‘Suit yourself, Shorty.’
It was only a twenty-footer, so at first it was more exercise than training and at first Danny wasn’t thinking of Martin, wasn’t even conscious of the boy at the other end of the pool. All Danny cared about was the commanding and storming of the water, and then, as he found his rhythm, he had no more need to think of moving and breathing and being stable in water than he would walking and breathing and balancing on land. He was thinking of the white of Emma’s shirt against the flushed pink of her chest; he was thinking about how lucky Martin was to have such a beach house. He felt at home in it already, felt it was his and Martin’s. Danny stopped and rested his forehead against the white tiles.
On the other side of the pool, Martin was thrashing through the water. If Frank Torma had been walking the length of the pool he would have been shouting, ‘Do not soot your lood too fast, Taylor! Slow it down, slow it down.’ It was Taylor’s weakness: he went too hard too early, exhausted himself. Danny slipped beneath the surface of the water, slowed his stroke till he was in line with Martin, till his left arm punched the water with Martin’s left arm, until his right hand touched the tiles at the same time as Martin’s right hand. Danny turned and Martin turned and Danny thought, I am going to beat you, bastard.
At first Martin was unaware that they were racing. Danny kept the pace, so they were neck and neck, till Martin suddenly sensed it. Danny kicked, picked up speed. Stroke, kick, stroke, breathe. Martin also increased his speed but his kicks were thrashings, his strokes manic, and though he shot ahead his tumble at the turn was inelegant. Danny maintained his pace, the water turning from liquid to air. He let Martin gain half a length, and then a length—stroke, kick, stroke, breathe—was gliding and then Danny began to kick harder, feeling the pull and surge of his muscles in his arms and across his chest, and then he was half a length in front, a steady half a length, breathe, stroke, kick, breathe, stroke, kick, and the water was speaking to him, whispering to him, the water was a tumult, a spray, a thrash of waves as Martin picked up speed; it would not be enough, he had exhausted himself. Danny felt his legs as part of a machine, kick kick kick kick, and he was a body length in front and the water was whispering to him that Martin was dropping back, that Martin was no longer with the water but fighting the water. Danny was one body length, two body lengths, three lengths in front, and Martin had disappeared, he was a whole lap behind, Martin might as well not be in the water, and Danny glided to the end of his lap and pulled himself up on the tiles and exhaled, long, hard breaths, and he was better and faster and stronger and it didn’t matter that it wasn’t a race and that Coach said that his body was demanding a new stroke. He had won.
Martin came up for air beside Danny. His face was red, ugly from the exertion; he gasped for breath, spewing water, shivering, his body trying to adjust to being at rest. Danny wasn’t spent, he felt the waning sun on his shoulders, saw it spread firelight and ruby rays across the sky and sea. He turned to Martin and said, ‘You ever call me Shorty again, I’ll fucking deck ya.’
By the next evening the house was full of guests. Mr Taylor had come down from his office in the city. He nodded to Danny but didn’t speak to him. It wasn’t that Mr Taylor didn’t like him—Martin had assured him that that wasn’t the case. But they could not speak to one another, it was as if their shared language did not have the words in it for them to understand one another. So Mr Taylor nodded and Danny muttered an aho for hello and a té that would do for a thanks.
The grandmother was yet to arrive—she was being driven down from Melbourne by Martin’s youngest uncle—but everyone else was gathered in the enormous living room, waiting for her. Mr Taylor’s eldest sister and her husband were there (she was a car wreck, explained Martin; she was a drunk and he was a loser with no head for money), and their two children, Vincent, who was twenty-one (and a junkie, explained Martin) and Siobhan (who was nineteen and thick as thieves with Emma); another sister and her husband (her second, shrugged Martin, only a schoolteacher, something boring like that); and one more brother and his wife (we call her the gold-digger, said Martin) and their three kids who were all under ten and who were quiet and well-behaved and nothing like Regan or Theo. Danny was wearing his white school shirt and his school tie and was sitting between Martin and Vincent, who smelled a little off, like parmesan cheese, and whose knee kept shaking.
Mr Taylor came out of the study with a painting and held it up for everyone to see. It was small enough for him to lift with one hand, a white canvas on which thin black brushstrokes had created the outline of a woman’s sad face. It was as delicate as a web, thought Danny; as if a rain shower could wash it all away.
