by Lily Malone
He means Jack.
‘So not going to happen.’ My laugh must sound strange because Seb — who’s been doing his best to get his foot on the lowest bookcase shelf to launch a rescue mission on the tissues — stops, cranes his head around to stare at me.
I try again. ‘I didn’t invite any guests.’ I add a verbal full-stop because I don’t want to talk about Jack. Not now. Not with him. ‘It’s your house and your holiday, Brayden. If you’re seriously up for some toddler company — and I warn you, 7am is a sleepin with him — we’d love to stay for a few days. But only if you don’t mind.’
I swing the nappy sack again. ‘Now, is there somewhere I can put this? It’s only wet, it’s not toxic.’
‘There’s a bin in the shed. You get rid of that, and I’ll make sure Humpty here doesn’t fall off the wall.’
***
The shed smells of salt, oil, and musty concrete. It’s dark and even with the door open, my eyes are slow to adjust to the gloom.
All the fishing rods, squid jigs and crab nets hang on the wall, exactly where they were in summers gone by. Well kept, if a bit dusty.
Even the brag board is still here. Whoever caught the biggest crab or squid, we’d measure it. If it made a new record, we’d draw its span in centimetres and mark it with our name. We’re all on there: the whole gang — Brayden, Emmy, Jenn, Pope, Marvin.
Pope’s still got the record, but we all know he cheated. No Geographe Bay crab ever grew that big.
***
When I get back inside, Brayden has taken Seb out the front. A quick peek at them out the window is enough to satisfy me they both seem happy.
I throw some crackers and cheese on a plate — my crackers, Brayden’s cheese — and mash a banana and avocado together for Seb’s afternoon snack.
As I carry the plate and bowl outside, Brayden climbs the steps to meet me on the porch. He steals a cracker before pulling out a white plastic outdoor chair. It takes me a few seconds before I realise the chair is meant for me.
‘Thanks,’ I mumble, shunting the seat forward.
He sits opposite, slices a segment of soft cheese and paints it on the cracker.
Near the base of the steps, Seb sits rattling pebbles he’s found in a black plastic garden pot. I’m pleased to see that the red in his cheeks has faded.
‘Come have some lunch, Sebby,’ I encourage in my best Mum voice.
He ignores me of course. I have to fetch him and carry him up the steps to sit with me.
‘It’s like having a puppy,’ Brayden comments, leaning into his chair with his arms folded behind his head.
‘No it’s not. You can shut the door on a puppy and leave it outside,’ I say, putting Seb on a chair before I lasso his head with a bib and start spooning banana goop into his mouth.
The sea breeze caresses my face, warm on my throat and arms.
A kid on a skateboard slides past.
Brayden asks about my work and we fill a few minutes talking property: what the palace next door might be worth; what you could get for this shack.
‘You’re on, what, half an acre here? It depends on the planning rules but if you demolished this shack, maybe you could subdivide. Make two blocks. The shack is set back far enough, you could probably keep it if you want, build a new place here at the front.’ I nod at all the space between us and the road.
‘Shame to sell the old place though. New owners would probably demolish it straight up,’ Brayden says. ‘I love coming here. Don’t get down enough.’
‘Yeah. There aren’t many like this left.’
He doesn’t mention Jack again and for the first time in twenty-four hours, the brittle edge slides from me as we talk.
A posse of older children with zinc-plastered noses and backward caps pass the beach house, heading for the caravan park. One hops and skips on the bitumen road the way city kids do when they don’t have shoes.
‘Tenderfoot,’ Brayden says, dipping his head toward the hopping kid. His teeth flash in a grin. ‘They raised us tough in Karratha, hey? We could run over those red rocks for hours and not feel a thing.’
I nod, but I don’t answer.
I haven’t seen Brayden much in the last few years and when I have, I’ve had warning. I’ve been able to prepare myself — don my armour. Right now, I’m unprotected. Raw. He’s seeping in to me like he’s the water and I’m the sponge.
So I concentrate on scraping banana from the sides of Seb’s bowl and when he’s finished, I tug the bib over his head, wipe his sticky mouth, and let him loose.
Seb toddles across the deck, turns, and goes butt-first down the stairs, back to his plastic pot near the steps.
