Watercolours

by Adrienne Ferreira

  He opened up a book on Morus, scanned the introduction and turned to the middle to study the map. The town sat in a basin surrounded by a crescent of mountains, explaining why it managed to avoid the sea breeze but absorbed the summer sun so mercilessly. From the few photographs he’d seen at the museum he knew that the town had a tendency to stagnate under floodwater during the wet season. Hardwood timber had been the initial drawcard for white settlers, with the river useful for transport. The sea was only about fifteen kilometres away, but Dom could see from the map why access was so difficult — the intervening terrain was mostly wetland, a convolution of rivulets and lakes unsuitable for development, apart from the sewage treatment works. The Lewis met the sea at Port Torft in the south, where a single road connected the town to the highway. In the opposite direction, another road came off the highway near the airport, a slightly shorter distance to the north. This led to a beach near a village called Banio. Dom’s eyes followed the line of dark blue shading with longing. Riding that distance just for a swim was out of the question.

  Inland, west of the Morus foothills, sat a dramatic mountain range where the Lewis and its tributaries originated. Somewhere in those foothills lived the Lepidos. Dom searched the book for the relevant section and learned that these sun-catching slopes were dominated by orchards and vegetables, with some lucrative plantations of avocado and macadamia. It was also the heart of the area’s wine production.

  He turned back to the map. The Lepidos’ property was just below the winery. It wasn’t too far out of town. He decided he could make it on his bike.

  At lunchtime he left the library and returned to his flat to discover someone had taken his clothes off the line. They were folded neatly in the washing basket by his front door and he was touched by the gesture. Across the hallway, Mavis’s door was ajar. He knocked.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was no reply, although he could hear a small commotion coming from the balcony. Warily he stepped inside, terrified of discovering her engaged in a bout of naked vacuuming or some such activity. With relief he saw that she was merely sitting outside with another old woman, both of them decently clad though sporting enormous bug-like sunglasses. They were trying to enjoy the afternoon sun despite a lawnmower growling ferociously in the garden beneath them.

  As he advanced towards them, two Maltese terriers charged from the balcony, yapping. The women turned sharply. ‘Oh!’ they cried in unison when they saw Dom. Mavis introduced him to her companion, Beryl, who scolded her dogs halfheartedly. The dogs licked their lips in apology. Mavis lifted a plate of dip and crackers towards him. ‘Baba ghanouj? It’s home-made. Bit spicy, I’m afraid.’

  He helped himself. ‘Thanks for bringing in my washing.’

  ‘Oh, that was Roma, dear.’ She lifted her glass of mulberry wine towards the balcony next door, where another elderly woman sat, crochet hook busy.

  ‘Thank you!’ Dom shouted across to Roma, the mower crunching between the bushes below. Roma smiled and waved a Santa Claus tea towel half trimmed in red. Another couple of women on balconies further along also waved. Dom felt sorry for them, struggling so valiantly to relax in spite of the wretched noise. He heard the mower labour over a patch of hidden gravel, the blades gnashing in frustration. ‘How much longer is he going to be?’ he yelled, glancing at the figure below.

  ‘Oh, a little while, I’d say,’ Mavis replied with a patient smile. Beryl nodded, similarly unperturbed. Mad old bats, Dom thought; amid the racket they were the very picture of serenity.

  For a minute they all watched the man working below. Long grass proliferated at the base of the trees where someone had failed to trim previously and Dom saw this guy was skirting it as well. He frowned at the sloppy work. They shouldn’t let him get away with that. A thought occurred to him.

  ‘You know, I could do the lawns,’ he offered. ‘It wouldn’t take long.’

  Mavis seemed startled by the suggestion. ‘God no! It’s already taken care of. And I’m sure you’re far too busy …’

  ‘Not at all,’ he insisted. ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble.’ He was pleased at the idea of giving the old girls a hand, saving them all a bit of money. They were clearly being taken for a ride by this joker. But the women weren’t exactly leaping at his offer.

  ‘I’d be happy to, really. I mean … this guy’s pretty hopeless, isn’t he?’

