Riptides

by Kirsten Alexander

‘Not a great time to get them riled up,’ Abby says. ‘It’s bedtime. They have school tomorrow.’

  He rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t make a fuss, okay? I haven’t come back early to cause drama. I actually need to talk to Charlie.’ He turns his attention to me. ‘Got a minute?’

  Mark starts talking as we walk into the living room, Abby following after she sends the kids back to their rooms. ‘Something huge is about to go down on the commune. We’re not entirely clear about it but we have enough intel that we know we need to be there –’

  Intel. I’m about to laugh but he’s not joking. He keeps talking, on a roll.

  ‘– cameraman and sound guy. Like, tomorrow, Charlie. I’m going to need you to be awake at the crack of dawn, and help us get there. No.’ He holds his hand up when he sees I’m about to speak. ‘Mate, you owe me.’

  ‘You can’t go to the commune,’ Abby says.

  ‘I bloody can.’

  ‘Mark –’ She pauses.

  He shakes his head. ‘Abby, this is separate from our stuff. It’s work, okay? I’ll make sure he doesn’t get hurt.’

  ‘It’s not that.’

  Mark must hear the change in her voice because he turns to face her without any sign of the coldness or steel that’s become their norm. He scans Abby’s face for information. I watch her eyes soften. She tilts her head and takes a deep breath.

  ‘I know this is important to you but you can’t go to the commune. The police have said if you don’t back off, stay away from Eumundi, they’ll charge Charlie and me with Skye’s death.’

  Mark’s shoulders drop as he makes a quiet groan. ‘How much do they know?’

  ‘Enough to follow through on their threats,’ she says. ‘And there’s more. We have an extra child in the house tonight, a boy.’

  Mark is smart so his neurons fire fast. ‘He didn’t,’ he says, incredulous rather than angry.

  ‘He? No no, this is not Dad’s doing. Or Charlie’s. You’re right that something is about to happen – they want the kids off the commune. A woman called Maria brought him here. I said no, but she left him anyway.’

  Mark tips his head back, stares upwards. ‘Okay, right. Well, they might have made a responsible choice. He’ll be safe here with you, and that’s a good thing.’ He’s silent for a moment. ‘I think we can go to the commune anyway. I’m sure we can get what I need without them –’

  ‘But then what?’ Abby says, stepping closer to him. ‘Even if you can get in and out of the commune without being caught, what happens when your story goes to air? You can’t, Mark. Please.’

  ‘Think of the kids, man,’ I say. And they roll their eyes at me in perfect unison.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Sunday 2 March 1975

  Abby

  At nine-thirty, once the kids are asleep, after I’ve cleared the bottles and glasses from the coffee table, emptied the ashtray, washed the dinner dishes and wiped someone’s spilled juice from the kitchen floor, I come back into the living room. Mark is lying on the couch and Charlie is on the floor, with his feet up on the coffee table and his head on a cushion he’s pulled off the armchair. Mark has one forearm draped across his face, covering his eyes, the wind knocked from his sails.

  Neither of them acknowledges me as I scan the room for anything else that needs my attention before the morning. I pick up one of Charlie’s thongs, abandoned next to the TV.

  I sit on the edge of the couch near Mark’s hip. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘I know how much this story means to you.’

  He lifts his arm and drops it on his chest, turns his head. ‘I’m sorry, too.’ He props himself up on one side. ‘I don’t mean about the story. I’m sorry I hurt you.’

  ‘Visuals would’ve been amazing,’ Charlie says as he heaves himself up to sitting, his back against the couch. ‘There’s a view from the top of the hill where you can see the whole place. Almost aerial. Your cameraman would dig it.’

  Mark and I lock eyes and smile. ‘World of his own,’ I whisper.

  ‘I’m sure he would,’ Mark says, without looking away from me.

  ‘And there’s this painted rock. Yeah . . . Oh well.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I echo. ‘Guess we’ll have to keep living outside of jail and hope viewers can survive without seeing the painted rock.’

  Mark reaches for my hand. ‘It would’ve been a shame to deprive the world of a great lawyer.’

  ‘I’m not going to be a lawyer.’ It’s the first time I’ve said this aloud. My voice is calm and steady.

  ‘Yeah?’ Charlie says, twisting around.

  ‘Why?’ Mark says.

