He held a hand over his eyes, trying to compose himself.
Eventually, he looked up again.
‘My father was working that day, it was the middle of calving season. I will never forget his face when I told him. Even now, my father still says, “Marcelo, why didn’t you make me go with her?” He thinks he could’ve stopped it somehow. But people who are addicts will do anything. I was lucky they didn’t kill me too.’
Paula shook her head, unable to comprehend what it would be like to witness the murder of a family member, let alone your mother.
Lachie and Caitlin looked shocked.
‘I was only a teenager. I found out there are very bad people in the world.’ Marcelo wiped his face with the back of his hand. ‘I wanted to learn how to protect the people I love. My uncle suggested jiu-jitsu. He taught me himself for five years, then took me to train with Professor
Julio Mattos. I was very lucky, he is famous in southern Brazil. I trained with him until I was given my black belt, at twenty-three.’
Paula smiled. ‘Your mother would have been very proud.’
‘Yes.’ Marcelo’s eyes turned bleak again. ‘God took her away too early, she was only thirty-nine.’
Paula blanched. My age now.
For a moment, she imagined Marcelo’s mother, lying frightened and bleeding in a Brazilian slum. Knowing she was dying, reaching for her son.
She looked at Lachie and Caitlin. How would they fare, if she wasn’t around? Tears sprang to Paula’s eyes. She could only hope that life would spare her children such grief before they were truly ready to cope with it.
‘She meant everything to my family,’ Marcelo said, suddenly lifting his t-shirt.
Paula stared at his caramel chest, his ferociously fit torso.
‘When I received my black belt, I put my mother here, over my heart.’
Marcelo pointed to the tattoo: Lili.
‘She used to tell me, “One day, I will take you to my birthplace.” But she died before she could.’ His mouth worked silently for a moment. ‘So I made a vow to her: Mãe, I will go to where you were born. I will take you back to Darwin. I am carrying her ashes in there.’ He pointed to his backpack. ‘So now you know the full story.’
Paula could barely breathe; no one else stirred either.
In the silence, Marcelo reached for his guitar.
Gently, he began plucking, gazing up at the night sky.
Then his voice, warm and rich, accompanying a folk melody.
Paula attempted to grasp the sentiment of the song, if not its meaning.
Marcelo smiled at her, strumming the final bars. ‘This song is well-known in Brazil, by one of our greatest artists, Caetano Veloso. Each of us knows the pain and the delight of being who we are. This is very true. There is good and evil in everyone, and so much beauty in that imperfection.’
He rested his guitar against a rock, then sat back on his heels once more.
The group was silent, each with their own thoughts.
Sid was the first to speak.
‘We are honoured you are with us, Marcelo. What you just told us, it must’ve been a lot for one young man to handle. My wife died a year ago after more than forty years of marriage.’ His voice caught in his throat. ‘But to lose your mother as a teenager, it must . . .’
‘Change you,’ said Marcelo, nodding at Sid in the flickering light. ‘It changes you forever.’ He threw the stick he was holding into the flames. ‘When you lose someone, you suddenly understand what you have left. Family is everything. There is no time to waste, because at any moment, it might disappear.’ He snapped his fingers.
‘Well, to recover from that and get a black belt in jiu-jitsu . . .’ Sid pronounced it correctly this time. ‘It’s outstanding.’
Marcelo shrugged—with modesty or embarrassment, Paula couldn’t tell.
‘Could you teach me?’ Lachie’s voice was timid.
Paula hadn’t anticipated this question, given that her son was usually uninterested in sport. He’d flatly rejected every overture his father had ever made in regard to boxing.
Marcelo seemed to relax. He stood up and extended his hand to Lachie, helping him to his feet.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I will teach you some of what I know. Not everything, because we don’t have the equipment we need, like the rolling mats and the gi, the robe we wear for training. So we will have to . . .’
‘Improvise?’ Paula suggested.
‘Exactly.’ He grinned at Paula. Her body basked in its glow.