‘Well,’ said Mr Taylor, ‘what do we think?’
Mrs Taylor was shaking her head. ‘I’d much prefer a Streeton or a McCubbin for my seventy-fifth,’ she sighed.
‘So would I, dear, but Mama wouldn’t.’
Emma and Siobhan both spoke, Emma first but Siobhan’s echo following almost simultaneously. ‘It’s perfect! Joy Hester is perfect for Nanna.’
‘Thirty-five thousand,’ Martin whispered, his breath warm against Danny’s ear. ‘Can you believe they paid thirty-five thousand for that shit?’
The arrival of the old lady stopped everyone in their tracks. The adults all looked nervous; even the kids fell quiet. ‘Turn off the video, please,’ Mrs Taylor called out, her voice now sounding high and strained. All the adults, and Martin, Emma and their cousins were standing, and Danny thought, God, it is like we are waiting to see the Queen. He too was on his feet, a little agitated, his eyes darting from Martin to Emma to their father, then their mother; Mrs Taylor had her hand lightly touching her throat, as if the old lady were an executioner, as if the old lady might announce, Off with her head. One of the mothers hissed to the smaller kids, ‘Get up, get up now,’ and then the old lady was in the doorway, the youngest uncle behind her. His hair was as fair and neat as Martin’s and Mr Taylor’s, but he wasn’t wearing a tie; he had on a t-shirt with a picture of some woman Danny thought he should recognise, some singer from the punk era, he was sure of it, knew Demet would love her. The old lady didn’t look anything like the Queen. Her youngest son supported her arm but she moved confidently, upright, thin, petite, like a little bird, thought Danny, in a plum-coloured short-sleeved dress that fell just above her knees. Her skin was stretched over the bones of her jaw, and her cheekbones were almost level with the plane of her eyes. Her earrings were huge pearls, her bracelets sparkled, one silver, one ruby and another gold. Mr Taylor approached her and she offered him her cheeks to kiss, one then the other, but apart from lips to skin, their bodies didn’t touch at all.
‘Happy birthday, Mother.’
‘Thank you, Simon.’ Her eyes, unlike the fragile rice paper of her skin, were dark and alive and took everything in; vivid and shining, they rested on Danny for a moment, and then swept across the room. ‘Go say hello to Nanna,’ one of the mothers urged, and the children lined up to receive their kisses on the cheek, one, two, one, two; then it was Emma’s and Martin’s turn, Vincent’s and Siobhan’s, and then she kissed the adults—except, Danny noticed, she didn’t actually kiss the wives of her sons, or the husband of her daughter. In their case, she kissed the air instead, and then pulled back.
Danny was left standing alone in a corner of the room.
‘Who is this?’ the old lady demanded.
‘Nanna, this is my friend, Danny Kelly,’ said Martin. ‘We go to school together.’
The old woman waved him over. Danny approached and held out his hand. She took it, but dropped it almost immediately.
‘Are you Eric Kelly’s son?’
‘No, I’m Neal Kelly’s son.’
‘Who?’ The old woman looked faintly annoyed.
‘We don’t know them, Mother.’ Mrs Taylor stepped in, her voice still avian and tight, as though her windpipe had been elongated. Danny recalled the frog they’d dissected in biology, the intricate raw tubing of the amphibian’s intestines being
stretched until they tore. ‘Danny is Martin’s swimming companion.’
Mr Taylor’s youngest brother was grinning at Danny. ‘I’m Alex,’ he said, holding out his hand from behind his mother. Danny took it; the grip this time was firm and it was Danny who let go first. Alex winked at him and then put an arm around his mother’s shoulders. ‘I’m dying for a drink,’ he announced. ‘What would you like, Mother?’
‘A G and T, of course, Alex.’ She turned towards Mrs Taylor but didn’t look at her. ‘I hope you have Bombay Sapphire.’
If Mrs Taylor’s face were to freeze at that moment, thought Danny, if the wind were to change, then Mrs Taylor’s face would be forever on the cusp of a pain so extreme that it seemed about to burst and like a plate landing on a hard floor, smashing and splintering and exploding into a million pieces. He looked away, embarrassed by such obvious misery.
