‘Reach down and feel the base of your spine, where your kundalini energy sits coiled, ready to spring up and cleanse you to the top of your skull with white light. Only your inner blockages are stopping you from achieving your full power, your inner emotional and spiritual plugs, like clogs of phlegm stopping you from achieving a full life of abundance . . .’
They had arrived that morning, after a trip in which Lotte had vomited in the car and they had had to drive for the rest of the trip with the windows open to escape the smell. When they finally bumped down the last stretch of dirt track, they encountered the sign Camp. The words Aboriginal Dreamtime, which had once preceded the word Camp, had been crossed out and slapped with a flier across the top of it. Melody got out and read the fine print.
The indigenous people of this area, being the tribes of Moorta Moorta and Taten Wurrung, would like to advise participants of this function that there has been NO involvement by local indigenous groups, and NO permission given to tell our dreaming stories. We demand that the organisers refrain from continuing the despicable and insidious practice of colonising our culture. If participants want to spend their money in support of the Koori community, we suggest they do so through reputable means.
‘Is this the Abiginaldeamtum camp?’ demanded Skip, standing behind her.
‘Well, it’s the camp.’ Grace had said wryly. ‘I’m so glad I brought my gumboots.’
Now, Melody added asafoetida powder and wondered whether the city was corrupting her. There were voices in her head, expressing cynicism and doubt about everything. Okay, so this camp wasn’t quite what they had paid for. Okay, so it didn’t have quite the feel she had imagined. The leader, Pemangku Lodan, had not been seen and had spent the whole time in his teepee, with two girls in their early twenties, flushed with smug importance (and hopefully nothing else) coming and going to him with food and drinks and joints. A woman had had a terrible acid trip that morning and had lain in a foetal position on the ground weeping, convinced that the clouds were on their way down to crush them all with their force and beauty. An ambulance had arrived to collect her, bumping down the track and ejecting paramedics who looked about them with disapproval. A bevy of local lads had turned up with a slab of beer in the transparent hope of picking up hippy chicks, and had been sternly sent packing by a couple of thin young men in dreadlocks. (They’re our hippy chicks, was the unspoken rebuff.) The removal of Aboriginal Dreamtime from the syllabus had left a massive hole in proceedings, hastily filled with a mish-mash of kabbalah teachings, kundalini exercises, and a tantric workshop. The children, initially promised an enlightening programme of dreamtime stories, boomerang throwing and indigenous painting, were probably having the best time of anyone. They had been gathered, many of them plastered now with mud, beside a vast granite rock where they were painting pictures on the surface with paints that the hippy running it assured Melody would wash off in the next storm, which looked set to be in about five minutes. Melody stirred her pot and watched them absently.
It was at this point that Grace’s mobile phone, sitting on a sack of basmati rice where she had left it, rang. Melody picked it up. ‘Hello?’
Nothing. Was that heavy breathing, or just the wind preceding the next storm? ‘Hello?’
‘Hell— Ohhh . . . Grace?’
It was a woman’s voice, either crying or under great strain. Melody froze? ‘Romy?’
‘Can I — speak — to Grace.’
‘Wait. I’ll get her.’
She entered the big tent, and was faced by a strange sight. All the members of this workshop, about forty in total, had been seated in a circle on the floor with their legs ahead of them and parted, their bottoms neatly pressed up against the crotch of the person behind. They were fully clothed, thankfully, but the sexual element in the air was present, and a couple of men and women were groaning, whether in discomfort or pleasure was hard to deduce.
Melody sought through the half-light for her friend and found her on the other side of the tent, looking pained. She paused, standing close to the instructor, and noticed the sign tantric beside her. The instructor, a man in a loin cloth and a white T-shirt was ordering everyone to close their mouths and breathe through their noses only.
‘Faster! Faster!’
What on earth would Grace be making of this? wondered Melody, straining to see her friend’s expression. It didn’t seem like her thing at all. The man spoke again.