‘We will try a few things,’ continued Marcelo, turning back to Lachie. ‘And then maybe you can find a training school in Melbourne if you like it. We can start tomorrow before breakfast.’
‘But tomorrow Gramps was going to . . .’
‘Don’t you worry about my lessons, matey.’ Sid smiled at Lachie indulgently. ‘Having Marcelo here is a whole life lesson in itself.’ Sid turned to the Brazilian. ‘I’ve been giving them a few lessons, you see. Not academic ones, practical life skills.’
‘Ah.’ Marcelo nodded in an approving way. ‘Those are the best kind. You are a good grandfather.’
Sid seemed to sit taller. ‘From now on, Marcelo and I will work together on your education.’
Marcelo put an arm around Lachie’s shoulder. ‘I will teach you some jiu-jitsu. You too, Caitlin, if you would like?’
Caitlin nodded, her face pink in the firelight.
‘You will both learn that bigger is not always better. We know this is true, yes, Pow-la?’ Marcelo smiled at Paula, his eyes glittering like jewels.
She couldn’t help but smile back.
Paula heard Marcelo unzipping the tent before dawn. The sound of her father’s snoring continued, despite the disturbance. The fact that Marcelo had offered to share a tent with Sid from the outset had been a pleasant surprise; Hamish never would have subjected himself to such a chore. But coming from a family of mostly male cattle ranchers, Marcelo claimed he wasn’t bothered by snoring. And it reassured Paula to know that her father had a jiu-jitsu master lying next to him at night.
She didn’t hear his footfall across the sandy earth, but saw his silhouette at the caravan window, adjacent to her bed.
‘Pow-la,’ he whispered.
She sat up and opened the window. The spaghetti strap on her white cotton nightdress slipped off her shoulder and she righted it immediately.
His face was inches from hers.
I must look a sight, she thought.
She tried to smooth her hair, but could feel it springing up at odd angles, still wild from sleep. She noticed a few stars still shining in the dull light, then checked her watch: it was just after five o’clock. Somewhere nearby, she heard another tent being unzipped. Someone going out for an early surf, no doubt.
‘Good morning,’ he whispered.
She grinned at him, the sea air cool on her face.
Yes, it is a good morning.
‘I’ll just wake up Lachie and Caitlin,’ she whispered back.
As she moved to climb off the bed, he reached in through the window and caught her by the wrist. Swiftly, yet softly.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Can you hear it?’
She listened. The call of a solitary seagull, the scrape-scrape-scrape of a surfer waxing a board, waves crashing against the sand.
‘That is the sound of beauty,’ Marcelo whispered, his tone reverent. He dropped her hand, then leaned closer to the window. ‘So much beauty everywhere.’
She looked into his eyes. Surely he didn’t mean her?
His exquisite lips were moving, but she could no longer hear his words. She felt herself drawn towards them.
There came a sharp creaking sound from the children’s bunks and Caitlin suddenly sat up.
Paula pulled back from the window.
‘Hello,’ Caitlin said, rubbing her eyes. ‘Are we training?’
Marcelo smiled. ‘Yes, we go to the beach. I will meet you and Lachie there in five minutes.’
&nb
sp; Caitlin leaped out of her bunk like a trapeze artist, landing on Lachie’s legs in the bunk opposite.
He groaned. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Training time, sleepyhead,’ said Caitlin, sounding excited. ‘Marcelo’s lessons.’
Paula looked back at the window, but Marcelo was already gone.
As the children began getting dressed behind the curtains they’d strung around their bunks for privacy, Paula lay back on her bed. Imagining, for a moment, sharing it with Marcelo. She touched a hand to her wrist, where he’d held it through the window.
Energy was coursing through her. She couldn’t possibly go back to sleep now.
Bugger it, I’ll go for a run too.
She slipped on her sports gear and followed the children to the beach, keeping a careful distance. Not wanting Marcelo to see it in her eyes, how he’d made her feel. And certainly not wanting him to think she was checking up on him, like some sort of helicopter mother.
The mother I used to be, not so long ago.
‘I’m just going to . . .’ She gestured towards the curve of sand stretching westwards.
