As Sophie walked to school on Monday, the Kombi pulled up alongside, Cardigan hanging out the window, grinning. ‘You want a lift?’
Sophie looked questioningly at Cardigan’s dad.
‘Hop in. Always room for a fellow traveller,’ he said.
Cardigan swept the organic gardening magazines and empty tobacco packets onto the floor and wriggled across the bench seat.
‘Thanks, Mr Madrigal.’
‘Whooaa, the name’s Lenny. All that mister shit will do my head in.’
Cardigan’s dad had matted hair, a goatee, piercing pale-grey eyes and a habit of scratching his arms, his elbows, his chest and his crotch.
‘Cardigan says you’re growing vegies at home, Mr . . . Lenny?’
‘Sure am. Among other things.’ He winked.
Sophie saw her brother Brad ahead on the footpath, pushing his bike with a flat tyre. Cardigan noticed him as well. ‘There’s room in the back.’
‘Let him walk.’
‘Siblings, hey,’ Mr Madrigal laughed. ‘I’ve got a brother in Sydney who works in an insurance company. Can you believe it? I guess there’s a black sheep in every family.’
Sophie dangled her hand out the window and gave Brad the finger as they passed. On the dashboard was a book with a vivid orange cover, titled Yoga for Beginners. Sophie suppressed a smile at the vision of this hairy man scratching himself like crazy, trying to achieve peace and stillness.
Mr Madrigal pulled up outside the front gate of the school. He leant across Cardigan and said, ‘How about you coming over for dinner soon, Sophie? I’ve mastered lentil and black bean soup and the wife cooks up a beaut mushroom pasta.’
‘That’d be great . . . Lenny.’
He put the Kombi in gear. ‘No worries.’
The van blew smoke all down Main Street and Sophie wondered how she’d ever convince her father to drive her out to Cardigan’s place and leave her there.
Three days later, the fire truck raced through town, sirens blazing, men shrugging into oversized yellow jackets as the driver cursed the roundabout and drove straight over it, bouncing, helmets clunking together like walnuts. Swearing filled the cabin. It took ten minutes to reach the house and they drove through the gate, not stopping to open it. A woman was standing in the driveway, sobbing frantically.
They knew their drills.
Pete was on the hose, Ernie the pump. Gerry had the mask and breathing kit, axe loose in his gloved hands, taking the risk. Barry stayed with the truck.
‘How many inside?’ Gerry asked.
The woman moaned in shock, her whole body starting to shake.
‘How many?’ Gerry’s voice was calm.
She held up two fingers. Gerry turned and looked towards the driver, Barry. Anguished women and burnt pets, that was his job. Barry left the truck idling and sprinted forward, reaching for the woman.
When the axe hit the front door, the roof collapsed in an explosion of sparks and ear-splitting cracks. The timber shrieked and the woman howled in pain. Barry gripped her a little tighter in case she was tempted to make a run for it and enter the house – what was left of the house. Gerry dropped the axe and pointed to where Pete should direct the rush of water. Not enough pressure. Never enough pressure, not with a truck this old. The woman fell to her knees, pulling Barry with her. Ernie checked the gauges and crossed himself, grateful he only had to deal with instruments and taps and equipment that didn’t have a heart, didn’t have a pulse.
It was a small town. They all knew there was a husband. And a son, in the same class as Rachel, Gerry’s daughter. A long-haired kid with funny clothes, given to tying his hair in a ponytail like a girl.
Ernie increased the pressure and heard the rattle of the complaining pipes. Bugger it. If it burst, the CFA could buy them a new truck.
Gerry axed his way into the front room and saw the body on the bed. His first impulse was to step across the smoking beams and drag him out of there, but he knew it was too late, that the smoke would have killed Lenny Madrigal by now. But he wanted to rescue something. He turned to Barry and jerked his head at the truck. Barry helped the woman to her feet and that was when it happened.
The miracle.
Ernie crossed himself every morning for the next month in thanks.
