He woke to the sound of Dog barking, and a woman saying, ‘Bloody hell! OK, easy there!’ His eyes opened a crack. It was the pregnant one—that bush of straw hair, her face red—holding a hand out between her belly and Dog, other hand clutching the wall, ready to duck behind it.
‘C’m ’ere, Dog,’ Tom growled. She was sweating, flustered. ‘Just a dog, mate. Won’t hurt ya.’
‘No, that’s OK. It is his house. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.’ She stared at his lap for a moment. He looked down. Still had his gear sitting there, fallen asleep with everything left out. That’d be choice, if the dopey bird sent the police round to make his last weeks a complete pain in the arse. She looked behind her, and then back at him. ‘Have you seen Kane today?’ she said quietly.
‘Not his keeper, love. Thought you two were thick as thieves.’
‘Thanks anyway. See you.’
And she was gone. Tom took the empty bottle and rag from his lap, put them back in his locker and went inside to fetch a glass of water. He had a raging thirst, and a pain in his gut that had come from nowhere.
Rose moved through the shadows into the dank space between her house and Tom’s. She could see the rear end of Kane’s boatshed beyond her place, the small, high window Maggie had used to check whether he was there. The milk crate she’d stood on was still by her back door. Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d scooped it up and was placing it amid the long scratchy grass next to the shed. There was a metre gap between the shed and the house through which she could see a slice of the river and the island but not much else. She listened for a moment before stepping onto the crate and edging her eyes slowly above the bottom frame of the window. It took a moment to adjust to the gloom, but the curtains across the front sliding doors were a few centimetres too short and enough light spilled inside to see that he wasn’t there, and that the place was in its usual chaotic state. She leaned her head against the glass for a second, exhausted. On the unmade bed, she noticed, were a couple of books. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dark she could make out the cover images, then the titles, but she already recognised them. They were the ones she had written.
She stepped down quickly from the crate. Too quickly; she almost fell, landing hard on her ankle. Stumbling along the back of the house she threw herself inside the back door and locked it. Safely inside, she let her breathing slow, trying to listen for other sounds above her own.
There were too many other noises: she heard a tinny on the river, a bird calling, a train emerging from the tunnel and rushing across the bridge. Even in the moments between those sounds there was the constant rhythmic whoosh of her blood, like the river against the seawall, a noise that had come with later pregnancy and was always there. She made herself move around the house to check all the rooms. Once she had covered every corner, she sat down on the bed and forced herself to think about what to pack.
Danny boarded the ferry, repelling conversation with the set of his shoulders, a fixed stare out the window, at nothing. ‘How’s it going, Dan?’ the young deckhand grinned at him. Danny handed him his fare, gave him the shadow of a nod and looked away.
The boy—it was Steve’s boy, with the same wild red hair—took his money with a shrug and moved on to the next person. Danny studied his grimy fingernails, giving them a bit of a clean with a toothpick. This Kane thing, he knew in his gut it was going to turn into a bloody awful mess before it got sorted out. He should have told her exactly what Jesse had told him. Maybe he could have saved her all this trouble. Rob was all for getting up a posse and teaching him a lesson. Seemed to relish the prospect. ‘I don’t need a bloody lynch mob to sort out my problems for me,’ Danny had said, and Rob had shut up. But he knew what he should do. He should cut this thing off at the source; go and see the old man. End this.
And there was Alf, being difficult. He’d struggled to keep his temper, surprised himself with the rush of heat he’d felt when Alf had told him he wanted to hold off the sale for another season. Alf’s partner had some tax problem; couldn’t sell his half of the chandlery right away, couldn’t be flush with cash until he’d sorted out this stoush with the ATO. Danny had built a persona—his whole life—out of rolling with the punches, but he’d had to walk out of the shop, walk off his shift for the first time in his life, so as not to say something that would stuff things once and for all. Then someone had pinched his oars and he’d had to wait the best part of an hour for the next ferry because his spares were at the shed.
He heard the engines shift, their rumble intensify under his feet, and they were away. Thank Christ. He needed to go bush for a couple of hours, get himself up to the high platform of rock in the reserve behind his house and watch the river from a good way up until things had straightened themselves out in his head. Looked like it might rain, but that wouldn’t kill him. Help clear out the cobwebs, if anything.