  Beryl and Mavis shared an uncertain look. Beryl’s eyes flickered to the lawnmower man, to Dom, then down to an invisible crumb in her lap. She whisked it away busily.

  ‘The thing is, Dom,’ Mavis explained in her best silly-old-lady voice, a voice he didn’t trust at all, ‘this Kane fellow has been coming for almost six months now.’ The mower screamed in agony as Kane tried to feed it a tree stump. ‘We’re one of his regulars, you see, every third Saturday. It’s all arranged …’

  Her voice trailed off as Kane idled the mower for a moment, giving them all some respite. Then he pulled off his T-shirt and used it to mop his brow before stuffing it into the waistband of his shorts. Bare-chested, he turned to grasp the mower again, revealing a hint of bum crack. Mavis and Beryl inhaled in unison. Roma’s crochet hook paused above the tea towel. Along the balconies, nobody moved.

  Dom put a hand to his eyes and peered down. He was about the same age and height as Kane but Kane looked as though he’d been pushing a mower in the sun with his shirt off every day since high school. His broad shoulders were deeply tanned, his hairless chest tight as a drum and glistening. His back rippled as he flung the mower over another lumpy section of turf. From Camelot’s balconies, all eyes followed his progress.

  Dom was shocked. He watched the women perving, first with disgust, then admiration. Then he grew indignant. ‘But … look at those edges!’

  Mavis didn’t hear him. She was too busy regarding Kane’s pecs as he accidentally massacred a corner of the flowerbed. ‘Hmm? Oh no. Don’t bother yourself, love. We’re used to Kane. He always does the lawns, doesn’t he, Beryl?’

  Beryl nodded vigorously, reached for another cracker and sat back comfortably in her chair. Dom stood speechless. The women ignored him.

  ‘How long do you think it would take to ride to the winery?’ he asked after a minute.

  ‘Ride?’ Mavis turned and pushed up her sunglasses to stare at him in horror. ‘On a bicycle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d be mad,’ she said simply. ‘It’s uphill all the way.’ She drained her glass. ‘Why do you want to ride up there?’

  ‘I’m having dinner with Mira and George Lepido.’

  Mavis airily waved a hand at him. ‘Just take the Falcon, love. The keys are on the sideboard.’

  Dom sensed she wanted to be rid of him. He was torn. He’d been dying to take Mavis’s old car for a spin but he felt snubbed. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said, ‘but it’s not that far. I’ve looked at a map. Besides, I’m getting pretty fit with all this riding.’ He slapped a thigh to prove it.

  ‘Honestly, love,’ said Mavis, unable to hide her doubt, ‘you’re welcome to use my car any time.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer. I might take you up on it some time, but it’s a beautiful afternoon for a ride.’ He inhaled deeply and exuded what he hoped was a profound masculinity.

  Mavis shrugged and poured herself another glass of wine, a little sloppily, he observed. How long had they been sitting here?

  ‘You know how to get there, then? Just take Serpentine Road and follow it …’ she paused for emphasis, ‘… all the way up through the orchards.’

  He nodded. ‘So, about half an hour, you reckon?’

  She flashed him a smile. ‘Maybe longer.’ She pulled her glasses down and sank back into her chair, a shopfront closed for siesta. Dom let himself out. Not even the dogs noticed.

  He set off in the late afternoon with plenty of daylight to spare. Without even a glance at the Falcon he mounted his bike, attacked the driveway, hit the road and pedalled over the bridge. Adrenaline shot power to his limbs. He was
carving up the kilometres. What are your legs? Steel springs! It was pleasant riding. On his face and forearms he sensed the sun was beginning to lose its ferocity at last. Summer was on its way out, mellowing in its old age, fancying it might be remembered fondly if it could leave looking pretty enough. The light had changed. It was as though he were viewing the world through a gold lens and it gave a kind of overripe quality to the landscape; gum-tree trunks glowed pink, the distant orchards were a luminous green. Novi’s pictures had him noticing subtleties like this now.