The kid, that bloody hippie kid, climbed out of the Kombi parked under the wattles, barefoot, wearing nothing but a stupid T-shirt with a drawing on it and ragged pants torn at the knee. Rubbing his eyes as if he’d slept in too long.
Gerry glanced at Pete, knowing what was going to happen next. Gerry played football, so he was confident he could stop the kid before he reached his father. But it was a near thing. The boy dodged sideways at the last moment and Gerry had to tackle him. He hated to hurt a kid that way, when all the boy wanted was his dad.
The mother rushed to her son and they collapsed together in the dirt. The boy finally registered her voice. The firefighters readied themselves, just in case.
The howl from the boy sent shivers through each of the men.
They emptied the truck of water and removed the body from the house. It didn’t take long; it took much too long.
Two ways of looking at everything.
Two lives saved; one lost.
Was that a victory?
The mother and the boy, both in shock, were driven back to town in their Kombi by the police sergeant. The kid took some convincing to leave the yard; the sobs rattled in his chest and his shoulders heaved.
After they left, the four men relaxed. Gerry passed around a packet of Marlboros and they grimaced at the tired joke of firemen giving up smoking. Anything to relieve the tension, to stop them thinking of the body burnt beyond recognition lying on the stretcher, covered in a sheet. The morgue sending a team. The investigators travelling from the city.
The surrounding bush was silent, as if the birds knew.
Four grown men, firemen, directed to wait and clean up. Clean up for what? Each of them thought of that kid sleeping through the noise, stepping out of the Kombi. He’d have a bruise on his shoulder from Gerry’s tackle.
In town, the cops questioned the boy and his mother. They were taken in for the night by the pastor and his wife, people who knew what to say and when to say it.
In the morning, Mrs Madrigal said she wanted to go to relatives in the city and she led her son slowly to the car before driving off in a puff of exhaust smoke. Harmless blue smoke. The charred remains of the body were taken by the undertaker to the city, where an inquest would be held.
The town newspaper led with a story about the boy’s survival. His picture was on the front page, taken from the school photos. A handsome kid. Hair too long, and he never played footy. He had a funny name. The editor rang the school to check the spelling – no point in upsetting anyone.
The following Saturday, during the game, Sophie went down to the creek and sat beside the bank. She stretched out and looked up at the clouds, hoping it would rain. Cardigan kissed like a girl. Cardigan smelt of incense and chewing gum. Cardigan wanted to lie naked beside her, and she’d promised him Christmas. Who did she think she was – Santa?
Her stomach cramped and she pushed her hands into her diaphragm to ease her breathing. She remembered his laughter, his hurt eyes, the story he told about the women in the commune who were into magic.
Witches, she’d said.
He’d smiled. Maybe.
Sophie wondered where Cardigan was now. Was he thinking of her?
She cried alone in the field, the cows keeping a respectful distance, the clouds drifting off to rain somewhere else. She wondered if she could hitchhike to Melbourne and search the streets of Fitzroy. If only she was older.
Cardigan was gone, like a wisp of smoke.
Her father’s voice from behind made her jump.
/> ‘It’s a forty-point lead. They can do without me for a while.’
Sophie sat up quickly, brushed the hair from her eyes and tried to smile through the tears.
He sat beside her and clumsily put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.
‘Mrs Gleeson reckons you and the boy were close.’
She nodded into his chest.
‘I’m sorry, Soph. I didn’t know.’ He rubbed her shoulder. ‘It was a horrible thing. The boys at the station told me about it. Bloody kero heaters.’
She hugged herself into a tight ball, unable to bear the image of Cardigan so close to the flames; of Mr Madrigal, Lenny, gone.
Her father’s voice was measured. ‘Maybe he’ll write, from wherever they went.’
‘Mum never wrote.’
His body tensed, as if taking a blow. ‘No.’
The silence ached between them. The scent of the peach orchard blew down the creek; a cow wandered the bank looking for a place to drink.