  ‘It doesn’t seem like the right course for me,’ I say. ‘I’m going to study, but not law.’

  ‘Semester has already started,’ Mark says. ‘Though I guess you could –’

  ‘I’ll work it out. I’ll decide what’s right and then start next semester.’ I look down at Charlie. ‘In the meantime, though, I’m not going to be everyone’s personal slave. We need to share the load better. And the thongs, Charlie – I mean, come on. They smell like dead possum. Leave them outside. In fact, take the bloody things now. I’m not picking up after you anymore.’

  After Charlie has left the room, mumbling half-hearted objections, Mark and I sit side by side on the couch.

  ‘So,’ Mark says. ‘That’s big news. You’ve been talking about studying law for so long I’m kind of shocked.’

  ‘Well, after the accident . . .’

  ‘I get that. I guess I’m not sure what happens next, with us, with you.’ He pauses a moment, then asks: ‘What is it that you want?’

  I wake in the dark. Mark is sitting on the bed, saying my name.

  ‘What time is it?’ I ask. I glance at the clock. Eleven-thirty. ‘Is something –’

  ‘I got to Geoff’s and didn’t want to get out of the car.’ He takes hold of my hand and nestles it in his lap. ‘I miss you. I know I’ve been an idiot, and I mean it when I say I’m sorry. Will you have me back, Abby? I won’t hurt you again.’

  I sit up against the headboard. I’ve missed sharing this bed with him. I don’t even mind that he reeks of beer. But the moment I allow myself to feel softness towards him, the hurt rises up. ‘Do you love her?’ I whisper.

  He frowns, shakes his head. ‘Never. No. You’re the only woman I love, I swear. The only woman I’ve ever loved.’

  ‘Do you still want her?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ He moves closer to me. ‘And I won’t jeopardise what I have again. I want to be with you.’

  Charlie opens our bedroom door and stands in the dark. ‘Hey, so, since we’re all awake, I want to let you know I’ll pick my stuff up. I hear where you’re coming from. I can be a bit of a slob but it’s not malicious, not making a point or anything. I just don’t notice.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘What’s brought on apology o’clock?’

  Mark turns his head in Charlie’s direction. ‘Can this wait until tomorrow?’

  ‘The thing is,’ Charlie continues, ‘it’s a confusing time to be a guy. We’re supposed to be strong and macho, fix cars, build sheds, cook on a barbecue –’

  ‘You don’t do any of those things,’ I say.

  ‘Charlie, we’re in the middle of something.’

  ‘– smoke Marlboros and chat up chicks, but also be cool with hairy armpits and doing the dishes. And be good looking.’

  Mark and I laugh. He moves his hand to where the thin sheet covers my leg.

  ‘But I’ll get with the program. Won’t leave the thongs lying around. I’ve read The Female Eunuch.’

  ‘You have?’ I say.

  ‘I’m going to.’

  ‘Charlie,’ Mark says, smiling. ‘Piss off, mate.’

  I slip out of bed before sunrise, careful not to wake Mark, go to my jewellery box and remove my mother’s ring. I fold my hand over it, feeling the metal warm instantly. I tiptoe to the kitchen and open the sliding door as quietly as I can, slowly, releasing my held breath once I�
�m outside.

  The possums quit their carry-on and scuttle up the trees when they register my presence. I see their eyes glinting, watching me. A tawny frogmouth issues a gentle ‘hoom’. A full moon shines on glossy monstera leaves. The grass is cool and tickly underfoot. Woof plods outside to greet me, wagging slowly, glad of company so early in the morning.

  I hold the ring up to the moon, so the light can shine through the ruby. The gem is the colour of claret, deep and rich, but when the light strikes it the colour lifts and brightens. It’s beautiful. I understand why Mum treasured it so much.

  Woof rests against me as he sits. I bend down to stroke his back, letting my other hand cradle the ring. As the night-time animals prepare to sleep, and the sky begins to lighten, Mark’s question repeats in my ears: What is it that I want? What is it that I need to do?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Tuesday 4 March 1975

  Abby

  ‘I have to go to the farm,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Why would he let you in if he won’t even talk on the phone?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. Gives him the chance to thump me again.’ Charlie sits on the couch, smoking, while I fold laundry on the coffee table. A breeze comes in through the open veranda doors.

