Riptides

by Kirsten Alexander

  ‘Oh, Charlie.’ Dad shakes his head slowly.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ I say.

  We’re walking towards the car when Roberts calls out. ‘Wait.’

  ‘Ignore him, Dad. There’s nothing else to say.’

  ‘You proposed that night.’

  Dad stops at this, turns, as Roberts moves closer. ‘Leave it alone, son. He’s told you what you wanted to hear.’

  ‘But she wasn’t wearing a ring. I’ve seen her list of belongings a hundred times: wallet, birthing bag, silver chain – no ring. You would’ve given her a ring, wouldn’t you? When you proposed?’

  Dad frowns at him, suddenly indignant. ‘I want that back. I assumed she – that it was on her hand when she was buried. If one of your men so much as –’

  ‘There was no ring,’ Roberts says.

  ‘I want it back.’

  ‘Dad, let’s go.’ I glare at him. Surely he knows Abby wouldn’t have left Mum’s ring with Skye?

  ‘What did it look like?’

  ‘A ruby in a gold band, the word “love” inscribed on it. You won’t find another one like it in Australia. I had it brought in from Paris. You lot have no right –’

  ‘Dad, stop! What is wrong with you?’

  He seems confused, then shocked. ‘Well, I want it back. That ring belonged to your mother.’

  ‘Where’s the ring?’ Roberts asks me.

  The car is ten feet away. ‘Keys, Dad, give me the keys.’

  ‘Your sister will want that ring. She always has.’

  ‘Dad, fuck, get in the car!’

  While he’s hours away from Abby’s house, it’ll only take Roberts a few minutes to find a telephone and get some Brisbane cops out to her place – where she keeps Mum’s ring, in her goddamn jewellery box. And he knows he’s onto something now. I push Dad towards the car, swearing as he resists. Roberts takes off in the other direction.

  As we drive away, I scan the rainy streets for a public phone box, but by the time the main strip runs out I still haven’t seen one. I put my foot to the floor, despite Dad’s shouts to slow down, and fang it back to his house.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Saturday 8 March 1975

  Abby

  I’ve taken the transistor radio into the front yard with me in case there’s more news about the fire that started near Eumundi a few hours ago. It has to be the commune, but none of the news reports is using any word similar to that. There’s no talk of teepees, kombis, naked kids, guns or dope fields. The flames have engulfed vast areas of bushland near Cooroy Mountain, and firefighters are trying to contain the spread. The newsreader has said some roads are blocked by fallen trees, and warned people to stay out of the area. I wonder whether the people at the commune lit the fire to cover their tracks, or if the police did it. Or someone else. And where did everyone go? What about the drugs? I have so many questions but can’t talk to Mark about this until tomorrow. He knew better than to invite me on a fishing trip, and he and Geoff are perfectly capable of handling the kids for one night, but now I wish he was here.

  I place the radio on the step near the front door and turn up the volume. I’ll start my garden redux, by cutting back the boronia that’s spread across the path.

  As I kneel on the grass to begin, I hear the cough of an old muffler and watch a dusty brown Holden swing around the corner. The driver parks on a slant across the bottom of our driveway, about twenty feet away from me. A man gets out of the car, pushes his sunglasses up onto his mop of hair and takes a few steps in my direction. I know who he is. Finn is exactly as my father and Charlie have described him, though they’d both neglected to say how good looking he is. He’s wearing khaki shorts, no shirt, no shoes, a leather strap around his neck. He smiles at me.

  ‘Hey there. I’m Finn.’

  I stiffen. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, too.’ He walks up the driveway towards me as I slowly stand up, his eyes roaming over my dress, my legs. The grass will have made crisscross red marks across my knees. I shouldn’t care, but I do. ‘Beau here?’

  I speak slowly, as if I’m untroubled by his presence. ‘Why do you ask?’

  He lifts his eyes to mine in a way that’s almost coquettish. ‘Now, normally I wouldn’t mind a little to and fro with you but I don’t have a lot of time today. So how about you go get my son so we can be on our way.’