‘Why didn’t you go searching for her, Dad?’
‘With three kids in tow?’ he scoffed.
‘Maybe we wanted you to.’
He turned to face her. ‘Did you?’
Sophie shrugged. ‘What kid doesn’t want their mother back?’ She thought of Cardigan and her voice tightened. ‘Or their dad.’
The full-time siren blasted from over the hill.
‘There’s a cliché they use in footy, Soph. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’
‘Do you believe it?’
He laughed bitterly. ‘Not really.’
He stood and reached for her hand. She let him pull her up and they walked back to the game together. At the top of the hill, her father looked down on the town and shook his head. ‘Why would she want to leave this place?’
Sophie thought of her mother. And Cardigan in the city, lost to her.
After an hour of driving beside corn and canola fields, Sophie pulls over under a stand of rivergums. In the distance, a thunderstorm threatens, but it’ll be hours before it reaches us. Sophie tosses me the keys.
‘I need to walk. Do you want to come?’
I lock the car and follow her to the river. A swallow swoops under the bridge, skimming the slow-running stream. It lands on the bridge rail, its shiny black breast puffed out. Sophie steps from rock to rock, crossing what’s left of the river, the water trickling below her heavy boots. I stay on my side, tracking her downstream. Wild daisies line both sides of the stream like crochet.
Sophie gazes into the water.
‘Are you looking for fish?’ I call.
She lifts both hands and shrugs, as if to say, Whatever I see, I see.
There might be trout in the deep pools near the bends. I dig my shoes into the loamy soil on the bank and bend over to get a better look. Dragonflies helicopter, a yabby scuttles across the sand, my gawky reflection grins back.
I remember Dad and me going fishing when I was twelve. Dad showed me the shortcut through the back alleys to Camp Cove, following the track to his favourite fishing spot among the rocks, with the view straight down the harbour to the bridge. He carried the rods, reels and a basket. I took the bottle of water and curried egg sandwiches. Mum had warned me not to fall in and wanted me to take a lifejacket. Dad said he’d take care of me and rummaged in the shed for hooks and sinkers. We fished all morning until the sun blazed overhead.
Finally, I got a bite. Dad jumped up. ‘Don’t lose him, Jim. Let him play a while, tire him out, my boy. Don’t try to get him in too quickly.’ Dad’s eyes focused on the tension in the line.
I held the rod as though it was gold and reeled when Dad told me to. It was ten minutes before the shiny blackfish lobbed on the rocks, all snapping teeth and spiny fins. It writhed and leapt, gasping.
Dad cut the line and smacked the fish once over a rock, and it stopped flapping. He held it out to me. It was long, scaly and dead: its glassy eye unmoving, its mouth sagging open. I didn’t want to touch it, much less take it home to Mum.
‘He’s yours, Jim. You did it,’ Dad said.
A trout darts from the shadows and I jump, almost toppling into the stream. I look up quickly. Sophie is sitting in the shade watching me. I wave like a kid who’s caught a fish and doesn’t know what to do with it, who wants to throw it back in and see it vanish in the light. I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my pants, then scramble down the bank, powder sand between my toes.
‘Don’t worry, it’s not deep!’ Sophie calls.
Or is it?
Stepping gingerly into the stream, my arms stretch like a tightrope walker without a pole. My body tingles with the chill. Round, slippery granite rocks dot the sandy bottom. I lower my hands into the flow, feel its persuasion, want to sink slowly and float downstream, face turned up to the sky, arms flung wide. But I keep my balance, taking one child-size step after another, the water buckling my knees.
‘I’ll save you,’ Sophie shouts.
I pause midstream. ‘How?’
‘I’ll dive in and drag you free.’
‘What if I can swim?’
‘Well, then you can save me.’
A trout arrows towards the bank and into shadow.
‘It’s only up to your knees!’ Sophie scoffs.