‘Now, everyone lie back. Lie back and relax on the front of the person behind you. Open your legs and make room for the person in front. Arch your back if you need.’
The tent filled with movement, some grunts and a few murmured apologies. Melody edged around the side to see Grace.
She found her sandwiched between a man who would have been aged no more than 20 on the bottom, and a big man in his fifties on the top. Grace was flailing helplessly, tears in her eyes as she pushed against the shoulder of the big man, who seemed to be trying but unable to gain the momentum to pull himself up.
Melody gave him a big push sideways into the centre of the circle, and he rolled off Grace and onto his hands and knees, apologising profusely. Grace quickly rolled out of the circle and crouched over her groin. Melody squatted beside her. ‘Are you alright?’
‘God, he was crushing me. I’m going to be bruised all over. What is this thing?’
Melody sighed. ‘Sorry. Hey, you’ve got a call from Romy, on the mobile.’
Grace stared. Melody said: ‘I think she might be in labour.’
Minutes later, still furtively rubbing her groin and wincing, Grace rejoined Melody at the camp stove.
‘Rom’s having the baby.’
‘Now?’
‘She wants us to come. She has no one.’
‘And what did you say?’
Grace winced. ‘I said I didn’t know if we could. I mean, you’ve been looking forward to this all year. We’ve only just arrived.’
Melody stared around herself at the mud, the soggy tents, the water now leaking into the basmati rice and the children’s rock painting, already running down the sandstone face.
Grace said: ‘She should have had someone organised. I hardly know her. It’s only that I saw her last night.’
‘Eddy?’
‘She said she tried him. He’s not home, and he didn’t answer.’
‘Should we call her an ambulance? They’d be there long before us anyway. It would take us an hour to pack up. And an hour more to get back to her.’
‘She’s worried about the police. There’s a reward out on her. She’d be arrested if they found her.’
‘It wouldn’t take us an hour to pack up.’
‘No?’
‘We could pack up in five minutes.’ Melody stared at Grace, and the two of them grew still, thinking.
‘Maybe . . .’
‘Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.’ Melody turned the gas stove off and put a lid on the lentils.
‘Just like that?’ Grace looked breathlessly hopeful.
Melody took one last look around herself and knew that it would indeed be just like that. In a life where she had always honored her impulses, she knew she had to embrace the one now gripping her; to get out of this scene and never come back, ever, to anything like it. Romy’s baby was merely the best of excuses.
‘Just like that.’
Tom gradually became aware of a ringing sound. It went on and on, and then it stopped. Then it started again. He wondered if it was coming from his head. He opened one eye, and found himself in close visual proximity to a tussock of grass, that appeared to be growing through a crack in the dirt. Or was it not dirt, but bitumen? Whatever it was, he was lying on it and it was hard. He blinked slowly, and it hurt. Everything hurt. He spent some time watching a couple of ants going up and down the grass blades, moving erratically and fast. Maybe the ringing was coming from the ants. Then it stopped.
He tried to move, and pain surged through his body and his head. If he was lying on bitumen, w
as he on a road? That was not good. Could a car come? Should he roll off? He forced himself to lift his head. Two adult shoes with feet and legs in them appeared to be not far from him, the soles at right angles to the bitumen. He craned his neck back more, and groaned with pain as he did. He could see a whole man now, in a suit, lying on the road. He looked familiar, although the sight of him provoked in Tom an antipathy, the cause of which he had yet to put his finger on. How had they got here? The ringing started again. Maybe it was not from the ants. It seemed to be coming from the man.
It was that lawyer guy, who worked with Eddy. The wanker. Tom collapsed back onto the road in pain. He rolled onto his back and started to feel his arms, his shoulders, his chest. Was he dead? Did he have any broken bones?
Alf Tankhouse opened his eyes, and reached inside his dusty suit jacket. He struggled to one elbow, and winced with pain, although he climbed to his feet more quickly than Tom could have contemplated for his own body, and held a phone to his ear.