Then Steve’s boy was laughing and shouting out the window of his cabin: ‘We’re not coming back for you, you dag!’ But the boat was reversing, and the lad was standing at the door, holding his hand out to help the latecomer jump on. He heard her voice before he saw her and something flipped in his stomach. ‘Thanks, Bill. Train was late.’ Then, ‘Hey, stranger!’ and she was on her way over to him.
He forced a smile onto his face, tried to keep the flatness out of his voice. ‘Hey, Jess. How’s it going?’
She had that gleam to her lips and eyes. His stomach sank. It had been several days. She’d sent him a few texts, which he’d ignored. That was the trouble with being the water-taxi driver, your mobile number was printed on posters and cards all over the river.
‘What you been up to?’ he asked. She was sitting so close that her leg vibrated against his as the engines opened up again and they pulled off for a second time.
‘This and that. Breaking hearts, mostly,’ she laughed.
He nodded.
‘It was a joke, cowboy.’
He nodded again. ‘Listen, Jess.’
‘What am I doing tonight?’
‘Listen, you’re an awesome girl. I’ve had a great time with you.’
Something in her face closed. The gleam in her eye dulled in an instant. She sighed, a deep breath that lifted and released her shoulders. There was an impatient little shake of her head.
‘I’m not looking for—’ ‘Right, right, right,’ she cut in. ‘Spare me the details. Man, who do you think you are?’
‘I don’t think I’m anyone,’ he said quietly. There were only a few people on the ferry at this hour—a mother with a stroller, the elderly lady who ran the island bowling club—and they weren’t doing a very good job of pretending not to listen. ‘I never meant to hurt your feelings.’
‘Too late, Danny boy. Jeez, you sure took me for an idiot, didn’t you?’
‘It was just a night or two, Jess.’
‘Whatever. See you round.’ And she made a production out of gathering up her things—a plastic bag, her handbag and a brown paper bag that clinked—and shuffling the four or five steps to the back of the ferry, where she sat down sharply on one of the plastic seats and stared out the opposite window. There was a good ten minutes to go until they got to the island. He put his feet up on the bench opposite, stretched out his legs, leaned his head against the cool window and closed his eyes. Could this morning get any better?
He opened his eyes a crack as the ferry made its sweeping U-turn for the island wharf. She was sitting with her arms crossed, still staring blindly out the window, not making a move for her bags. Didn’t look like she was going anywhere. At least he wouldn’t have to walk up the hill pretending she wasn’t walking right behind him, or in front.
There was only one pair of legs coming down the stairs at the wharf. The boy didn’t even bother tying up for Danny to jump off. He realised only as he passed the new passenger that it was Kane, smelling of tobacco smoke, pot and petrol. His front foot hit the stairs and they were away. He watched the old wooden ferry for a moment as it made for the sa
ndstone cliffs. Kane was standing in the doorway, growing smaller, watching him. ‘Damn,’ Danny muttered. He wondered where Rose was. He tried Maggie’s mobile and got her on the third ring. ‘Hey, did you put Rose on the boat?’
‘Yeah. I settled her in. Left her the dinghy so she could go and get some more stuff. She seemed OK.’
‘So you reckon she’s over there now?’
‘I guess. I haven’t spoken to her today.’
‘Do you have time to go and check on her? Kane just got on the ferry at the island. He’s going over there now.’
‘I’m on the freeway, Dan. Call me if you can’t get hold of her. I’ll go straight there when I get back.’
‘Thanks, Maggie.’
He tried Rose herself and got her on the first ring. She was whispering. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Danny. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. I just don’t know where he is and I want to get my stuff and get out of here without him noticing. I was going to have a talk with him but I changed my mind.’
‘Look, he just got on the ferry. I reckon he’ll be there in five.’
She was silent for a moment. ‘OK. All right. Looks like I will be having that chat after all.’
‘Listen, Maggie’ll be back soon. Don’t talk to him on your own. You’ve got her dinghy, right? Just hop over to the yacht now. Don’t try and get across the river in that little boat. I couldn’t get over there before him now. I’d be rowing.’
‘I still think it’s better to talk. This is just going to stir him up.’