What was she going to do? Walk or run or sit in the dunes and contemplate what the hell she was up to? Thousands of kilometres from her husband, flirting with a man seven years her junior?
She turned on her heel and jogged away, the cool sand tickling the soles of her feet. She’d been jogging quite a bit since leaving Melbourne—Lachie’s self-appointment as Swearing Monitor had guaranteed that—but never on soft sand. The last time she’d jogged like this was before their marriage, when Hamish was still living at Brighton. Back when they’d wake up on a Saturday morning and make love, before wandering down to the beach for a coffee and an exercise session. Hamish would peel off his clothes and race up and down the sand in his bathers, but Paula had always been too self-conscious of her jiggling bits for that. Instead, she’d donned a sporty two-piece tracksuit for some slow laps of the beach.
More than seventeen years on, her bits were still jiggling—and then some. The excess weight had crept up on her, thickening her waistline, broadening her hips, padding out her bottom. Never filling out her chest, however. Surely she looked like a wide-tailed duck now, lumbering across the sand in three-quarter leggings and an oversized singlet. A squat, almost-forty-year-old mother, who’d stopped worrying about exercise years ago. A woman on first-name terms with the staff at her local bakery. Who, on a bad day, went to the fridge or pantry and stuffed her mouth full of whatever she could find: biscuits, cheese, pickles, dried apricots, last night’s leftovers. Chocolate, always chocolate. Washing it down with a glass of Diet Coke, or a red wine at night. Feeling like a failure, swallowing back the tears.
A woman who’d let herself go.
If only Marcelo had seen her in her prime, years ago.
Oh, get over yourself, she thought. He’s not even looking.
Just to be sure, she glanced over her shoulder.
And there they were, the three of them, watching her.
Caitlin and Lachie stood dumbstruck, as if asking themselves: What is Mum doing? She never jogs.
And then Marcelo, with two fists raised in the air, triumphant.
9
After an uncomfortable night in the hatchback, Hamish was relieved to get out of Adelaide.
Just after nine o’clock, his telephone rang. He hoped it might be Paula or one of the kids, but the caller ID said Nick Bridge.
He grimaced and inserted his earpiece.
‘Morning, Nick.’ He tried to sound laid-back.
‘Hi, Hamish. Sorry for calling you on your sick bed.’
Hamish didn’t reveal his true whereabouts.
‘What can I do for you, Nick?’
‘Gary asked me to contact you about the December convention, to see if you want to do a keynote. We know you’re on leave, so if you don’t think you’re up for it . . .’ Nick paused. ‘Gary’s asked me to step in.’
Delivering a keynote to hundreds of Crossroads staffers at their annual team-building event was an opportunity Hamish usually embraced, but this year, the prospect was unappealing.
‘You go ahead and do it, Nick,’ Hamish said.
‘But won’t you be better by then?’ Nick sounded stunned.
‘Probably.’ Hamish exhaled. ‘But it’s your turn this year.’
There was silence for a moment.
‘Well, thanks, Hamish. I really value the opportunity.’
It wasn’t false gratitude.
‘Good luck with it, Nick. Goodbye.’
Hamish gripped the steering wheel, marvelling at how unfazed he felt. Sure, there was some mild, passing discomfort about unleashing Nick-the-Dick more fully into Hamish’s rightful role at Crossroads. But the world hadn’t ended, it seemed.
In fact, he’d been gracious. Nick had practically said so himself.
He stuffed his telephone into the recess of the driver-side door. He’d only been on the road for thirty-six hours, but Melbourne felt like an eternity ago. His work at Crossroads was a receding priority compared to reclaiming his family.
And now he’d been gracious, a word that had dominated the speeches at his father’s funeral.
Gracious, gentlemanly, a true family man.
Hamish’s eyes stung.
I can embody those qualities too, he thought.
I can be my father’s son.
