Riptides

by Kirsten Alexander

  I pass a group of students sitting on the grass and slow down to eavesdrop.

  ‘– handmaids of a fascist government.’

  ‘Told Charles Perkins he should call himself Mr Witchetty Grub.’

  ‘Dan and Carol are organising a rally for Friday. You’re going, yeah?’

  ‘Have you seen her new magazine? Interdisciplinary feminism.’

  The students want change; they’re hungry for it. In other parts of Australia, people are struggling to keep up with change, feel like they’re hurtling into the future without helmets. But our premier has dug his heels in, and is resisting every attempt by the federal government to civilise Queensland. Petersen makes it clear he loathes students, feminists, ‘darkies’, ‘homos’ and ‘communists’. He laughs at the media, while he sells our state to overseas developers – every bit of beachfront and any land that can be mined – and looks away as heritage-listed buildings are bulldozed in the dead of night. It doesn’t seem to matter that he’s barely able to string a sentence together; he rules with iron-fisted resolve.

  I head inside, where the air is instantly cooler, almost crisp. My plaited leather sandals squeak as I walk down a high-ceilinged hallway to the lecture room where I have my first class. The room is vast, with hundreds of chairs arranged amphitheatre-style around a small stage. I take an aisle seat about a third of the way from the front, not so close it seems cocky, not so far back it might seem I don’t care. Students file in, talking, dropping bags, clicking pens. There’s an air of anticipation and tempered eagerness. A man stands at the lectern and adjusts the microphone, which makes squeals of protest each time he touches it.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says. ‘You are here for the first lecture of Contracts 101. Should that not be the case, you’re in the wrong room and will want to make a discreet exit. I can assure you, no one stays unless they have to.’

  Perhaps he’s jaded from years of teaching this class, but his mood is out of sync with the people in the room. He might have expected laughter, maybe even received it in years gone by, but it seems that I’m not alone in being keen to get on with this, bright-eyed and optimistic. I feel a rush of adrenaline, thrilled to be a part of something, in this room full of like-minded strangers. The lecturer clears his throat, recalibrates now that his joke has fallen flat. ‘Let’s begin,’ he says.

  The hour passes in an instant. I file out of the room with the other students, no longer an outsider. I know where the cafeteria is and walk there in a haze of energised happiness, past posters advertising upcoming band performances, a city record store, the new women’s journal, notices about student union services.

  And then I see Skye. She walks towards me, a friend either side of her, wearing jean shorts and the same cheesecloth smock she had on when we left her, but washed now, no longer muddy, bloodied, a second skin over her swollen belly. She smiles at me. My knees buckle and I collapse onto the concrete.

  When I come to, I am sitting on the footpath with my back against a wall. Looking up, I see the three girls crouched in front of me, with the sun above them, sharing a halo. They are asking if I’m okay in overlapping sentences, a harmony of concern. I nod slowly and, remembering why I fell, look at Skye. But it isn’t Skye. The smock is the same, her hair is blonde, but that’s where the similarity ends. How did I transform this younger girl, her star-sign pendant dangling from a silver chain in front of me, her hair like silk curtains, into Skye?

  The three girls help me to stand up and guide me to the closest wooden bench. They offer water and to make a phone call for me, to walk with me to the health centre. One digs in her bag and finds mints. I tell them I’m fine, have low blood pressure, that I’d neglected to eat breakfast, that it’s nothing. And while they clearly want to help me, I resist every suggestion until they give up and leave.

  I brush my hair with my fingers, straighten my shirt then sit still, staring numbly at the passers-by and cars. Why had I seen Skye here, now, eleven weeks and three days after the crash?

  If she’d survived, her baby would be about seven weeks old now, able to lie on its stomach and lift its head, to smile, to reach and clutch. Skye would be tired, up throughout the night to comfort and feed. Would Dad have helped? I have no idea if he helped my mother when I was a newborn.