‘Wait for Maggie, would you? Please.’
‘It’s starting to rain. I’ll get back now and have a think.’
‘I’m going out for a while. But I’ll take my phone.’
He felt the first spots of rain. It was warm and soft. Perfect, he thought, and headed up the hill to dump his bag at the shed, grab a beer from his bar fridge and go bush for a while.
On her verandah, Rose scoured the water for the ferry. She heard it before she saw it, and there it was, chugging past the north-eastern point of the island. She was glad Danny had rung; she’d been keeping a vague eye out for his dinghy because it wasn’t here. She wouldn’t have expected him on the ferry. He must have broken down somewhere, or run out of petrol.
She locked the house and walked quickly down the jetty to Maggie’s little dinghy. It was a tiny boat, just for getting from shore to a yacht mooring. It was starting to rain, and she hurried as much as she could on the slick wood, with her unwieldy belly and her overnight bag.
The tide was lowish, and she didn’t fancy trying to get down the ladder to the boat with the bag, particularly as the longer she took, the more likely it was the ferry would cross her path as she tried to get over to the yacht unseen. She held the bag outstretched over the boat and dropped it, hoping there were no breakable toiletries near the bottom. There was a little chop, and the boat shifted, but it landed safely, if a little nearer the edge than she’d intended. She checked on the ferry, it was substantially closer, but still small with distance. You would have had to have been looking for her to spot her from that far away.
She climbed down, worrying about her footing on the wet metal rungs. She slipped once, but caught herself and continued down. She had stupid shoes on, slippery flat pumps that were comfortable but had no grip. What had she been thinking? ‘Why are you nervous?’ she asked herself. ‘What do you think he’s going to do?’ I should face this, she thought. I’ve got to start facing things. I’m about to be a mother.
She took a breath and stepped unsteadily into the little boat, trying to retain her balance in spite of her belly and the increasing movement of the water. The ferry was perhaps twenty metres away now. The driver would see her, and so would anyone else with their gaze cast in this direction. She hoped there were others on the ferry. OK, she thought. Squeeze the fuel line bubble. Hook up the lanyard to the kill switch. And pull. Nothing. Not even a little cough. OK, that’s all right. Maggie had said it sometimes took a few goes. Don’t panic and flood the motor. She squeezed the bubble again. Gave the string another yank. This time there was a faint splutter. Come on! she said, but then it gave out. She pulled it again, twice. The first time it gave a little cough, the second a weird grinding noise. She was sweating and wet from the rain. She wondered whether it was possible to rupture anything with these sudden tugs, unmoor anything important inside her, between her and the baby. I’ll give it two more goes then I’ll just go back to the house, she told herself. What happens happens. The two pulls gave up nothing at all. She gave it two more, just in case, then hauled herself up the ladder. Her foot slipped on the top rung and she landed on her knee, but again caught herself. The ferry was right behind her. She made herself walk at a normal pace. Nothing’s wrong, nothing’s wrong, she said to herself. But once inside, she locked the door and moved quickly through the rooms of the house—kitchen first, then the two bedrooms and the little bathroom at the back—to check all the windows were closed and locked. Her hair was wet; it was dripping on the floor. She entered her bedroom last, drew the curtains closed and sat on the bed, drying her hair with a towel she’d left on the chair days ago.
The ferry would drop him at the public wharf, about eight houses south. Would he go home first? Would he come here at all? Just talk to him, Rose, she told herself. Don’t turn him into something he’s not. She checked her pocket for her mobile. No, it was in her bag. On the boat. Getting soaked in the now-heavy rain. There was a knock on the glass door of the lounge. It sounded normal, a run-of-the-mill rap. She fought the urge to hop off the bed, let him in, make him a cup of tea. Wait, she thought. Just wait. After a short period, ten seconds maybe, there came another knock. Still normal, nothing threatening about it. Again, she had to tell herself to stay where she was. She stood for a moment, then thought of the books on his bed, sat down again. She couldn’t tell anymore what was the right thing to do. Just ride it out, she told herself. He went away last night, he’ll go away now. Unless he’d seen her, trying to start the boat, then locking herself in the house as the ferry approached, so jittery she’d left her bag out in the rain and not gone back for it.