Where did I pack his hat?
‘Should he have a hat?’ Brayden asks, while I’m trying to remember what I stuffed in which bag.
‘Yeah, but he’s a bugger about keeping it on his head.’
Brayden gets up, goes to Seb, and lifts him — pot and all — depositing both in the peppi tree’s shade. ‘There you go mate.’ Then he looks at me for confirmation. ‘He’s okay here isn’t he? It’s not too close to the road?’
‘Seb doesn’t move anywhere fast. Not yet. He’s been a bit of a late walker. We can keep an eye on him easy enough as long as one of us is out here. Gotta say though, I wish your folks had put in a front fence. Maybe you and Emmy need to give your folks some grandkids. You won’t believe how much you’d appreciate a fence then.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe. Don’t think that’s happening anytime soon though.’
The bushes either side of the lawn make a pretty good side fence on their own. They’re prickly and straggly, and I’m sure that somewhere in that scrubby wilderness if I poked far enough, I’d find a fence of some description, however unkempt.
‘We should take Seb to the beach,’ Brayden says.
I glance at my watch. I can’t help it. Routine rules my life. ‘Let me unpack the car and get a few things sorted, that way it won’t be so hot by the time we get there.’
‘Sure.’
Behind Brayden, Seb squats near his plastic pot, a look of extreme concentration on his face.
‘I think I’ll need to do a nappy change too.’
Brayden squints at me. ‘Didn’t you just do that?’
‘That was a number one. This — my friend — is a number two.’
He screws up his nose. ‘How about you sort the nappy stuff, and I’ll bring in your gear?’
‘Wimp,’ I say, but I laugh as I push out of my chair.
Chapter 5
Seb and I are beach-ready in twenty minutes.
I swap the dress I travelled in for a blue denim skirt, and an ice-blue shirt with a scooped back — a gift from my sister at Christmas. It’s creased, but not too badly, and it’s dribble-free.
Stuffing my feet in my thongs, I fluff my new haircut then add a wide-brimmed straw hat. Beach bag over my arm, I’m done.
‘I’m coming,’ I call through the house, hustling Sebby in front of me. He looks cute in anything, he’s easy.
‘You didn’t need to rush.’ Brayden waits for us on the porch. The towels from the clothesline are slung over his shoulder, and something orange in his hand glints in the sun as he holds it out to me. ‘I found this buried in the bottom of Mum’s cupboard.’
It’s a metal bulldozer, complete with a bucket that lifts and tips, and elasticised rubber tyres. It’s nicked, scratched and dented, but Seb won’t care.
‘I checked for spiders,’ Brayden says, as I give it the once over before I put it in my bag.
‘Thanks. He’ll think it’s the ant’s pants.’
Brayden locks the front door behind us. I pick up Sebby and our beach holiday starts.
‘Do you want me to carry him?’ Brayden offers. ‘It’s a bit of a hike.’
‘I can manage.’ I owe Seb a few cuddles after the long drive and the sore teeth. ‘I’ll put him down when we get to the sand.’
As we walk, Brayden looms large in the corner of my eye.
There’s enough breeze to stretch his T-shirt against his chest, outlining every ridge and muscle.
He inhales beside me, raising his chin. ‘Oh man, can you smell that?’
One of these sparkling stainless steel outdoor kitchens is hosting a backyard barbecue. Grilled sausage, lamb chops, steak — the smell of an Australian summer.
‘Nice,’ I say. I have no breath for anything else. Brayden’s right. The walk is longer than I remember, and I’m carrying a baby hippo.
The walking track through the dunes used to be sand all the way to the water but I wasn’t counting on it being bituminised now. I didn’t bring shoes for Seb, didn’t think he’d need them. Every twenty metres or so, we walk over a pair of pink feet painted on the bitumen to mark the trail.
‘He can walk, Jenn,’ Brayden says, looking sideways at me.
‘Too hot for his feet,’ I grunt, and it’s like I can hear Jack’s voice in my head, ‘Gee, you baby that boy.’
‘How about if I give him a piggy-back then?’ Brayden offers.
‘It’s fine… nearly there. Thanks though. I should have remembered his shoes.’
