Fall Girl

by Toni Jordan

  Greta breaks the painful, chirping cicada-filled silence that follows by saying, ‘Tim. How on earth could the little wheels come in handy?’

  ‘Wheels, er Glenda,’ says Timothy, his forehead creasing with solemnity, ‘are one of the most crucial discoveries in human history. They are very, very handy.’

  Now. The earth can open up and swallow me now.

  ‘I wanted to come down yesterday and meet you in the car park. Walk in with you. That was my intention since…er…Sam mentioned where you were going,’ says Timothy. ‘He never imagined I’d actually drive down here, I expect.’

  ‘Sam is my brother the idiot,’ I say to Daniel.

  ‘Right,’ he says.

  ‘There must be something wrong with my GPS. It’s a shame there’s no warranty. I got lost. And when I was talking on the phone, I must’ve missed the turnoff,’ said Timothy. ‘But I didn’t let that stop me. If my girlfriend is going out in the wilds, braving the, er, wilderness with nothing but her assistants for, ah, assistance, well, my place is to help. No creek too wide. No mountain too high.’

  ‘Such a surprise,’ says Julius. ‘Although we had met Mr Timothy before as I detailed previously, until right now we didn’t even realise that Dr Ella had a boyfriend.’

  ‘We kept it hush hush,’ says Timothy.

  I’d like to hush hush him, by shoving that suitcase in his mouth. Hang on. I must be feeling better. I feel the urge to hurt Timothy returning.

  ‘Especially not such a handsome boyfriend.’ Greta’s eyes gleam: a plan is forming in her pulled-tight brain. She loops one arm through Timothy’s and he almost drops the suitcase. ‘What did you say you did for a living?’

  ‘Retail. Wholesale. You know, trade,’ says Timothy. ‘It’s not as exciting as it sounds.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Daniel. ‘Well…’

  ‘Tim,’ say Greta and Julius together.

  ‘Well, Timmy. You made it,’ says Daniel. ‘I’m Daniel. Pull up some blanket. Any boyfriend of Ella’s is a boyfriend of mine. Would you like some wine?’

  ‘Ja,’ says Timothy. ‘Oh, you’re Daniel? She’s…er…told me so much about you.’

  ‘It’s all lies.’ Daniel produces extra tumblers from the rucksack near the closest tent and pours for the three of them. ‘Prost.’

  Timothy takes his tumbler in both hands and swallows half in one gulp. Then finally after all this talk he seems to notice me, still sprawled in front of the camp stove. ‘Hello, dear,’ he says. He leans over and kisses me on the cheek. I fight the urge to smack him. ‘Are you having fun?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, thanks.’ I fill my own tumbler and take another mouthful. ‘Timothy. Were your parents siblings? I’m working. What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Dear, sweet, er, Ella. Do you know my BlackBerry doesn’t work out here? What would happen if someone called about a shipment? Or Mum tries to get hold of me, to ask if I’ll be home for dinner? There’s no reception. At all. It’s as if we went back to the eighties in a DeLorean.’ Timothy takes my hand between his own two, like he was making a Della hand sandwich. ‘I need to talk to you, dear Ella.’

  ‘I think we are like the fourth and fifth wheels on a tricycle,’ says Julius. ‘Or possibly a scooter. A scooter that has three wheels.’

  ‘We should go to our tents,’ says Greta.

  ‘Nonsense,’ says Daniel, pouring them all more wine. ‘Don’t go to your tents. Especially not you, Glenda. Not with your claustrophobia. It might bring on an attack.’

  ‘Quite,’ says Greta. She deliberately moves further away from Timothy.

  ‘Besides,’ says Daniel. ‘We’re all friends here. We have no secrets from one another, do we Timmy old man? I’m sure you don’t want us to go.’

  ‘Of course not, of course not,’ Timothy drains his wine and holds his tumbler out for more. ‘It’s just that, well, Ella and I…’ He looks from side to side to see that no one is eavesdropping out here in the middle of nowhere, then drops his voice to a whisper barely loud enough to be heard back in town. ‘There are things we need to discuss. Something I need to ask her. Very important.’ Timothy taps his finger against the side of his nose and looks meaningfully at Daniel.