  At first I think ‘we’ is him and Beau, but there’s a flash of movement in the car and I see that someone else is in there. Sal leans across the driver’s seat and gives me a small wave, her silver bracelets jingling. ‘Hey Abby, long time.’ She offers me a half-smile, the smile of someone who knows how beautiful she is, how elegant and desirable, and feels a little bit sorry for you being you. ‘How’s Charlie?’ she calls out. ‘Haven’t seen him since New Year’s.’

  ‘Fine. He’s fine. Are you going somewhere with Finn? I’m not sure I understand what’s going on.’

  ‘Enough with the small talk, ladies,’ Finn says, and Sal pulls back into the shade of the car. ‘Abby, princess, go get Beau. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.’

  I pause. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ I could tell Finn the truth – that Beau isn’t here, that no one is here but me – but I don’t want him to know I’m alone. I’m unsure of my choice even as I dive headlong into it. ‘Beau is so happy here. He’s settled in really well. And the kids love him. I mean, we all do. He’s –’

  Finn walks closer. I clutch the secateurs. There’s no trace of friendliness in his face. He’s near enough that I can smell his sweat, his beery breath. ‘Glad to hear he’s happy. Now stop fucking around and go get him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wasn’t a request.’

  On the radio behind me Helen Reddy is singing about strength in numbers and unity, but there is no one here to help me. Sal sits immobile and uncaring in the car. The street in front of me is empty. I could scream, I suppose, but what would I say he’s done?

  ‘Please don’t do this to him.’

  ‘I’ll do what I want. I’m his father.’ He is standing too close. ‘And what are you to him? Nothing. The woman who killed his mother.’ I’m unable to hide my shock. ‘Yeah, I know. But does Beau? You think he’ll like you so much when he does?’

  I feel my knees weaken. ‘Please don’t hurt him to get to me. I know what we did was wrong but he’s already lost so much and he’s such a sweet –’

  ‘You know, I’ve had enough talking. I’ll let myself in.’

  I walk after him, unsteady, shaking. ‘There’s no one in there. Go in if you want to, but he’s not here.’

  He turns and scowls at me. ‘So what was your song-and-dance routine about? Where is he?’

  I have no idea what to say. If I tell him the truth, he might come back again tomorrow. And if he got here early, Mark would be ambushed, with no idea of what he was coming home to. Finn looks stronger than him, able to scoop Beau up even if we both resisted. And how awful for Beau to go through that tussle. But what lie will work?

  It seems he doesn’t believe me anyway. Finn goes inside the house and closes the door behind him. I hear the phone ringing. I run to the door but Finn has locked it. I hope one of my neighbours is witnessing this, can tell it’s hostile and calls the police. But I don’t see anyone out in their garden, or peering through their curtains.

  After a few minutes, Finn walks outside and stands in front of me. ‘I reckon you’ve misunderstood me. I’m not here to take Beau back – we’re on the move. Won’t work for a kid. I’m here to say goodbye. But now I guess you’ll have to do that for me.’

  And with the slam of a car door and a squeal of tyres, they’re gone.

  I drop onto the grass, my legs jelly, my throat tight. I should feel relieved that Finn is gone and nothing bad happened. I should feel glad that he doesn’t want to take Beau. But, instead, I feel a gut punch of sadness. Beau has been abandoned. His father has driven away without him, as though he was nothing a
nd no one. How can I ever explain this to him?

  The phone rings again, and this time I run inside and answer it.

  ‘Not now, Abby.’ Charlie cuts me off the moment I speak, launching into the story of his supermarket encounter before I can get to the word ‘Finn’.

  ‘You need to get rid of the ring. Right now. Brisbane cops will be on their way to your house. I’m sure of it. If Roberts finds it, he has evidence we were at the accident and we’re cooked. No matter what Doyle wants.’

  I run to the jewellery box, wrap the ring in a thick layer of tissues and hide it in my cleavage, well covered by my shirt.

  I don’t have a car. A taxi could take any amount of time. The back garden, the creek, the bottom of the rubbish bin could all fail me. Will they bring sniffer dogs?

  I walk quickly to Lou’s house. I hop about on her doormat, waiting for her to answer my loud knocking. ‘Be home, be home, be home,’ I mutter.