  ‘Your kookaburra is here,’ I say, nodding my head at the bird sitting on the railing, waiting patiently for its daily meat scraps.

  ‘Not mine,’ Charlie says, then follows me into the kitchen and continues speaking while I tear strips of cold ham onto a paper towel to give to the bird. ‘I’ll yell at Dad through the windows until he listens. As soon as he knows Beau is here I guarantee he’ll talk to me.’

  I walk back to the veranda and place the ham a respectful distance from the bird, who once again hops backwards on the railing in anticipation of trouble. Dad did want Beau out of the commune and in my home, but I’m not sure he still regards this as a safe haven, now that he’s decided his children are murderous and deceitful. He’s always respected Mark but he’s hanging up on him, too. ‘It’s a risk, Charlie. You could drive all the way there, get shouted at, and then have to drive all the way back.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the worst day of my life if that’s how it panned out. And one way or another, at least he’ll know Beau is here.’

  Inside, I throw a clean t-shirt at him. ‘This one’s yours. You’ll want to borrow my car to get there, I guess.’

  ‘Feels necessary,’ he says, pushing the shirt off his lap onto the couch.

  I stop folding. ‘This is the first time you’ll have driven since the crash.’

  ‘That’s occurred to me.’

  ‘Maybe Mark should drive. If you freak out when you drive past . . .’

  ‘I won’t. I’m okay.’

  ‘You’re not, but if you can promise not to destroy my car that’d be great.’ I look at my watch. ‘Do me a favour and go get the kids before dinner? They rode their bikes down to the creek.’

  He clicks his tongue and winks in a way that I take to mean yes. Since his promise to do his bit around the house, Charlie has stepped up. He’s even made a pot of lamb curry for tonight’s dinner. And though I know the kids won’t eat it (and so I have, in anticipation, bought supplies for a separate meal), I see his effort for what it is.

  While I’m setting the table, Mark calls out that Petey has no clean pyjamas, although of course he does. Petey runs naked down the hallway, squealing in delight. At this sound of fun, Woof bounds towards him, thundering through Sarah’s doll party, scattering the smiling lovelies across the floor. Sarah screams in outrage, alarming Beau, who darts into the kitchen to sit next to Joanne at the kitchen bench in time to hear her moan to me again that she is hungry, ‘sooo hungry, Mum’. Charlie raises his voice over the noise to ask me if he can borrow some cash until his next dole cheque arrives. And for reasons I can’t quite explain, none of this bothers me terribly much. I see it, hear it, and decide that I’m not going to address any of it other than Joanne’s hunger. I kiss the top of her head as I walk past her.

  As predicted, once we’re seated at the table, the kids deem the curry disgusting.

  ‘It looks like Woof’s dinner,’ Sarah says.

  ‘Hey,’ Charlie says.

  Sarah laughs. ‘Like dog food!’

  I stand up to make the Plan B meal but Charlie gestures for me to sit back down. ‘I’ll do it.’ He looks at Sarah. ‘And you’ll help. You’re old enough to cook.’

  ‘There are sausages,’ I say. ‘Frozen peas, corn –’

  ‘We’ve got this,’ Charlie says, and begins telling Sarah a story about Bali as they head into the kitchen together. The other children, having for the first time in history decided that making dinner might be fun, follow them, Woof at the rear. Which means that Mark and I are, blissfully, left alone at the table to eat and drink. We lift our glasses and clink in recognition of this.

  I hear laughter coming from the kitchen, and then music. Charlie has moved the radio dial away from the news. Sarah recognises the song and loudly sings the words she knows. ‘This is a good curry,’ Mark says, and I agree.

  We’re talking, and there’s music. And while I’m loving this moment, I know it will move on. Something will be dropped or broken. Someone will be offended or bored. Mark could look at me and, despite himself, see the cold-hearted woman who drove away from a crash. I could watch him take his next mouthful and want to slap the lips that kissed Lou. Or we could reach across the table and hold hands. Charlie might come dancing out of the kitchen, the children in a happy conga line behind him. Who knows? The trick, I suppose, is to bend and move with as much of it as you can, without losing your own shape. To know that your life is this one night, this group of people, and also more than this. Also the people who aren’t in the room . . . Also the things you haven’t yet done.