  ‘That sounds serious.’ Daniel nods gravely. ‘Better have some more wine.’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Timothy. Finally everyone sits. Julius and Greta look like patients in a dentist’s waitingroom listening to muffled screams from behind a closed door, while Daniel lounges completely at ease. Timothy sits next to Daniel. The leaning tower of Timothy.

  ‘What is it you want to ask her?’ says Daniel. ‘In my experience, with a serious kind of girl like Ella it’s best to have your ideas clear before you start. Can’t be making it up as you go along.’

  ‘I’m with you. Been thinking of nothing else on the drive down,’ says Timothy.

  ‘I’m two metres away,’ I say. ‘I can hear every word you’re saying.’

  ‘She’s the kind of girl who needs a plan,’ says Daniel.

  ‘And I,’ says Timothy, ‘I have a plan. We could get married in May. Just a small ceremony. Then she could give up this…science business and work with me. Live at home with us: me, and Mum and Dad and my sisters. They’d love to have her.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with my hearing,’ I say.

  ‘Any girl would be proud,’ says Daniel.

  ‘Any girl at all,’ says Greta. ‘No sense rushing into anything. Plenty of fish in the sea.’

  ‘So you’re prepared. You have a ring,’ says Daniel.

  ‘Not on me, no. But I can get a ring. Wholesale. Mind you, I have some concerns,’ says Timothy. ‘There are some points I’d need to be reassured about. Look before you leap, you know.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ says Daniel. ‘It’d be best to resolve them before the wedding, I’d say.’

  ‘“Concerns?”’ I say. ‘What do you mean “concerns”? Do you want to marry me or not?’

  ‘She’s got a bit of a temper, I’m afraid.’ Timothy sighs. ‘I don’t. I’m a peace-loving man.’

  ‘I must admit I like a girl with a temper,’ says Daniel. ‘It makes things more entertaining.’

  ‘You only think it’s entertaining because you’ve never had your nose squeezed nearly off your face. Or had your ears pulled. I bet she’s never pulled your ears when she’s wearing her pyjamas.’

  ‘That’s sadly true,’ says Daniel. ‘But it’s definitely something I’d like to try.’

  ‘I only have a temper because things infuriate me. If everyone would just fall into line I wouldn’t have a temper. And there’s nothing wrong with your nose. It’s recovered just fine. It’s poking into other people’s business as well as it ever did.’

  ‘Perhaps we should discuss this in the morning,’ says Greta. ‘I’m sure Daniel doesn’t need to hear all about this.’

  ‘Oh yes Daniel does,’ he says. ‘Daniel wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

  ‘Because relationships aren’t just about compatibility, are they?’ says Timothy. ‘Sure, it’s important to find someone who puts the lid back on the toothpaste and who doesn’t take your phone recharger out of the wall when they want to recharge their own phone and your phone is not yet fully charged but instead finds herself another socket because it’s terribly bad for batteries to be continually charged half-way. I sell phones, too, did I mention that? If you ever. No? If you’re sure. Anyway. I’m not downplaying the importance of like-mindedness and shared values.’

  ‘I would never do that,’ says Greta. ‘Values are very important. I’d definitely find another socket.’

  ‘But what’s even more important than sockets is the look in her eye. In both eyes, I mean in both persons’ eyes. Four eyes in total.’ Timothy staggers to his knees and peers, squinting, into my eyes like he is an optometrist updating my prescription.

  ‘Why are you kneeling?’ I say. ‘Stop peering and stop kneeling.’

  ‘It might only be a small business now, but imagine hundreds of s
hops Australia-wide,’ says Timothy. ‘And then we could expand. A chain of pawnbrokers. Short term loans at staggering interest rates with no collateral. And sex toys. We could mail-order sex toys throughout the world. Porn’s out, though. The internet killed porn distribution. The seventies, that was the golden age of porn. These days it’s all amateurs, over the net, no professionalism anymore. But other than porn, the sky’s the limit. There’s one proviso. It must be built on a stable foundation, and that stable foundation is a man and a woman working hand in glove together the way my parents did. How is a couple supposed to get through the next forty or fifty years without that look in their four eyes?’

  ‘How indeed?’ says Daniel. ‘Well said, and what a fascinating empire you are building Timmy. How can I buy shares, and would you like some more wine?’

  ‘Ja. And you don’t, do you Della?’ Timothy is on one knee now. He leans over and takes my hand again.