  He headed west towards the hills, feeling fantastic. The weeks of cycling had toughened him up and he felt ready for a ride like this. His blood was pumping, his core was strong, he was sucking in deep breaths of fresh air. It had been so long since he’d been dependent on a bike that he’d forgotten the joys of riding, how it immersed you in the environment and made an explorer out of you. He felt the underlying texture of the road, how it vibrated through the handlebars; the way the air pulsed cool and warm as he passed under trees and out again. He felt the space around him as he shot through it, how it seemed to shrink and expand — and the things he caught sight of in people’s yards! Soft toys discarded in flowerbeds; muffled, salivary sounds of dogs wrestling; an inferno of sausages on a backyard barbecue. Through a gate closing he glimpsed a pale, bloated figure raking leaves in ancient underwear.

  A couple of cars overtook him. Renewed in his passion, he felt pity for the drivers. Cars were so confined! On the bike he was limitless, constantly testing himself, always searching for the opportunity to cut across corners and tackle gutter and dirt and grass until he was back on bitumen again and a good twenty metres ahead. Riding was a conquest!

  He turned off the highway towards the hills and pedalled with smooth, even strokes until he was surprised to see the turn-off to Serpentine Road. He was making great time.

  Then, slowly, he began to climb.

  Up out of his seat for more power, he began to experience a burning in his thighs that he knew would only get worse and he tried to put Mavis and the Falcon out of his head, tried to appreciate instead the intimacy of his surroundings. Inhale fruit trees, exhale bushland. Inhale farmland, exhale gullies.

  He crossed a high narrow bridge and from here the road grew even steeper. Soon his legs were in agony and he couldn’t look anywhere but down at the few metres of bitumen ahead. The backpack was like a heater against his wet back. He tried to listen past the pounding in his ears for some of that wildlife the library book had mentioned: a lyrebird, a bell frog, anything. All he could hear was cicadas — or was it his ears ringing? Sweat stung his eyes, he was gasping for breath, but he kept on pedalling.

  At last the road flattened out a bit and he saw a few houses set back from the verge, mostly ramshackle structures with closed-in verandas. Lax wire fences contained an odd assortment of animals with no apparent interest in escape: goats and chickens, the occasional cow. He could smell horses, dusty and pungent. He passed a couple of brick mansions with large professional-looking vegetable plots, but most of the properties had nothing more than a sprawl of netted fruit trees and the odd rusted swing set, or a psychedelic bus on concrete blocks, or discarded car bodies with grass growing through the windows. Land was cheap this far out of town, he gathered.

  After a while the road grew steep again as well as treacherous, with potholes, loose gravel and narrow shoulders falling away vertically into scrub. He had to focus hard not to wobble off the edge and doubted anyone would ever find him if he did. Exhausted, his eyes latched onto each approaching letterbox with growing desperation until finally up ahead he saw a roadside stall: Tomatoes with flavour! Luscious fresh figs! Organic oranges — spotty but yummy! There was an open gate with a sign in the shape of a boat painted with the glorious word Lepido. As he veered into the driveway, he saw the sign was carved with three little figures: a man, a child and a cat. At the front of the boat was the mermaid again, so busty and wild of hair it could only be Mira.

  He coasted down the short driveway like a champion. He’d done it, and without once needing to dismount! Admittedly, it had been a tough slog, much harder than he’d expected. His hands were numb and his arms itching madly from the relentless vibration, his thighs felt like concrete and his heart was pounding in a disturbing sledgehammer kind of way, but he’d made it.

  He pedalled slowly, drawing thick breaths. The driveway opened onto a wide front lawn with a clothesline at one end and a boat frame at the other, down behind a deep tangle of garden. He cruised towards the house, recognising it from some of Novi’s drawings: peeling yellow paint with a red tin roof faded in stripes. Dom, who noticed windows out of habit, saw that these were original timber with corner squares of stained glass, the sashes broken long ago and chocked up with various objects — a wooden spoon, a candlestick; his father would have had those windows out in a flash, and replaced them with functional, easy-slide aluminium.

  He dismounted near a flogged-looking ute and the bike fell out of his hands. He wrenched off his helmet and his sodden backpack and staggered a little, concentrating on adjusting his feet to solid ground again.