  ‘Abby.’ She’s surprised, and then, in an instant, anxious. It’s been more than two months since we last spoke. She sees how flustered I am. ‘Do you want to come in?’ She steps to one side but I don’t move from the doormat.

  ‘I need a favour.’ I put my hand down my shirt and pull out the wad of tissue. ‘Mind this. Hide it somewhere safe and don’t tell anyone – not Andrew, not anyone – that you have it.’ I give the tissue bundle a gentle press, reassuring it and me, then pass it to Lou.

  She looks down at the tissues. ‘Can I ask what it is?’

  ‘It’s a ring.’ She glances at my wedding finger. ‘And it’s none of your business. I need you to take care of it and not ask any questions. This is important. Okay?’

  She nods earnestly, brows furrowed. ‘All right. I can do that. Are we – friends again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I look over my shoulder back at my house and then at the road, but I don’t see a police car. ‘I’m trusting you with this. Don’t let me down.’

  She holds the tissue bundle close to her. ‘I’ll guard it with my life.’

  The police showed up a few hours after Charlie called, which was a blessing and a curse. I’d wondered if they’d come on Sunday, in which case Mark and the children might be back. I hadn’t wanted to explain to the kids what they were searching for, nor explain to the police why Beau was here (well-rehearsed script or not). But when Mark told me, later, that I’d had the right to ask if they had a search warrant and then refuse them entry – they couldn’t have obtained a warrant in that amount of time, and on a weekend – I wished he’d been there.

  They found nothing because, of course, there was nothing to find. And they had no dogs with them to sniff my track from my home to Lou’s, if dogs can do such a thing. So while the whole encounter felt awkward and shameful, they’d left empty-handed and I’d rushed to the phone to tell Charlie. Then stared at the wall until my shoulders shook and tears ran down my cheeks.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Thursday 27 March 1975

  Abby

  We’re at the Happy Valley campground in Caloundra, with the northern tip of Bribie Island in sight across a sparkling sapphire inlet and a white-sand beach a dozen feet away from our car. Because we’ve arrived a day before the Easter holidays begin, we have the place to ourselves and pick the best spot – close to the beach, far enough from the road that all we hear is the whoosh and crash of waves, surrounded by pandanus pines, casuarinas and a strip of green grass, kookaburras and rainbow lorikeets in the branches above us.

  The four kids help unload the car then whine their way through a few tasks until Mark frees them to go exploring with Woof. Beau offers to stay with us, and proves unnervingly competent with tent ropes and pegs. When he sees the fire pit, though, he stops in his tracks. Noticing this, Mark says, ‘We’re good, mate. Why don’t you go find the others?’

  Mark and I work companionably to set up an area where we can store the food and fold-out table. I feel certain that getting away from the house will be a balm for all of us. And this place is perfect. No TV, no phone, no work or school, and no chance Finn will show up unannounced. It’s a place where we can start to replace Beau’s bad memories with good ones, as much as that’s possible.

  ‘Charlie decide if he’s joining us?’ Mark asks as we lay the kids’ tent flat on the ground. I kneel close to him. The sandy soil is hot on the surface, cool just an inch below.

  ‘I’m not sure. Hope so. But if he does it’ll only be for a few nights. He and Ryan are keen to push ahead with their shop plans.’ I pass lengths of metal rod to Mark one at a time and he assembles the supports that will hold up the tent’s thick canvas sides. ‘They want to open in June.’

  ‘It’s not a terrible idea,’ he says, and flicks a fly away from his mouth. ‘People are obsessed with Bali, and since they know someone who can arrange the exporting –’

  ‘Ketut.’

  ‘Ketut. I reckon they can make a go of it.’

  ‘Ryan’s dad’s still furious. Charlie said he yelled that Ryan had become a merchant.’

  Mark laughs. ‘My God, not a merchant!’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘The shame of it.’

  We stand and pull the tent up one section at a time. I push each roped peg into the dirt with the heel of my thong then Mark hammers them down further with the mallet.

  ‘Well, I guess you can reassure Ryan that working in a law firm isn’t everyone’s path in life.’

  ‘At least he has a path,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll find yours.’ He smiles at me, points to a stray peg near my feet, which I hand to him. ‘And once you do we’ll be your cheer squad.’