  ‘He means “Ella”,’ says Julius. ‘This is a further example of why I do not indulge in the evils of alcohol. It makes you forget even the name of your own girlfriend.’

  ‘I’ve known you since you were five years old and I don’t think I’ve ever seen it,’ Timothy says. ‘The look, I mean. Tell me the truth, Ella.’

  ‘Nothing like the truth, Ella,’ says Daniel. ‘If the truth fits, wear it.’

  ‘Exactly! Couldn’t have said it better myself,’ says Timothy. ‘Ella, I have eyes too. And there are mirrors in my house, you know. Three: bathroom, behind the bedroom door and over the hall table. That doesn’t even count the one in the sun visor of my car, the one with the slidey door and its own little light. So I’ve seen my eyes, on more than one occasion. Keep that in mind before you answer.’

  ‘Have you had a blow to the head?’ I say.

  ‘I’ve been trying for weeks to ask you this. It’s a simple enough question. It’s not rocket surgery,’ says Timothy. ‘Are you in love with me?’

  ‘Take your time,’ says Greta.

  ‘Don’t rush it,’ says Daniel. ‘Think before you answer.’

  ‘Timothy, I hardly think this is the place,’ I say.

  ‘Nonsense Ella. Timmy has asked a fair question. The least you can do is answer it. Here…let me see your eyes.’ Daniel leans across and takes my chin in his hand and tilts my face up. ‘What d’ya reckon, Timmy? I can’t see anything myself.’

  ‘What do you two expect? My pupils to actually take the shape of hearts?’ I brush sand from my legs and do my best to avoid his eyes. ‘All right, all right. No. I’m not in love with you Timothy. Satisfied?’

  ‘Very,’ says Greta.

  ‘So I suppose that marrying me is out of the question?’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘Despite the romantic nature of this gesture?’ Timothy says. ‘Despite the fact that I have driven for hours with only intermittent satellite support and hiked down the track carrying quite a heavy suitcase and fell over twice and saw a snake on the path and had to pee behind a tree and nearly drowned in the creek before the German backpackers saved me?’

  ‘You’re certainly romantic, Timmy,’ says Daniel. ‘I’ll say that for you. If I was a girl I’d jump at the chance.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have asked her father first. Should I have asked her father first?’

  ‘In my country yes,’ says Julius. ‘And you would need to offer goats.’

  ‘What would my father do with a goat?’ I say.

  ‘Not one goat, heavens no.’ Julius laughs. ‘You are not a one-goat bride.’

  ‘Thank you, Joshua.’

  ‘Certainly you are worthy of one entire goat, and some change from a smaller goat,’ says Julius. ‘Say one and one third goats, roughly.’

  I squint at him. I know where he sleeps. I can kill him later.

  ‘So you never loved me. You were just using me. For sex,’ says Timothy.

  ‘Let’s stop right there.’ I struggle to my feet, swaying mildly.

  ‘We’re just getting to the good bit,’ says Daniel.

  ‘I’m going to thump you both in a minute.’

  ‘See? Temper,’ says Timothy.

  ‘You’re right,’ says Daniel.

  ‘Cover your ears and nose,’ says Timothy.

  ‘Shut up, shut up, the lot of you.’ I brace myself against the sand, which seems to be tilting under my feet. ‘You. Timothy. No, I will not marry you.’ I take a deep breath to calm myself, and stop the bushes spinning. I think for a moment I will kick him in the crotch, but then I look at his face. ‘But, Timothy. I will forever treasure the memories of the time we spent together. I will tuck them away in a secret place near my heart and I will throw away the key so no one will ever find it, including myself.’

  ‘A secret place,’ says Timothy. ‘Like a container? Or a storage unit?’

  ‘Exactly. Now you, Joshua. One more story about wells or goats, I’m calling immigration and having your student visa cancelled. I mean it. You’ll be sleeping in the hut with your thirteen brothers and sisters before you can say border security.’

  ‘Yes, Dr Canfield ma’am. Not one more word of goats or wells or even cheetahs will pass my lips.’ He mimes zipping his mouth closed.

  ‘Good. Now Glenda. Stop looking at Timothy like that. For God’s sake woman, I’m not even cold in the grave. There’s a whole Oktoberfest of German backpackers just down the track for your recreational pleasure.’