‘Can’t remember everything.’
Finally, the walking track intersects a bike path that runs parallel to the beach and once we’re over that, it’s sand on the other side.
I put Seb down. Actually, it’s more like I offload him. It takes me a few seconds to stretch myself straight.
We’re close enough to the water to hear the lap and wash of waves. Grey-green sea grasses bob and the dunes are thick with shrubs sporting a mass of tiny yellow flowers.
Seb keeps more or less to the path, tottering unsteadily forward as the sand gets softer. We trail behind him. I kick my sandals off and Brayden does the same. With warm sand under my feet and the sun toasting my back, it’s nice not to rush. If Jack were here, he’d be hurrying us along.
Jennifer Gates, stop comparing.
Then Geographe Bay unfurls before us, curving sweet as a wine glass, mile on mile of sand the colour of white pepper, strewn with dry strands of brown seaweed as if the mermaids had cut their hair.
Busselton Jetty straddles the water far to the right. Where the famous landmark meets the coast, pines jut from the foreshore.
‘There’s a train that runs out the jetty now,’ Brayden says. ‘You’ll have to take him out there.’
‘Maybe. We’ll see.’ I don’t like forking out cash on tourist things Seb won’t remember. ‘This is a good spot.’
Brayden spreads the towels to mark our territory and I check my bag for sunscreen to squirt over Seb’s arms and legs.
My city brain struggles to comprehend all this space. We’re in prime school holiday time, yet it isn’t packed. Near the jetty — with its fun parks and cafés — there’ll be crowds, but here there’s nobody in our pocket. Tourists come from all over the world to see the Busso jetty. It’s the longest in the southern hemisphere.
‘Here.’ I hand Seb’s cap to Brayden. ‘You see if you have the knack to get him to keep it on.’
Brayden bends low to pick the bulldozer out of my bag and carries it to where last night’s high tide has left its signature on the sand.
He gives the dozer to Seb. As Seb starts ploughing, Brayden stoops to my son’s level and fits the cap over his curls.
I wait for those little hands to send that hat cartwheeling toward the sea, and of course, he leaves it perfectly in place.
My sun-smart little angel.
I lay on the towel, resting on my elbows. The sand is incredibly fine. I bury, and then lift my feet, making sand pour between my toes.
A hundred metres to our left a group of kids plays cricket, every thirty seconds or so I hear the whack of bat on ball and shouts of ‘catch it’ and ‘run’.
Beyond them, at least three different sets of people are walking — two in pairs, one solitary — all with dogs. A jogger cuts through them, heading in our direction.
The bay is millpond quiet. Shallow waters stroke the shore. A boat noses along an imaginary line where the aqua waters merge with the darker depths. I think the guy in the front is pulling crab pots, but I can’t tell if he’s having any luck.
Few people are swimming, and I wonder if stingers still come into this bay. Back in the day I was always the one getting stung, scrambling from the water covered in finger-length red welts.
Brayden pats Seb on the head and leaves him to his game. The ocean frames him as he walks up the beach, its colour a match for the steel-blue checks in his shirt. He sits beside me and the sand shifts as he hooks his elbows around his knees.
‘We should have brought some beers, Jenn.’ He meets my eyes and adds, ‘I mean — you only forgot your kid’s shoes. I forgot the important stuff.’
‘I’m so out of practice at that kind of thing.’ I’ve got water packed for Seb, a spare nappy, wipes, yet another banana, and a second set of clothes, but beer never crossed my mind. Now, sitting in the afternoon sun with tangy salt air brushing my skin, I’m suddenly thirsty. ‘You’re right though, a Corona would go down nicely.’
He looks at me, and even through his sunglasses I get hit with the smile in his eyes. ‘Not tequila?’
‘Not tequila — ’ I break off as my mind registers the tease in his tone. He’s fishing, and I’ve already bit. I punch his arm, not lightly. ‘I thought you said we wouldn’t mention it.’
‘Not mentioning.’ He pretends to zip his lips, and we return eyes to the bay.
Sebby brooms the bulldozer on his patch of sand. Mr Crab Pot man brooms his boat out in the blue. Colour, texture and sound surround me — yet every cell in my body is focused on the man by my side.