I take the last steps quickly and pull myself up on the opposite bank, treading carefully through the sand to where Sophie sits. She makes space for me in the shade. ‘I knew you could do it.’
I flick water at her. She laughs, a sound as fresh as rain.
Sophie reaches carefully between the branches of an overhanging tree and picks a wild blackberry, rolling it gently in her fingers, feeling its soft prickly fur before eating it with smacking lips.
‘Those berries could be sprayed, you know.’
She frowns, picks another berry and offers it to me, pushing it close to my mouth as I lean away. The purple juice runs down her fingers.
‘Come on, James. Don’t let me be poisoned alone.’
She forces it into my mouth. It’s succulent and sweet. Sophie picks a handful, feeling each berry for ripeness, judging whether to eat it or feed it to the fish. She collects the berries in the lap of her dress as we sit on the grass and look up at the sun dissolving into thunderstorm in the west.
‘I’m offering you afternoon tea . . . much better than scones.’
So I give in and lie back.
‘They stain like lipstick, dark purple witch lips,’ I say.
Sophie goes quiet, her eyes staring into the distance.
We sit together by the stream and I wonder, if the storm comes, will it flood this waterway and wash away our footprints, the berries, every trace of what we leave?
‘My dad and me used to search for fruit,’ Sophie says. ‘We’d walk for hours and he’d know instinctively how to find the ripest berries.’ She closes her eyes, remembering. ‘One time we jumped the fence to the orchards and picked a few peaches, hoping the farmer wasn’t around. Dad held a peach to my nose and offered it, like a prize, a gift for being with him.’ Sophie reaches for another berry and slips it into her mouth. ‘We had nothing to do but eat and walk in the fields.’
Michael Spalding carefully steers his M6 convertible between the hedge and his wife’s Volvo, parking it next to the camellia bushes. He reaches to the passenger seat for his briefcase, locks the car before walking up the driveway to the back door and wonders how his son went today.
Angela greets him at the door. She’s holding the phone, pressing redial, the colour high in her cheeks. ‘He’s out of range!’
Michael touches her elbow and leads her into the kitchen. ‘Well, he said he might be, darling.’
He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of iced water, pours a tal
l glass and drinks it in one go. His wife stands near the door, phone in hand.
‘Nothing we can do, Angela.’ He shrugs.
She makes a clicking sound at the back of her throat and strides into the lounge room to the drinks cabinet.
Michael notices his briefcase is still at the door, waiting to be invited in. He carries it into his study and places it behind his desk. Outside the double doors, the photinia hedge is glossy red with new growth. He reaches for the photo on his desk: James at the beach in baggy boardshorts and rash vest, looking out from under a twist of unruly hair. Those size-thirteen feet and big hands should have made him a strong swimmer. Yet, he’s so meek and—
‘Michael.’
He closes the door to his study and walks to the drinks cabinet, remembering he promised himself on the drive home that he wouldn’t drink until his son returned – a six-week health regime. Angela has already poured him a glass of something clear and strong, with a slice of lemon on top.
‘I’m not drinking tonight, love.’
She makes a gesture with her hands for him to bring the glass to her. She’ll drink for both of them, until James returns.
‘Do you want to keep driving?’ I ask when we return to the car. Sophie shakes her head, yawns and wraps her arms loosely around herself. She licks her fingers and studies the deep stain. ‘If only we could distil blackberries for nail polish.’
I drive a little over the speed limit. I’m suddenly bone-weary and want to make the next town before sunset, to find a motel. My car points into the gathering clouds, sniffing a change in the air. A kilometre-wide sheet of rain hammers the plains.
‘You turn off up ahead for Hillston,’ Sophie says, her voice assured.
We look at each other.
‘You can drop me in the main street.’
Her words rumble in my head like the storm. She picks up her handbag from the floor and places it quietly on her lap, clutching it like an old lady on a train. She crosses her legs.
‘I needed this lift. Thanks.’
Black Painted Fingernails Page 6
