Tide (15 page)

As the wind shook her, she wondered if her body would take it or just rattle apart. Limbs and vessels tangled and torn. Whether it would hold up to the buffeting. She thought of Bob: whether, if she'd stuck to his program, that would have helped her out in the battle to keep her footing. A better arse for better leverage on the surface of an unstable world. The wind seemed to come from all directions at once. Stepping onto the house's pad and into its anatomy, she covered her ears to muffle the pinging and whining of the steel which, to look at, barely seemed to shudder.

She realised how perfectly it was structured. How symmetrical, how mathematical its shape. The house spiralled into the centre. It was like being inside a shell. Because the metal glinted gold in the distance, she'd assumed it was the play of sunlight and glare cast off the ocean far below. But it was in fact painted gold. The gold had flaked and worn through in parts, and bird shit had eaten it away, but it was a golden house in the shape of a spiral. She suddenly thought, Fibonacci! She'd spent many evenings listening to Li-an praise and worship the Fibonacci numbers.

Though she'd arrived early in the afternoon, she suddenly found it was late. Dusk had arrived. Only the loss of the last intense rays of the setting sun snapped her out of her trance. She'd been walking the skeleton, measuring with footsteps, counting. Why it was what it was, where it was, and why it couldn't be finished. An epiphany. A revelation. She wanted to text Li-an and tell him she'd worked out the house. She reached for her phone then realised she'd left it in the car. Had wanted to leave it in the car. She felt bereft. Probably wouldn't get a signal out here anyway, she reassured herself.

And then it was dark. There was no moon. Clouds were rolling in, fast. The wind was confusing, as always. She forced herself to step out off the house pad onto the heath. She could smell the sea. She had to walk slightly down towards it, then turn to find the track. Where had the light gone? And so quickly? Even through the wind she could smell the pissy odour of scrub that indicated the wallaby path was close. She fell to her hands and knees and crawled.

And then she thought, Hubris. Perfection is hubris. And the ocean so immense, so rough. But deep down, down past the gnashing rocks, down to the core of where king waves are formed and yet are barely felt, there was peace. Perfection without hubris. And the wind and the night and the cliffs had her in their grasp. Falling is like a wave with all water sucked out. Gravity and fluids and momentum and inertia. And the ragged edge of the coast, the ragged edge of knowing all people who want company and solitude.

THE BOUQUET

I was heading home after a week away shearing. I'd been caught behind this old Nissan for too long. Double white lines then a clear spot, and the one truck on the damned road appeared and I had to hold back. Would have been a head-on. Then another set of double white lines. It's always when you're tired. I was glad I skipped the cut-out – inevitably I would have made the long drive after putting a few away, though it doesn't make me proud to say so – and as we finished at lunch I could go early. It was a three-hour journey.

The sheds these days are getting further away. The drought means farmers are culling their sheep. Less work. Once, I could almost shear from home, joining up with the team in the morning, heading back at night. And when the working sheds were out my way, the team bus would cruise past and I had nothing to worry about except how many I'd do that day. A few drinks after the last run – no problem. But now it was away for weeks at a time, staying over in quarters on the big properties further out.

That old Nissan was doing forty under the speed limit and really starting to piss me off. I was on its tail, giving it the charge. It wavered, and I expected the driver to slam on the brakes. In the rapidly fading light I could just make out a couple up front – a man driving, a female passenger – and maybe a kid or a dog bobbing about in the back. I dropped off the pace a bit. A kid shouldn't die for the stupidity of their parents. And then something flew out of the front passenger's window and the car accelerated away, at high speed. I was so taken aback I slowed down, stopped, and reversed back to where the thing had landed on the side of the road.

It was a bouquet of flowers. An expensive bunch of red roses. I opened the door, reached out and grabbed it. I counted eleven. I took the bouquet, and placed it on the passenger's seat beside me. It had survived rough treatment remarkably well, as if it had just floated down onto the ground. Even the cellophane around it looked crisp and fresh, held snugly in place by a red ribbon.

I know we all say it too often in life – I don't know what possessed me. But truly, it's the only way of putting it. Some gremlin had got inside me; something out of character happened. I set off in high-speed pursuit of the rose throwers for no particular reason and with no purpose in mind other than to catch the Nissan, to catch and confront the occupants. There were no words inside my head, no action to accompany the confrontation.

You've got to understand that I am a meticulous man. Always have been. As a kid I collected footy cards, and kept a record of every point and goal kicked by every team. I was a ‘stats boy', as my grandfather proudly said. And in the shed I know everyone's tally – which leads some to say I'm hungry, but it's not that, it's just an interest. You see, in the movie
Sunday Too Far Away,
when the shearers compete for the honour of being the best, the numbers matter as much as the outcome. That's me.

Unbelievably, the Nissan had found new legs, as if shedding the bouquet's weight gave it extra grunt. I couldn't catch it. It must have been doing thirty
over
the speed limit. But damn it, this was a challenge, and no old Nissan was going to outrun my Commodore V8 sports edition. I planted it. The V8 drank the juice and I flew. I was on the Nissan's tail in seconds. Then the bastard hit the brakes at speed and I almost slammed into the back of him. I pounded the horn and flashed my lights on and off. It was dark out there now.