Because Brayden’s let it out now and the memories rock through me.
I was drinking tequila slammers in a Busselton club the night he kissed me.
Drinking, because Brayden was dancing with a beautiful blonde and every time my eyes found him under the strobe lights, my heart ripped. Her hand curled possessively on his chest, her fingernails shone like talons against his shirt.
I ended up staggering drunk on the dance floor while Emmy did her best to repel those circling men who smelled opportunity on me, like sharks smell blood in the water.
Somehow in all that, Brayden left the blonde and came to me.
Later, he said he’d tried to call a taxi while I swung around the street lights on Queen Street telling passers-by it was my birthday (it wasn’t). I needed an excuse.
The taxis were booked solid, so Brayden said we’d walk. Five kilometres. Two hours. We followed the beach home.
By the time we reached the steps of the shack I was almost sober. That’s why I remember everything he said after he kissed me.
‘Jenn. I’m sorry. That was a mistake. It won’t happen again.’
He said it before the taste of tequila and Brayden had even left my lips, while the air still vibrated with the moan I made when I first felt his tongue.
The memory flushes warmth into my cheeks, a heat that has nothing to do with sun, sand, or beach. I steal a glance at the man beside me, wishing I knew what he was thinking. He sits resolute, staring at the point where horizon and sky meet.
There’s a shout up the beach — the batsman is out — the cricket game is breaking up.
‘So, have you been playing any golf, Jenn?’
Now he’s kicked off on another topic destined to screw with my insides. Yesterday’s golf course visit is a blazing scar in my mind.
‘Not since before Seb was born.’
He fixes me with a look. ‘You hook up with a golf pro and you’re not playing golf? That sucks.’
‘Jack plays or coaches all day. The last thing he wants to do is play another nine holes with me. And anyway, we’ve got Seb. I’d just slow him down. Jack hates wasting practice time.’
‘Bullshit,’ Brayden scoffs. ‘Your golf game can keep up with anyone.’
‘I haven’t hit a ball in two years.’
‘You’d still run rings around me.
You were a better golfer than most people I know, even when we were in school.’ He’s doing it again, talking about the past, making “us” sound natural as breathing. ‘Remember when your Dad made that driving range in the scrub at the back of your place? Emmy and I had bets on how far you could hit. We used to fetch buckets of balls for you.’
‘Yeah.’ I remember.
My life revolved around Brayden then. There wasn’t a minute of the day where I didn’t know where he was. When I came out of my science class on Tuesday afternoon, I knew that if I stopped for thirty seconds at the drink fountain, he’d come out of English and I’d see him on his way to Technical Drawing. Sometimes he’d sneak close, flick his hand in the water and make it spurt in my face and I’d squeal, like I never saw him coming.
On Fridays, I had piano lessons. I could walk halfway home with Emmy and Brayden before I’d turn at Swan Street to get to old Mrs Hampson’s. I got later and later for my lessons because I’d linger longer and longer with the Culhanes, and finally my parents said they wouldn’t waste their money if I couldn’t even get to the lessons on time.
‘We should play at the weekend. It’ll be fun.’ His voice jolts me from the Pilbara to Busselton.
I tip my nose at Seb — now burying the dozer up to its windows in sand. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘Bring him with. He can run around. He’ll love it.’
‘Most golfers I know don’t deal well with small children who run around while they’re trying to line up a putt.’
Brayden scoops a handful of dry sand and lobs it five metres from us, then another, making the grains scatter and roll. Then he turns to me and says, ‘You gonna tell me the story with Jack?’
‘There’s no story.’ I can’t look at him. His question starts that prickle behind my eyes, same as when I peel onions. I hate peeling onions, and I refuse to cry here on this beautiful beach.
‘Come on, Jenn. Something happened. You and Emmy cooked up this beach shack sabbatical, and Jack’s not invited. It’s not rocket science.’
I pick at something trapped behind the fingernail of my left hand, banana probably, while I debate over how much to say. It sounds so cheap to admit Jack’s affair — if a quickie in a bunker can even be called an affair — and I’m not sure it’s any of Brayden’s business. It’s crazy really, Jack’s the cheat and yet I’m the one who feels disloyal talking about it behind his back.