In one swift feline drop, the old woman sat on the arm of an armchair; a graceful stretch and her bag was on the floor; another sudden turn and one leg was folded over the other. Danny could not believe how clear and taut and smooth her legs were under the pale silk stockings: no veins, no flab, no scars, they were not old legs at all. He had to look away, the old woman had seen him looking.
‘So, are we having a drink or not?’
‘Mother, I am so sorry. We only have Beefeater in the house at the moment.’ Mrs Taylor’s voice was a screech.
‘Oh, Samantha, and you know it’s my birthday!’ The old woman snapped her fingers and Alex was immediately at her side.
‘What can I do for you, Mother?’
‘Do you mind driving into town, darling?’
‘Of course not.’
Danny sensed that the youngest brother had just won something, and that every other adult there had lost.
‘If you can’t manage a gin for me, Samantha, could you manage a nip of whiskey? But something more palatable than your usual Johnnie Walker Black. A single malt, but a good one, it has to be a good one.’
Danny looked up and the old woman was staring straight at him.
It took till the first course for him to understand. She held the money. That was why they were all scared of her, why all the children were on their best behaviour, why the siblings didn’t bicker. Just before they all sat at the dining table—polished white plates, gleaming silver cutlery, all set and arranged by two women from the peninsula who scurried in and out of the kitchen, preparing, cooking, serving, refusing to look Danny in the eye, to look anyone in the eye—Virginia, a university friend of Emma’s, arrived. Virginia was seated next to Danny, but ignored him. She kept asking questions of the grandmother. ‘Emma tells me you practised law in London just after World War Two. That must have been extremely fascinating.’
The old woman dabbed a spot of soup from the corner of her mouth, took a sip of her wine and scowled at her niece. Emma was looking down at the napkin across her knees. Swiftly Danny unfolded his own napkin, forgotten at the side of his plate. He draped it over his lap.
‘London was devastated by the war. I think that only the obtuse describe the experience as fascinating.’
Ob-tuse. She said it with a soft breath caressing the second vowel. Ob-teuse. Danny’s lips silently moved and played with the new word.
Virginia’s thick-lensed glasses made her eyes appear bulbous, reminding Danny of the bulging eyes of snapper lying on blocks of ice at the Preston Market; they always made him feel that the last knowledge they had gleaned just before death was of desperate futility. Virginia seemed desperate too, like everybody else at the table, even Martin, who was silent apart from Yes, please and Thank you and It’s lovely. Danny didn’t feel desperate and he didn’t know why Virginia seemed so eager to please. She wasn’t going to get any money from the old woman.
‘Of course, it must have been so upsetting to see the effects of all that bombing and poverty. Still, how brave of you to go overseas and find work when everything would have been so topsy-turvy.’
‘I always think carrot soup needs a more full-bodied stock.’ The old woman put down her spoon, placed her hands together as if in prayer, and rested her chin on them. She peered across the table at Virginia. ‘There was nothing brave about it. I was recently married, my husband had just been appointed to a senior role at the London branch of the company, and we lived in a mews off the bloody High Street in Kensington. Real courage is leaving your home when you have nothing—no money, no contacts. That is real courage and that is real freedom.’
Virginia was floundering for a response when the old woman turned to Danny. ‘Like your mother. Martin tells me she is from Greece. Which part of Greece is she from, my dear?’
Next to Danny, Virginia slumped back in her seat.
‘Crete.’
He suddenly had the attention of everyone at the table. He hated it, wanted to escape out to the turquoise-flecked sea just visible through the trees. He spooned some soup into his mouth and the slurp of it sounded gross to his ear. The napkin fell between his legs. There was an ocean seething in his ears.
The old woman chuckled. ‘You eat like a Cretan.’
He wanted to throw the soup in her face, all over her plastic fucking gargoyle face.
It was exhausting being at the table, having to take note of where everyone was placing their drink, having to follow which piece of cutlery to use for each course, and having to remind himself not to put his elbows on the table. He watched and he followed, but he was always the first to finish his course—it seemed to take an age for the others to lift that final spoonful to their lips, and he had to tell himself not to fidget, to stay still.