  After dinner, in the backyard, Sarah explains the rules of tunnel ball to Beau, Petey and Joanne, since that was the highlight of her school day. She uses a plastic ball, fished out of the pool, in lieu of the heavier medicine ball they’d used at school.

  ‘Nobody knows why it’s called a medicine ball. One of life’s mysteries,’ Charlie says to Petey as Sarah slaps her brother on the legs to stand wider.

  Mark laughs. ‘Do not listen to your uncle.’

  ‘Ever,’ I say.

  ‘It’s called a medicine ball because the ancient Greeks encouraged their patients to throw and roll heavy balls for medicinal purposes. They thought exercise cured sickness,’ Mark says.

  ‘Huh,’ Charlie says.

  ‘Does it?’ Beau asks.

  ‘Some.’ Then, after quick consideration of who asked the question, Mark adds, ‘But a doctor is the best bet if you ever feel sick. Do you feel sick?’

  Beau shakes his head. ‘Do you?’ he asks Mark, genuinely concerned.

  ‘I’m good, buddy.’

  Mark, standing next to me, reaches out and takes my hand. This boy melts us. I hadn’t anticipated how immediately, ferociously protective we would be, how possessive. We’ve talked through the practicalities of adding him to our brood (challenging, expensive, but not impossible) and decided what to say should the police show up. Our main concern now is what to do if Finn returns.

  Because we’re not giving Beau back. He’s only been here for two nights, but we’ve already decided he needs us. We worry at his unfamiliarity with so many things our children take for granted. The ring of a telephone makes him jump, the TV was bewildering and now far too enticing, the word ‘lunchbox’ meant nothing until I explained it. And his knowingness with adult behaviour brought out the judgemental streak in both of us.

  ‘What type of six-year-old knows how to help someone pierce their ears?’ I’d asked Mark after a particularly alarming conversation when I was putting Beau to bed.

  ‘That doesn’t bother me as much as him saying that when an adult is screaming you’re supposed to hold their hand. I mean –’ He shook his head.

  ‘Did they train them to do that because the adults are tripp
ing?’

  ‘I guess so. Have to hope the kids weren’t given any drugs.’

  Tunnel ball mastered, the kids have moved on to simply throwing the ball about. Mark watches as Beau helps Joanne with her clumsy catch.

  ‘Great hand-eye coordination,’ he says to me. ‘Incredible. Might take him down to the nets.’

  I smile, but my mind has gone elsewhere. Tomorrow, I decide, I will go to the library to read about how adoption works and what grounds qualify a child to be removed from his father.

  At bedtime, I steer the children towards Sarah’s room.

  ‘But who owns it?’ Sarah asks me again.

  ‘It belongs to all of us,’ I say.

  ‘Whose room will it stay in?’

  ‘Yours and Beau’s.’

  ‘Mine, you mean. My room,’ she says. She’s happy to play with Beau, but not at all happy at having a boy sleep on a camp bed in her room. Especially one who, she tells me, cries when she’s trying to sleep.

  ‘Our room,’ says Joanne.

  ‘I haven’t read a single page yet. Why do you care whose room it lives in?’

  ‘Because you said it’s good,’ Sarah replies.

  ‘That’s enough. Get on the bed, all of you. Leave space for me in the middle.’

  The four children line themselves up on Sarah’s bed with their backs resting against the wall, jockeying for more space, lobbying for their preferred configuration and the right to hold certain soft toys on their lap.

  ‘I need to wee.’ Petey scuttles off the bed.

  ‘Is it a girls’ book or a boys’ book?’ Joanne asks. I stroke her long shiny hair.

  ‘It’s both. This was my favourite book when I was a little girl but there are lots of poems in here for boys, too.’

  ‘Poems?’ Sarah slumps down the wall until she’s lying across the bed, her t-shirt ruching up around her neck and exposing her belly, willing to tolerate discomfort to make a statement. ‘You didn’t say it was poems.’

  ‘Can I see the cover?’ Joanne asks, and I pass her our new copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses. The cover is different from that of my childhood copy, but still lovely – two girls and a boy sit in a meadow, circled by poppies, daisies and woodland creatures. Bluebirds hover above them. The boy holds an open book from which a cast of characters fly off the page: a king and queen, a witch, a winged horse.