  His breath was coming easier now. He felt tired but strong. Then all at once he had to plant his legs and focus on staying upright because the house and the garden and the grassy lawn were all rolling into one nauseating blur. A white light blossomed across his vision and began to pulsate in time to his heartbeat. There was an odd pressure in his eyeballs, as though they might pop. His burning cheeks felt weirdly cold and clammy.

  He staggered towards the veranda, rested a hand on the nearest railing and closed his eyes. They shot open again almost immediately when he heard a bloodcurdling scream come from inside the house. He froze, his heart in his throat. What the fuck was that?

  He stood rooted to the spot while his fatigued body struggled to process the rush of adrenaline. The house had fallen silent again. He strained to hear. There were thuds and the sound of running. He almost jumped out of his skin when the screen door above him was flung open, its flimsy frame clattering like a firecracker against the outside wall. Mira came thundering down the steps towards him with a broom above her head, her face contorted with rage.

  He tried to run but his legs were water. He made to utter some kind of protest but she was already charging, set to bash his brains in with the broom. Fuelled by an unexpected cocktail of life-preserving chemicals he fled backwards, stumbling, hitting stairs and bushes and a cross-hatch of lattice. He closed his eyes in anticipation of the crunch as she was on top of him, then beyond him, flying through the yard. He swung his head in time to see her launch the broom like a javelin into the trees beside the clothesline. Birds flew skyward.

  He swallowed. His mouth was a parched cavity. Relief had turned his legs all quivery and for a few dream-like moments in which adrenaline continued to warp everything in slow motion he watched her wrenching clothes from the washing line, her backside wobbling from the exertion.

  His head lolled on his neck. He imagined laying its weight on Mira Lepido’s cushiony arse. Then he swayed, leaned into the cool garden bed and vomited.

  Chapter 10

  Dom was on the veranda steps with his head between his knees. The steps were smooth and soft from age and he felt thankful for their comfort. Never before, he was certain, had he rested on slabs of wood so hospitable.

  ‘Sit here for a minute,’ Mira had instructed him before disappearing inside with the laundry. She had been embarrassed to find him there and they both needed a moment to collect themselves. ‘Just take your time,’ she said. He would have hugged her with gratitude but his arms were elastic bands, wobbly and without bone.

  Everything had improved since throwing up, except his opinion of himself. The garden still pulsed gently and occasionally his eyes were dazzled by little silver bursts, but the veranda’s shade was restorative, cool. And the steps … the steps were incredible. Somewhere at the back of his brain a lone thought rang out: the return trip was all downhill.

 
Novi came to the screen door. He opened it with one hand, the other clutching a tall glass of water. Dom lifted his head and tried to focus on the boy.

  ‘Hey,’ he gasped.

  Novi approached and handed him the water, steadying the glass until Dom was able to grasp it firmly, then he retreated a little, unsure how to behave with his teacher on the front steps in such a state. He hovered near the wooden railing picking paint while Dom sat and waited for his legs to work.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Novi asked after a while.

  Dom nodded. ‘Just overdid it a bit. Be okay in a minute.’

  He took a sip of water, swilled it around his mouth and spat. Then he drank deeply.

  Frowning, Novi leaned against the railing and twisted one skinny brown leg around the other. ‘Did you ride all the way from Morus?’

  Dom heard the awe in his voice and nodded.

  ‘You didn’t walk it once?’

  Dom smiled weakly and shook his head. Novi’s eyes widened in admiration and he came to sit beside him on the steps.

  ‘I like your bike,’ Novi said, gazing out to where Dom’s BMX rested in the grass.

  Dom felt the usual twinge of embarrassment that accompanied every comment on his mode of transport. But the boy’s face was full of longing. He was staring at the bicycle, leaning forward on his knees and clutching his thin ankles as if imagining the feel of those black rubber grips in his hands. Together they looked at the BMX. Its sleek metallic-blue frame glinted in the late afternoon sun, the tough tyres reared up stiffly, ready for action. He realised that it was in fact a very good bike. It didn’t have a speck of rust. Clearly it was an eleven year old’s dream.

  ‘Do you want to see mine?’ Novi asked, then added hurriedly, ‘In a minute. When you’re ready.’