  I sit on the bench and think. Were Skye and her baby alive, they would be changing daily. Their forward movement would affect everyone around them, in ways large and small. But we stopped her in her tracks. Skye will never lower her new baby into her cot, or watch her first wobbly steps, or teach her to read. Beau will never know this brother or sister. A girl, I somehow think. My father may never know love again. There must be a consequence for that. That is surely the essence of law, as well as physics: action then reaction. What should be my penance: should I stop being, too? But what good would another death do? A pigeon perched on the lip of a rubbish bin stares at me, waiting.

  How can I have a legal career when I’ve broken and am now evading the law? I realise, with a sense of deep weariness, sadness, that this can no longer be my path. The students are right: things must change, and it’s up to us to make change happen. But what arrogance to think I could continue on as planned, feed my hunger to learn, study how to cast judgement on others, read about contracts while locked in a contract with the Devil. There will be a way I can be my full self, my best self, but first I need to do what I’d mocked Charlie for suggesting: I must, somehow, make amends.

  The towering jacaranda tree across the road offers me a floaty nod for finally coming to my senses. I frown at the tree, as if we were in silent conversation. ‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘I know. Nothing is the same anymore.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sunday 2 March 1975

  Charlie

  Abby and I sit in her kitchen enjoying the quiet. The kids are at a birthday party and Abby is reading a Stephen King novel, occasionally scooping cottage cheese out of a half-rockmelon in a bowl. I thought she’d have loads of study to do for her law subjects but I don’t think I’ve seen her crack open a textbook since uni started. I’m shuffling a pack of cards, over and over, refining my technique. ‘Midnight at the Oasis’ plays on the radio, then the news – Whitlam says Darwin will be rebuilt in five years, there’s fighting in Cambodia and Papua, the French have declared a year-long news blackout around Moruroa Atoll so they can test their nukes in the Pacific. ‘A news blackout announced on the news. Weird,’ I say. The biscuits Abby made this morning are still on a cooling rack so the room smells of coconut and golden syrup. It’s all good, but I’m bored. I’m glad for Abby that she has a plan for the year but I’m not sure about my own. Ryan and Sal have been clear: Bali is over. I’ve signed on for the dole, but what next? I put the cards down.

  ‘Hey, did I tell you I read that the lady who wrote Mum’s etiquette book died?’

  Abby looks up in surprise. ‘Amy Vanderbilt?’

  ‘Committed suicide. Seems like one of the ruder ways to die.’

  She raises her eyebrows at me. ‘How sensitive you are. That woman is responsible for the few table manners you have.’

  ‘I’ve always said hands are nature’s cutlery.’

  ‘Sure, and knuckles can help you walk.’

  Before I can reply, there’s a knock at the door.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I say. Something to do.

  Through the amber-coloured glass panel next to the door I see the outline of a woman, and a boy too tall to be Petey. Though he wouldn’t be coming home without the others anyway . . . It only takes a moment for me to realise it’s Maria and Beau.

  I open the door to them standing side by side on the coir mat, close but not touching. ‘Hey guys. Long time no see.’ I peer behind them, out to the street. Abby’s neighbour is hosing her driveway again. The milkman is pulling up a few doors down the road on his usual run. A mickey bird swoops low to peck a labrador waddling across the road. But what I’m looking for is Finn, and there’s no sign of him. I ask Maria for good measure, ‘
Are you alone?’

  ‘Yeah. Are you going to let us in?’

  I stand aside. ‘Wasn’t sure you were ever going to come back.’

  ‘I told you I’d come when the time was right.’

  Abby stands at the kitchen sink washing our cups and dishes. She turns at the sound of Beau and Maria entering the room and I realise she’s never seen Beau before. She’s never met Maria either, for that matter. I introduce everyone. Abby stares at Beau, soap suds dripping down her wrist and onto the floor. Beau is taller than Sarah now, still skinny, could do with a wash, but his expression is relaxed and open.

  ‘You’re the daughter, yeah?’ Maria says.

  At the sound of Maria’s voice, Abby snaps back, wipes her hands hurriedly, nods.

  ‘I need more coffee,’ I say. ‘Anyone else?’

  Maria pulls out a chair and settles herself. ‘Black.’

  ‘You too, buddy?’ I say to Beau. ‘Cup of joe?’

  He giggles and sits down as Maria has indicated he should.