  A salty breeze wafts over us. It’ll be cold tonight. I’ve brought sweatshirts for the kids, and had thought we’d sit around the fire roasting marshmallows. I’m not sure about that now. I never know what will trigger a memory for Beau, but I’m kicking myself for not thinking that the commune would’ve had an open fire. Of course they would. Maybe Beau helped Finn make the campfires. Or sat on logs squashed between his friends, laughing and nudging, singing songs. I decide to assume his memories of fires are happy ones.

  Over the past few weeks, I’ve looked for opportunities to ask Beau about his life, tentatively, pulling back and changing the topic if he showed any discomfort. I’ve asked if he’d ever had anyone check his teeth, then explained what a dentist is, asked if the kids ever had red spots that weren’t from mosquitoes, if he was used to sleeping in the same bed every night. I’m drawing a deer into a clearing, murmuring encouragement, offering treats.

  And comforting. Late last night, Beau and I sat on the couch in the dark, after Sarah had come to our room complaining that he was crying again. My arm around his shoulder, I told him that when I was young I’d lost my mother, too, but that sometimes I could feel her with me. He’d let his eyes roam the living room, lit by a full moon beaming through the glass veranda doors. ‘I don’t think she’s here now,’ I said. ‘But when she does show up I’ll let you know. She’ll like you a lot.’ He’d nestled into my side. Woof joined us on the couch, sprawled across Beau’s lap for a tummy rub, and made us both laugh. ‘Maybe your mum will visit you,’ I’d said, then held him until he fell asleep, laid him gently on the couch next to Woof and woken Mark to carry him to bed. I wish Maria had told us more.

  I ask Mark if we should give up on the campfire idea. He understands why I’m asking, and says he’ll think about it. A few days ago, Mark met with Jim’s brother, a psychologist, to ask how to help Beau adjust to his new life. But I’m not convinced that we need someone with experience in easing adults out of cults. The adoption lawyer will, I think, be a more useful ally.

  Once we’re finished setting up, Mark and I sit in our fold-out chairs and face the waves. From here, we can see the kids noodling about on the beach: Petey, Beau and Woof are crouched next to a shallow pool made by the low tide, all three heads down as if staring into a well, Joanne is dragging a long branch behind her and making wavy lines in the sand, an
d Sarah follows, rubbing them out with her foot.

  Mark turns on the transistor, ‘just for the news bulletin, I promise’, because he’s convinced another storm is about to come.

  I point up at the clear blue sky.

  ‘Not that kind of storm,’ he says.

  Even as I roll my eyes, I feel the wind blow sharp sand against my legs.

  After lunch, we put on our bathers, collect towels, a bat, tennis ball, zinc cream and other items deemed essential, and regroup on the beach. Mark, Petey and Beau play cricket on the wet sand. The girls make a sandcastle.

  Mark’s not feeling great about this beach and has suggested we move tomorrow morning. ‘It’s too rough,’ he tells me after he’s had a swim. ‘We’re too close to where the tide comes in.’ I sigh, but I can see he’s right. The stretch of water to the north looks infinitely better. This will do for one day, though.

  Sarah calls out to Mark to come watch her do cartwheels, jealous, I suspect, of him being so openly impressed by Beau’s cricketing skills. The other children paddle about in the shallow water. I lie back on my towel, oiled in Coppertone, dozing, reading, listening to the screech of seagulls and the crashing waves.

  I wake up when I feel water drip onto my belly. Beau is standing over me, a hand outstretched.

  ‘I think this one has an animal inside,’ he says, kneeling down beside me, holding a striped cone shell on his open palm. He watches the shell intently but the small creature is not tricked into peeking out. ‘Can you mind it for me?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Maybe it’ll pop its head out later. When it thinks we’re not looking.’ I prop myself up on my elbows. ‘Where’s everyone else?’

  He points to Sarah, plopped down on the sand, her back to the sea, digging, and tells me that Mark took the twins back to the tents because they were hungry again. ‘Who could’ve predicted that?’ I say. And we share a smile.

  ‘Are you going to swim?’ he asks.