‘Alf Tankhouse.’ His voice was clear, and authoritative. He could have been in an office with city views and thick carpet, rather than on a road verge with blood and dirt on his face. He looked down and met Tom’s eyes.
‘I see. No, my client is in a meeting at the moment . . .’ Tom sagged back on his arm, and watched a baby magpie land on the road nearby, eyeing him as if he might be a giant and tasty worm. Alf continued. ‘It’s a pity you can’t come to the table on what we’ve asked . . .’ Tom remembered all now. Jesus Christ. He wished he didn’t. You can’t come to the table . . . And that would be the sound of three million dollars swirling down the plughole. ‘But he may be prepared to at least hear your new offer. Although I must say he is in discussions with another group at the moment, so you might be too late. Oh actually here he is, he’s just coming out of that meeting. If he’s got a spare minute he might even be able to talk to you himself. Stephanie, could you hold Mr Ellison’s calls for the next ten minutes . . .’ Alf turned to address the baby magpie, who skittered over the bitumen and eyed him back. ‘Mr Ellison, can you possibly spare a minute to talk to Simon Factor, UMI?’
Tom’s mouth fell open. He struggled up to a sitting position, and looked down at himself. His suit pants were torn slightly at the crotch seam; and again in the lower right leg. His good shoes were scratched, the knuckles of his right hand had blood on them. The last thing he remembered was trying to hug one of the bikies, and then Alf and someone else was fighting, and then there were a lot of boots swinging at him . . . He struggled to his feet, staggered to the right and caught hold of a tree, before sinking gratefully into a bush.
Tank watched stonefaced, still holding the phone. ‘Actually he may have to rush off to a meeting . . .’
Tom staggered up and seized the phone from the lawyer. He glowered at him and cleared his throat. ‘Hello. Mr Factor. Tom Ellison here. I’m glad you rang, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about your offer of yesterday. It’s—’
The voice on the phone cut through him. ‘I’m glad you can spare me the time, Mr Ellison. I just wanted to say that while we can’t quite meet your price of twenty million with ten per cent royalties . . .’
‘Yes, that was what I . . .’ Tom croaked, his voice breaking up again. The trees were spinning and Mr Factor talked on.
‘We’ve talked with our board and we can improve our original offer. We could offer eight million dollars, with ten per cent royalties, for a South Pacific market . . .’
‘Eight million dollars?’ Tom blinked and shook his head. Did he have concussion? ‘With ten per cent royalties . . .’
Tank grinned. He gave Tom a thumbs-up sign and held out his hand, raising his eyebrows in a question.
Tom nodded. Dizziness and nausea were just about to overcome him, but with his eyes locked on Tank’s, he made his voice as brisk as he could. ‘Well, Mr Factor, that sounds . . . acceptable. How about I pass you back to my lawyer and he can sort out the small print with you? I’ve got a meeting to attend.’
He handed Alf the phone and stumbled through the bush, trying to get a few metres away before he threw up. Afterwards, he leaned on a tree, stared out over a view of the far-off city skyline and the rolling hills, and he felt what it was to reach his own personal mountain top. Battered, hungover, weary and heartsick, he tried to make it matter. Eight million dollars! Eight million dollars! What would he do with it all? But really, he was faking. It didn’t feel as good as he had imagined. There were only two people he wanted to be with right now, sharing this news. And only when he told them, and crowded them both into his arms, would it feel real.
Chapter 21
Grace looked out the window of Eddy Plenty’s lounge room and wiped her forehead. Eddy’s bedroom, which she had just left, looked like a slaughterhouse. The sheets, carpet and mattress would all need to be thrown away. Romy was screaming for Eddy.
‘You couldn’t just drop by for five minutes? It would really, really help her to see you,’ Grace had pleaded with Eddy earlier.
‘Grace, she’s in labour. There’s only one thing that’s going to help her.’
‘Drugs?’
‘Well yes, but I meant having the baby. Would help.’
‘She keeps calling for you.’
‘It’s a verbal tic. She spent five years calling for me in every crisis of her life. “Eddy” is just another word for “Mummy”. She doesn’t know who she’s calling for.’