  ‘Abby, coffee? Join in anytime.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. You’ve taken me by surprise. Beau, it’s so nice to meet you,’ Abby says. ‘Cordial or –?’

  ‘Juice or water,’ Maria says.

  ‘Still fresh out of soy milk,’ I say, to which Maria smiles and Abby looks confused.

  Abby pours Beau a glass of apple juice and places a plate of biscuits and cut apple in front of him in no time flat. She is an Olympic-quality mother. Then she addresses Maria. ‘My father’s not here anymore. He’s gone back to the farm.’

  ‘Beau, the grown-ups need to talk,’ Maria says. ‘Hoof it, darling.’

  He slumps in his seat. I have the feeling he hears this a lot. ‘It’s hot outside.’

  ‘The twins have set up a Hot Wheels track in their room,’ I say. He stares blankly at me, takes a bite of his biscuit. ‘Toy cars. Their room’s down the hallway there.’

  He brightens. ‘Okay.’ He gulps a mouthful of juice, slips off the seat and scampers out of the kitchen.

  Maria crosses her arms, ready to talk business. ‘Things are happening at the commune. There’s been another change of plans. And this one is kind of on you, or your husband anyway. So Beau needs to be here, out of the way, while we manage our . . . issues.’

  ‘He can’t stay here. That was my father’s idea. I can tell you where his farm is if Beau needs a temporary home,’ Abby says.

  Maria snorts. ‘We know where you all live. And it might’ve been your Dad’s idea to begin with but now it’s Finn’s. He wants Beau here, like I said, with a mothering type and other kids, normal meals and all that.’

  ‘Finn knows you’re here today?’ I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘What did I just say?’ And then she speaks to Abby. ‘Also, the men in your family are a bit thick. Finn has a lot on right now so I’m doing the drop-off.’

  ‘Drop-off?’ Abby says. ‘You plan to leave him here now? For how long?’

  Maria sighs. ‘My God, the questions. He’s a sweet kid and won’t be any trouble. He’ll muck in with your lot. And Finn will show up when he shows up.’

  ‘No, he can’t stay here,’ Abby says. ‘I was never on board with my father trying to take Beau in the first place, obviously. But if the police show up they’ll think we’ve kidnapped him. And Finn saw Dad – and Charlie – at your commune, so . . .’

  ‘Why would the police come here?’

  Abby fumbles to answer.

  ‘Is Finn setting us up?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, that,’ Abby says, pointing at me.

  Maria shrugs. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’ I say. ‘Far out, that is not a good answer.’

  ‘And,’ Abby continues, ‘not that it’s any of your business, but I’m the only adult in the house right now –’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I say. Rude.

  Maria smirks at Abby. ‘You really are.’

  Abby keeps going. ‘The only adult in the house, with three kids and a dog.’

  ‘Hang on, Abby. Maybe we should let Beau stay,’ I say. ‘He’ll be safe here, and Dad will be pleased, and if it’s Finn’s idea –’

  ‘Can you not?’

  ‘Maybe go play with the toy cars,’ Maria says.

  I ignore their barbs.

  ‘We’re not related to him,’ Abby says. ‘He doesn’t know us. You agree that my hands are full. And – wait: Skye has a brother in Darwin, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Had,’ Maria says. ‘He got crushed by a house during Tracy. Listen, this is where Finn wants Beau. There isn’t anywhere else he can go. So,’ she stands up, ‘end of discussion.’

  ‘Not end of discussion,’ Abby says, frowning.

  Maria stands firm. ‘Listen, Skye was on her way to Beau when she died. She wanted him off the commune. And I understand why, I do. So if Finn is letting that happen for even a short while, you should step up and help the kid. I do what I can to keep the little ones safe, but they’re not. Okay? They’re not safe there.’

  Abby visibly pales and rubs her eyes with the pads of her hands.

  ‘I’m going to say goodbye to him now. There’s a bag of clothes by your door.’

  Abby steps towards her. ‘I said no.’

  ‘Abby,’ I say. ‘You heard her. There isn’t anywhere else.’