For the next few days, Hamish combed every caravan park and camping spot along the eight-hundred-and-fifty-kilometre coastal route to the Nullarbor Plain. Flawless shorelines dotted with mining smelters, thriving fishing communities alongside barely functional pastoral operations, quaint churches next to graffiti-covered public toilets. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-them towns attempting to market their once-significant history, trying to be something other than a service centre for the traffic on highway number one. Hamish stayed focused on spotting a cream-coloured caravan with two green stripes down its sides, towed by a black dual-cab ute.
But sometimes he found himself wondering what had caught Paula’s attention along the way. Whether the kids had seen the landscape as spacious and spectacular, or dozy and derelict. He didn’t dwell in any place too long, but forced himself to press on. Wanting to catch them before they crossed the border into Western Australia, where the sheer vastness of the terrain would make them much harder to find. Wherever he stopped, Hamish sought out caravan park owners and managers, asking if they’d seen his wife and children. And always, the response was negative.
Until he reached Ceduna, at the eastern end of the Nullarbor Plain, on his fourth day out of Adelaide.
He pulled into town after ten hours of driving and followed the signs to a caravan park with budget cabins.
He paid the nightly fee to a talkative woman named Linda, who’d lived in Ceduna her whole life. After she’d chewed his ear about the region’s whaling history, he subjected her to his own spiel, almost as an afterthought.
Linda’s eyes lit up. ‘Paula, you say? With two kids?’
She thumbed the pages of her bookings register.
‘Yeah, they were here a week ago. The young fella caught some choice snapper off the jetty.’
That didn’t sound like Lachie at all.
‘Uh, I don’t think so,’ said Hamish. ‘My son’s not a fisherman.’
‘Not the really young fella. I meant the other young man, the Italian.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe he wasn’t that young, it’s hard for me to tell these days—everyone seems young. The policemen round here look like they should be delivering the newspapers.’ She laughed at her own joke.
Linda seemed easily muddled; Hamish doubted she’d met his family.
‘My wife is travelling with my father-in-law too,’ he added, just in case.
‘Oh, of course, Sid.’ Linda looked animated. ‘We really hit it off. Lovely fella. Cooked a mean barbie, too.’
Linda was talking about his family. But what did she mean about a younger Italian man?
‘Did they say
which way they were going?’ asked Hamish.
Linda laughed again. ‘There’s only one road west, love.’
Hamish felt like slapping her. ‘Of course. How long does it take to cross the Nullarbor?’
‘Depends how fast you’re going. Twelve hundred clicks to Norseman, across the border into Western Australia. You can do it in a day if you’re keen.’
They were long gone, then.
‘But Sid said he wanted to do some hunting on the Nullarbor—funny ol’ bugger. And the Italian fancied some surfing at Cactus. I think they were heading there for a few days.’
‘Cactus?’
‘The beach south of Penong, about ninety clicks up the road. It’s famous. You’ve never been through these parts before, have you?’
Hamish shook his head.
Linda’s eyes narrowed suddenly. ‘Why aren’t you travelling with them, anyway?’
‘I . . . uh . . .’ Hamish fumbled about for an explanation. No one had asked him that before.
‘This isn’t a domestic, is it?’ Her voice had a hard edge. ‘If you’re chasing the missus and kids with a court order on you, I’ll call the coppers.’
Hamish cut her off. ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’
Part of him wanted to explode right there, to tell Linda to shove her budget cabin up her fishwife’s arse. But another part of him knew what might happen if he did. Rural Australia was different to the metropolis: everyone was connected to everyone else, and it paid to be nice to the locals.
Linda stood with her arms folded.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ve made some mistakes with Paula, and I want to try to get her back.’
‘Well,’ said Linda, her face softening. ‘I like a man who can see the error of his ways. Lord knows, most of you can’t.’
She traced her pen across a laminated map of Australia pinned to the wall behind her.
‘They left here a week ago. Let’s say they went to Cactus for three or four days, then took their time across the Nullarbor. Maybe stopped to do some hunting along the way, like Sid said, or a bit of sightseeing . . .’ She counted on her fingers. ‘I reckon they could be at Norseman tonight. So if you give it a big push tomorrow, you might catch them the day after.’
Wife on the Run Page 17