By dessert, all the adults were drunk and the grandmother had been forgotten. Even Martin had drunk a glass of red wine with his meal. Danny was shocked. Martin’s cheeks were flushed—you could tell just by looking at him that alcohol was a poison. Danny refused a glass. He was finishing the last of his blueberry pie when Emma came up behind him and tapped him on the shoulder. She leaned down to whisper, ‘My grandmother would like you to sit with her. Let’s swap places.’ He swallowed, stood, and then, remembering how Alex had waited behind his mother until she was seated, held the chair out for Emma. He took his glass of water and sat down next to the old woman.
‘Have you been to Crete?’
Danny shook his head. He was pretending to be attentive to whatever the old lady was saying to him, but beneath the table he was slowly raising and dropping his heels, pushing against the toes of his shoes so he could feel the muscle pull, then contract.
The old woman’s hands were gnarled and white; the skin wasn’t plastic there, the skin was dying. ‘My dear, you must go. Chania is a fabulous town, truly delightful. Was your mother born on the island?’
‘No. She was born here.’ He heard how the ‘h’ had dropped off the last word. So he mouthed it to himself, He-ere.
‘Ah, so it is your grandparents who migrated. Do you know which part of Crete they are from?’
Again, he just shook his head. He didn’t want to tell her that he hadn’t seen his papou and giagia since he was six, that his mother just got exhausted from the fighting and the screaming. It just never stops, it never stops, he remembered her howling, and how scared he had been to hear it. His father had held her and said, You don’t ever have to see them again. We’re leaving. He remembered that his grandfather’s hands were enormous and that the old man wouldn’t give him a hug. He also recalled his grandmother’s hands, could only remember them with a coating of flour, like phantom gloves. He would not say any of that to the old woman sitting next to him. She had no right to any of it, none of it was for sale. You are better, he told himself, you are faster, you are stronger. You are better than all of them.
Her gaze unsettled him and he had to force himself to match it. As soon as his eyes caught hers, she looked slightly away.
‘I had the most delightful Orthodox Easter on the south coast of the island.’ She tapped the table, her lips pursed and she was, momentarily, shockingly ugly. �
��Now where was it?’ Annoyed, she tapped the table again. ‘Old age is shit.’
He didn’t know how it could be; perhaps it was the confident enunciation of each syllable, but it didn’t sound like swearing, it didn’t sound crude.
‘It doesn’t matter. We were there for the entirety of Holy Week and I remember the black-clad widows leading the procession along the cliff top on Good Friday. The chanting, the incense, everyone holding candles, the ocean booming below us—it was magical.’
The old lady’s eyes were moist. He felt that if he looked right into the black of her pupils, he might see the mirror of her memory, a candle flame and the crashing ocean.
‘Does your mother observe Orthodox Easter?’
‘Mum’s a Jehovah’s Witness.’ It just came out because he didn’t want to admit that he didn’t know what Orthodox Easter was, how it was any different from normal Easter.
The old woman’s head jerked back as if she was recoiling from something distasteful.
‘I mean she was,’ Danny said desperately. ‘She’s not a Joey anymore—she can’t stand them.’
The old woman nodded approvingly. ‘I can quite understand.’
Danny couldn’t bear how stupidly relieved he felt.
‘And your father?’
What? He caught himself just in time. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Was he a Jehovah’s Witness as well?’
‘God no, he really hates them. Dad doesn’t believe in God.’
The old woman was unmoved. ‘And he’s not Greek?’
‘My nan is Irish and my granddad is Scottish. But Dad’s an Aussie, he was born here.’
‘So it was both sets of grandparents who were the courageous ones, it seems.’
Why can’t you just leave me alone? Toes on the floor, heels up, heels down.
‘And where do you live, Danny?’
‘Reservoir.’
He wondered if she’d ever heard of it, whether she knew where it was. She sniffed and looked down at the table. For a moment he was outraged, thinking that she wanted nothing more to do with him. The year before, at Scooter’s birthday, held in a small park in Hawthorn, Scooter’s neighbour, an Indian woman with a necklace of smooth white pearls against the coffee-coloured skin of her neck, had sat down next to him and asked, ‘So you are a friend of Paul’s?’ and he had said yes, and then she had asked, looking away from him, a little bored, ‘And yes, you live in Hawthorn as well,’ not even a question, and he had replied, ‘No, I live in Reservoir,’ and she had just stood up, with her plate and her glass, and walked away from him, like he had farted, like he had sworn, like he smelled of dirty-pissy-scummy Reservoir.
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