  Maria turns when she reaches the doorway. ‘Lady, I get it. But this isn’t up to me – I’m doing what Finn told me to. You can take it up with him when he shows. Just make sure you’re not alone when you do that, okay?’

  That night, after Sarah, Beau and the twins have been fed, bathed and put to bed, Abby and I watch the news, taking turns to get up and change the channel. We’re working our way through a box of moselle and a bag of Cheezels. Abby talks endlessly about the difficulties of having Beau stay with her – the legal, the logistic, the financial and emotional.

  ‘Who knows what that poor child has been through? Did you see him in the living room? That was the first time he’d ever seen a television. And she’s got a nerve calling that bag of scraps she left clothing. I’m going to have to buy him everything.’

  ‘Sounds like he needs you.’

  ‘And how will I explain this to Mark? You know he didn’t want Beau here. But I was railroaded, wasn’t I?’

  ‘So now you want to tell Mark things?’

  ‘No more secrets. That’s what got us into this mess.’

  From what I understand, a loose zipper and a boozy neighbour got them into this particular mess, but I don’t want to pour salt on her wound. And after one too many nights of her crying about his affair, I’ve learned that I’m not good at consoling a woman in distress. Nothing I say ever makes her feel any better.

  ‘Well, I guess you tell Mark you’re looking after him because literally no one else is. He’ll see Beau with his own eyes anyway. You better make sure to tell Mark and Dad at the same time so there’s not any more –’ She waits for me to finish ‘controversy’.

  Abby’s in the bathroom when the phone rings, so I answer it.

  ‘Has the boy settled in?’ Sergeant Doyle asks.

  ‘How’d you know he was here? You know Maria?’

  ‘I know everyone and everything, son.’ He sniffs. ‘Except one thing: why hasn’t your sister pulled her husband into line? I thought I’d made myself clear.’

  ‘You did, absolutely,’ I say. My breath quickens. I’d figured we were in a safety zone until Mark got back to Brisbane. Maybe Abby underestimated Mark’s ability to juggle multiple stories.

  ‘Because a boy like that, who’s lost his mother and been left to run wild by a pack of hippies, needs a stable home life. I can’t imagine how he’d fare in a foster home if you and your sister wound up in jail.’

  ‘Whoa, slow down. Mark’s working in Alice Springs, and Abby is going to talk to him as soon –’

  ‘She’d led me to believe that conversation had already happened. But it hasn’t, has it? Which means she lied to me. And now –’

/>   ‘Not lied, a misunderstanding I’m sure.’

  He pauses for a moment. ‘We had an arrangement. You and your sister haven’t kept your part of it. Your brother-in-law hasn’t stopped poking around. He’s sent other people up here to snoop, and they’re getting very close to finding the commune, which is un-bloody-acceptable.’ He shouts this last mash of words. ‘You need to take me seriously because I am not fucking around. I’ve been doing this job for long enough that I don’t need fingerprints or tyre tracks. Your guilty faces and a well-typed confession will be enough. Roberts has done your drive, more than once – with pit stops for arguments and spewing – and it’ll never add up. You and your sister ran that car off the road. And unless you –’

  ‘No, we –’

  ‘Don’t.’ He takes a slow inhale. ‘Do not waste my time with more bullshit. I can either let young Roberts run with what is clearly the truth or I can shut this down once and for all. It’s your choice. You tell your sister to get her husband to back off and this goes away. Otherwise, I’ll have you both arrested by the end of the week. And the kid can fuck off into foster care forever.’

  Abby doesn’t need to call Mark at his hotel in Alice Springs, though she was pacing the living room gearing herself up to do so. At six-thirty, after the kids have eaten dinner and been bathed, Mark shows up unannounced. Sarah, Petey and Joanne run down the hallway to his call, tumbling into their father as he squats down with his arms out wide.

  ‘I thought you were back tomorrow,’ Abby says. I see her anxiously scan the hallway, but Beau stays in the bedroom.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m back early. Nice to see you, too.’

  They’re spiky when they speak to one another. I don’t know how long that will last or how they’ll move on to whatever the next phase is. But because they have kids, there has to be a next phase.