Outside the window the rain was so heavy she could see it through the curtains. It drummed on the tin roof, gushed from the eaves. Heavy creaks moved along the verandah in her direction. Then there was a shadow at the curtains, leaning forward, trying to peer into the room. She held her breath, frozen on the bed. The fabric he was trying to see through was thick, and if she didn’t move, perhaps he wouldn’t see her. She just needed to stay still. It would be too strange now, to admit she was here. Then he was gone, his creaks moving back towards the front door, then down the steps. She sat in silence, listening to the rain, letting her breathing slow. A heat spread through her lower back. She lay back carefully on the pillows, closed her eyes.
There was a creaking on the verandah again; had she slept? And there was that heat, suffusing through her back to her belly. This time there was a dull echo of pain, like when she knew her period would begin in the next few hours. Once more, she heard him move down the steps and away. She stood slowly, made her way down the dim corridor, supporting her lower back with her hand.
From the end of the corridor she could see the bank of glass doors that ran along the front of the living room. He wasn’t there, but on the doormat outside was a piece of paper. She’d have to open the door to get it. He could be anywhere. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said and strode across the room to the door. She couldn’t bring herself to slide back the door noisily, though, and instead opened it a couple of inches, carefully, retrieved the note and slid it back into place, locking it. The phone rang as she flipped the latch and her heart leapt into her throat. She ran to it to stop the noise, picked it up, said nothing.
‘Rosie—’ It was Billie. In the silence that came after her name she knew that she knew. She was crying; Rose caught a snagged breath, then more silence. ‘How could you not tell me?’ A bolt of pain shot thr
ough her lower back. ‘Rosie, are you there?’
‘I’m here. I just don’t know what to say,’ she said quietly, a hand on her back and an eye on the glass doors. She sat down at the dining table.
‘He came home, covered in bruises. He told me. Well, he tried not to, but he was being so weird. What’s wrong with you, Rose?’
‘Oh God, I don’t know, Billie.’
‘Why did you do it? Do you hate me so much?’
‘No, Billie, I don’t. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry. You had split up. It was really nothing. I never intended for any of this to happen.’
‘He’s gone now. He’s yours if you want him.’
‘No. Please, Billie. I don’t want anything from him. Maybe you can make a go of it, if you want to. Really, I don’t want anything from him. I’ll never ask for anything.’
‘You should have been the one that told me, Rosie.’
She had to wait for a contraction to subside before she could speak. ‘I thought this would be the end—of my family.’
‘What is there left, anyway? You can’t stand the sight of me.’
‘That isn’t it, Billie. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m having the baby, I think. I’ve got to go.’
She placed the phone gently in front of the cradle and, still gripping the note, retreated to the dark corridor. There was just enough light spilling from the front of the house to read it, its ink bleeding from the rain outside. As she opened up the folded piece of paper, that heat returned, except this time a searing pain shot through her lower back and abdomen, doubling her over. She moaned, and with a hand on the wall, got herself down onto her knees. It was difficult to tell how long the pain lasted, but it seemed to squeeze her, intensifying as it went on, and then roll away again. She looked at her watch. It was 3.37. OK, she thought. OK. When is the ferry? She needed to work it out in the gap between the spikes of pain. She peered out the front windows from the corridor; there it was, halfway between her house and the island, growing smaller as she watched. That was the 3.30; there wouldn’t be another until five. Maybe that was OK. They told you to make sure the contractions were regular and quite close before you went in. She’d just keep everything locked until then, and make sure she was on that ferry. She could call a cab to meet her on the other side in the meantime. She needed to pack. She stood and saw the note in her hand. ‘Rosie, Please come out and talk. I know all these others don’t mean anything to you. Why are you hiding in there? Come out and talk.’ The pain hit her again with no warning. She curled up, lying on her side on the floor. At first she repeated to herself, I’ve got to call Danny. Her eyes were very close to the floorboards. She focused on the particles of grit. Were they sand? Then they blurred. There was no space in her head for anything but the pain, and all she could do was remember to breathe, eyes screwed tight. There was nothing, and she was in another place, away from herself. Just patterns of light, moving in the shape of her pain, as the world fell away.
The River Baptists Page 16