  ‘I feel so ashamed,’ she says. ‘It’s this hairstyle. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.’

  ‘And you, Daniel Metcalf.’

  He stands in front of me. His lips are pressed together but his eyes are laughing. ‘Yes Dr Canfield. Ma’am,’ he says.

  ‘You, you,’ I begin, but the puff has gone from my anger and there is nothing more I can say. Also the wine seems to have unhooked my arms at the shoulder joints. Just then Timothy struggles to his feet and gives me a clumsy embrace.

  ‘There there Ella,’ he says. ‘Please, don’t look so glum. Really. Don’t give it another thought. Unfair of me to put you in this position. It’s really not as bad as all that. I’m feeling better already. I’m very fond of you, of course, but I’ll recover. Never mind. Chin up. You know what they say: better late is the better part of valour.’ He presses one arm around my shoulders, and winks at Greta.

  The night continues on for about another bottle and a half. Greta grows increasingly giggly. Timothy explains how his father has never understood him, pledges his undying friendship for me, his genuine fondness and manlove for Daniel and Julius and drapes his jacket over Greta’s shoulders when he notices she is shivering. Daniel offers to share his tent with Timothy tonight, unless Greta would rather sleep outside under the stars on account of her claustrophobia, an offer she declines as her therapy is progressing well. Daniel seems exceptionally jocular, even joining Timothy in a painful rendition of ‘Summer Nights’ with Daniel in falsetto as Olivia Newton-John and Timothy as John Travolta.

  Only I am quiet. Sitting still, by the lamp, I hope my face is in shadow and that they cannot see me. I wonder if my father or Ruby was ever in this situation when they were younger, when they were pulling grand stings, living the high life by their wits. I bet they never sat around in the bush hours from civilisation surrounded by drunken lunatics singing songs from the great musicals of the seventies, a decade apparently not distinguished only by the glory of its porn industry.

  When we were children we would sit home and wait for Dad and Ruby to return and we would hear only the peaks of their success, not the depths of their struggle. This job is curdling before my eyes. I doubt I will ever see this money and what is worse I cannot seem to stop looking at Daniel. His smallest movement, each tiny gesture. Yet he seems so far away and so does the money. They both seem further with every chorus.

  Here is something serious: Ruby, who says I have no memory of my mother, is wrong. I do have one memory. I have never told this to anyone, especially not to anyone who might be able to disprove it, like my fathe
r or Sam. I am in a dark quiet room. I am sitting on a soft surface and I fight to balance and not to topple. My hands are gripping thin bars of wood through which my arms will fit but not my head or my body. I shake them but I cannot make them budge. I reach one hand down and pick up something big and soft—a teddy bear? There is a crack of light and I see her face appear. This part shames me: I do not remember her face. Of all the thousands of faces I have seen and memorised over the years, hers is perhaps the only one I cannot recall. Hers, and sometimes my own.

  Although I cannot remember her face, I know the sight of her fills me with joy and comfort and peace. I drop the bear and let go of the bar and stretch my arms out—this will make her come closer, I know. All that matters now is being picked up, held by her. But she does not come closer and she does not pick me up. After a time I drop my arms. I grizzle a little from frustration, which seems always to have been part of my character. At this the light disappears and so does the face. That is all I remember.

  And here is something flippant: I feel a desperate desire to sneak out of the tent while everyone is asleep. I wouldn’t even undo the zip. I would take a pen knife and make a jagged cut in the back of the tent, the side facing the bush. I would hold the knife in both hands and start high and pull it down with my whole weight. In the dead of night I would move silently down the path, past the sleeping Germans, wade the creek and climb the path again by the light of the moon or my torch. Or perhaps I would not climb—I might swim around the headland until I found a spot to land and then I would drag myself ashore. This country of mine has always been a place where people have dragged themselves ashore and begun new lives. I would carry nothing. My new life would not be so exhausting and frustrating as this one.

  When this thought first occurred to me it seemed flippant. It certainly does not show a respectful attitude—to my family, to Daniel or even to the tent. But now that I have thought it out in all its detail, this also seems serious. Of course, I do not do it.

  The water is still but not still enough and I cannot see my reflection. My arms move across it like ripples in sand. I’m aware I have a certain level of vanity, having been brought up by Ruby, but now that it is morning and I am swimming I realise I have forgotten to bring a mirror.