anxious, or even scared, but not to worry because she had a degree in psychology and was not afraid to use it. Apparently, beyond all things, it was important for us to seek help early.

  ‘Before it’s too late,’ whispered George.

  Mr Berg made a short speech about a new Safe Town program. ‘A safe and caring environment’ where students could meet and discuss things they were nervous about: recent unsettling events, walking home alone, stranger danger.

  ‘As Mr Cooper said, Rosie White was a student here. She graduated just last year so many of you will have known her reasonably well. As a school we pray for her safety. Even those of you who don’t believe in God can pray in your own way.’

  Some boys a few rows in front of us laughed. One wolf-whistled in a tone that suggested a distinct lack of belief. Mrs Carr glared at them and performed one of her reprimanding coughs.

  I was thankful that Terry White was in Ballina.

  I could sense Evie next to me the whole time but I didn’t turn my head. I stared at the stage and tried to look at her out of the corner of my eye. She crossed her arms. She leant back in her chair. She tilted her head sideways towards me and then straightened it again.

  Toby laughed with the laughing boys.

  ‘How is he related to me?’ asked George, looking genuinely confused.

  Mr Cooper was up on the wheel-out stage again. The boys had been shushed from all angles and Toby was swinging his legs in his chair. Mr Cooper was winding up with a rundown of training session times. ‘Do you know what the best sportspeople do?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘They strive for the summit. That’s what they do.’

  ‘Up, up and away,’ whispered George. I was smiling.

  Evie shifted in her chair, she got closer. Her arm touched my arm.

  I felt a little jolt from it, like electricity coming down a wire. Like a spark plug in a car under a tarpaulin. George went to uncross her legs and accidentally kicked the chair in front. Jackson Harrington, who we felt sorry for on account of his size, turned around and gave her an aching look. ‘Sorry,’ whispered George, looking contrite. She stared at the floor.

  Evie kept her arm touching mine. I didn’t move. The wings of birds beat in my chest. Evie stared straight ahead. I did the same. I breathed in and out slowly, trying to be calm. I felt her braveness. I could feel it through my jumper, through her jumper, and all the way to where her skin would be.

  She moved one leg over her ankle. Her arm pressed against me harder still. Then her fingers reached out, only a fraction, and she touched me just below my shoulder.

  I didn’t make any sound. I didn’t move at all. I closed my eyes for a moment and I could feel Evie breathing. Slow and gentle. She moved her fingers up and down against my arm and everything tingled—and then Mr Cooper said, ‘That’s all, thanks everyone,’ and the room erupted in standing and talking. George bent over and pulled her bag out from under the seat in front, muttering something about science.

  Evie pulled her hand away and uncrossed her arms. She leant down for her bag. Bec Kelly stuck her gum to the leg of her chair and shuffled out with Bec Fisher. Evie got up. She didn’t look at me; she just put her bag on one shoulder and went straight out the double doors into the white sun.

  George raised a fist. ‘To the summit,’ she said as she turned towards the light. ‘I’m fizzing at the bunghole.’

  She blinked and sneezed and fumbled around in her pocket for a hanky.

  I could feel Evie against my arm still. My skin was covered in goosebumps. The light was so white outside. How blinding and brilliant it was. I smiled, dazzled. It looked like a faraway and much more interesting world.

  •

  After Davo put the plastic horse on the counter, Mack stood looking at it. They both did, the two of them—grown men—stared at the littl
e plastic horse like children. Mack remembered the barnyard collection he had as a boy—his menagerie lived in a plastic stable, and one year Mack swallowed a yellow tractor. His dad, Lang, bought him sheep and cows, but Mack always wanted more horses.

  Mack forced himself to look up.

  Sergeant Simmons from Clarke came in from the other office. He had an arm full of manila folders. He put them on the desk near the counter and rifled through them. Davo hardly noticed.

  ‘What’s this then?’ Mack asked, while Davo started at the toy horse.

  ‘I think Rosie did a runner,’ said Davo.

  ‘Did the little horse tell you that?’ asked Sergeant Simmons, looking up from his folders.

  Davo looked pained. He was not amused. He started shaking his head as if to say fucking pigs; like he might turn tail and run right out of there.

  Mack turned and glared at Sergeant Simmons, who looked very amused. Sergeant Simmons winked and walked back to the other office.

  ‘Mate. Davo,’ said Mack. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.’

  Davo looked like he might cry. He fondled the horse with two rough fingers, stroking it along its brown plastic back. Mack looked on. He had the urge to pat the horse, too. Lang’s beetroot head flashed in his mind. Spilt blood and the beak of a raven. He winced and felt nauseous.

  ‘Why don’t you come around here and have a seat,’ said Mack kindly.

  Davo picked up the horse and passed through the waist-high gate next to the counter. Mack sat down at his desk and gestured to the cheap black vinyl chair opposite. The cushion whooshed when Davo sat down.

  Mack noticed that Davo was thinner. He noticed his slumped shoulders. He could see the grief coming off him like mist.

  ‘Why do you think she’s done a runner?’ asked Mack.

  Davo held the horse in one hand on his knee.

  ‘Because she left this for me,’ he said.

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Mack.