The Nissan was crawling, and I was crawling behind it. I tried to make out what the occupants were up to. Were they arguing? Having a go at each other? But the adults remained still, and the kid or dog still bobbed around in the back.

I flashed my headlights and hit the horn again, and wound down my window to give a ‘move over' sign with my hand, not that they could see it. I then overtook and cut in front of them, trying to force them to stop. Nothing. They just followed slowly behind. I raced ahead and stopped the car right across the lane at an angle, thinking they'd have to stop too, but they just cut around me on the gravel shoulder. In the headlights as they passed I could clearly see a bald man driving and a woman with extraordinarily long hair, and yes, a dog, maybe a retriever, bobbing up and down on the back seat, maybe barking.

I couldn't see the expressions on their faces, it was too quick and the light was all wrong and I was stunned by their tactics. They seemed to be looking ahead, not deviating from their eternally forward vision. Compelled, obsessed, in a trance? And the dog bobbing up and down, barking. That would send me insane. Shut up, ya mutt! I called out, though I could hear nothing other than the throbbing of my V8.

I sat in my car there, angled across the road in a way so dangerous I would have condemned anyone else who pulled such a stunt. I sat and reached for the bouquet, running my hands down the rose stems, pricking myself, sucking the blood from my fingertip. I turned the interior light on and studied the roses' rich colour, richer than the colour of the blood that I was tasting. The nearly opened buds were richly perfumed, and I smelt them deeply. They were perfectly formed.

I thought back to my marriage. I had bought my wife roses for each of our seven anniversaries. Just like this, in just this state. She called them ‘sex roses', because after giving them to her I always wanted sex. Straight away, anywhere. In the corridor, outside, in the bedroom, once in this very car. I said roses reminded me of her. Perfect.

I wasn't too far from home now. But I sat there, fingering those roses. The entire road around there, around here, is decorated with rubber doughnuts and figure-eights and fishtails. The boys come out here with their hot cars – their V8s – and do burnouts after the pub. It's the middle of nowhere. But close enough to town and the farms they live on to make it interesting. And sometimes they do the run along here at high speed with their headlights off. Anything to crank up the adrenaline, the risk.

I turned off the headlights, I turned off the engine and turned on the stereo. I don't know what was playing. A CD, I can't remember what. I like all sorts of music. We listen all day long in the shed. Goes in one ear and out the other. It's the rhythm you're after – to help the shearing, to nullify the time. I thought of the boys flying over the crest and slamming into me. It'd be a murder-suicide, but who'd know? And what reason would I have for such an act? None. Those boys are just younger versions of me. And I don't hate myself.

I sat a little longer than I knew I should, then started the car, turned on the lights and started off. Headlights appeared as pinpricks in the rear-vision mirror, growing rapidly larger. They'd be on me in seconds. The window was still open from my manic waving to the Nissan. I grabbed the bouquet, hurled it out of the window onto the road and accelerated away. The lights behind me filled the mirror, then wavered. The car had stopped. Stopped to investigate the bouquet. I hit the accelerator. Soon they'd be pursuing me. I needed as much of a start as I could get.

TARPING THE WHEAT: THE WAGES OF SIN

Looks like bad weather coming in. I want you boys to get down and start tarping the steel-sided open bins.

Come off it, boss, we've just knocked off.

Well, you can do some overtime. No excuses on this one. We could lose the lot if it's not done pronto. I'm going to get the rest of the crew onto it as well.

Including shithead, Sook, from the weighbridge?

Yeah, including the shithead. And don't call him Sook when you're up on the stack: no room for distractions up there. He gets pretty hot under the collar when you call him that.

Might be smart with the figures, boss, but he's a lazy bugger. He won't be much use. Mind you, he does get stirred up. Might get so hot under the collar he'd set fire to the stack. And we wouldn't want that.

Yeah, boys, he is a wanker, but we need him. Get on with him at least until the job's finished. These student weighbridge officers are always the same. Think they're a cut above. But anyway, forget about it … I'm not trying to stir you up.

Not trying to be incendiary, boss?

Get to it, boys. I'll buy the first round at the pub tonight when the job's done.

They sent Sook to the top in his boots and laughed as his boots filled with grain and he slipped about, sinking and sliding at once. A gust of wind caught the tarp he was securing and almost threw him off, but Sook's filled boots anchored him and he fell on the tarp, squeezing air out through the gaps in the grain.

Get a grip, ya bludger, one of the old fellas yelled. Sook glowered at him, but worked hard to secure the tarp, fighting his boots, which he eventually tore off and threw in an arc over the heads of those below, out onto the asphalt.

Silly bastard's got the idea now.

Yeah, but you know, no boots no work. He's in contraven-tion!

Hey, Sook, you're not allowed to take your boots off.

Sook looked at others on neighbouring stacks, tarping against the wind. No boots. It was more dangerous up there with boots than without.

Fuck off! Why don't one of you pricks come up here and help!

You should have had boots on, said the super, dressing the wound on Sook's foot. He'd hit the steel side hard, sliding down the tarp, and cut it. It'll need stitches, mate, you should know that. You'll have to drive into town with one of the boys from the hut.