‘Oh yes she does. Please.’
‘No. I’m with Laura, we’re having a day together.’
‘Are you scared? Do you think if you see her on this day, you might become ensnared?’
‘Maybe. No.’
‘I thought you were a stronger man than that.’
‘Well, you were wrong.’
In the lounge room, Skip circled the room with a digital camera, and clicked relentlessly at puzzling things. He took pictures of pictures, he lined up Lotte, who was sucking an icy pole in front of the television. He took pictures of her feet, knees and face.
‘Mmmmrrrrwwaaaaggghhh!’ screamed Romy, from the bedroom. Skip took a photo of the nearest door, as if testing to see whether he could capture a noise that did indeed almost seem tangible. Lotte turned an anxious face.
‘Mummy?’
Grace sat behind her, on the couch. ‘Don’t worry. The lady’s having a baby.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Why is she so noisy?’
‘Because it hurts.’
‘It didn’t hurt you.’
‘When you were born?’ Grace said. ‘Oh yes it did.’
‘Why?’
‘It always does.’
‘Then why do people do it?’
Grace sighed. ‘I don’t know. It’s what we do.’
Skip brought a bowl and put it in Lotte’s lap, to catch the drips from her icy pole. There was another scream from the rooms beyond, and Grace buried her face in her daughter’s silken hair, and turned up the television. Skip snapped his way around the lounge room. Lotte’s butterfly shoes; snap. He lined up three remote controls and leaned over them; snap.
‘Can I see your photos?’
He handed Grace the camera and showed her how to flick back through the five hundred or so shots he had taken. Some of herself and Melody. Every adult’s face taken from below; with double chins from looking down at him, their smiles genuine and affectionate. About twenty of a bowl of chips.
‘Aaaarrrgghhh!’ The cry was a higher-pitched one, and Grace hoped things were moving along. It might be time she went back and offered to relieve Melody.
‘Mummy, there’s a man at the door.’
Grace sat on the corrugated iron of Eddy’s garage roof, which was warm in the December sun. She watched as Tom, her ex-husband, stood at the back door and frowned. He was wearing a suit. She could smell jasmine and warm metal. The tiny white-petalled flowers were browning at the edges. She had fled on tiptoe out the back of Eddy’s house, and up a trellis to this sun-drenched plac
e. She had glimpsed Eddy and Tom and Laura as Lotte ran to let them in, and she had run away, like the most foolish of girls. Tom was with Lotte’s kindergarten teacher; how could he? An easy, uncomplicated, child-loving woman. A tear rolled down her cheek and she leaned back a little, to ensure she was covered by the overhanging branch of the cherry tree from next door. The cherries were ripe and bursting off the branches; some had fallen on the iron roof and baked on. Melody would be collecting these if she lived here, gathering the fruit and dropping them all in a saucepan on the stove, until the flesh melted away and the pips could be scooped out with a slotted spoon. She would make jam. Grace found a dark one and took a tentative nibble, the juice dribbling onto her bare legs. The branch suddenly shook alarmingly, and she looked through the leaves to see Tom, climbing up to her.
She nervously moved along a little, to give him room to swing onto the roof. The branches arched over them in a protective shelter of green-filtered light, providing spyholes onto the back yard.
‘I think Skip kicked a ball up here,’ she said. ‘I was just looking for it.’
‘Can I help?’
She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
He lowered himself onto the roof, and placed his bottom, clad in what she knew to be his only suit pants, onto a patch of burst plums. Never had a man cared less about clothes, or had less value for possessions. Would the same things drive Laura crazy? Maybe she was more relaxed, more young and carefree than Grace. Oh, Grace had been young and carefree once, but then had come the mortgage and the baby, and the hunger, the hunger for more of everything that for so long had seemed insatiable. Had it eased? She couldn’t exactly say, more that she had managed to put an arm’s length between her and it. The hunger was like an irritating neighbour now, rather than a tenant.
The Near Miss Page 23
