Deeper Water (10 page)

‘Like two peas in a pod,’ Frank said.

Hamish didn’t speak. I was guessing that he couldn’t. I wanted to urge him to breathe, but not while Frank was standing there watching us.

‘Now, hold onto your hats!’ Frank called out as he climbed back into the front.

Riding in the backs of utes was one of the things on my mother’s list of ‘far too dangerous activities’, so even though I’d lived in this place all my life, surrounded by farmers and their trucks, I’d never actually travelled this way. I suspected that it would live up to my expectations. Part of me wanted to reach out and grab Hamish’s hand, but I figured I shouldn’t push it.

‘Hamish?’ I whispered as Frank’s door slammed shut. ‘You alright?’

He didn’t say a word, just pressed the heel of his palm against his collarbone again. I couldn’t see his face beneath the big hat.

‘You got to breathe.’ I bent forward a bit so I could see him. He was pale, pale as this morning in the car, his eyes wide and panicked. The truck started to move forward, slowly picking up speed.

‘Look at me.’

‘I’m alright,’ Hamish muttered, looking away. ‘Just give me a second.’

It’s impossible to help someone who doesn’t want helping, but in my mind I imagined climbing over and straddling his lap so all he could see was me. I didn’t move an inch and the truck bumped along gently. Frank was a cautious driver, and I suppose he was thinking of the bikes bouncing around on top of us too.

He was right about one thing—as he gathered speed, we both reached up to grab hold of our hats. We were shaded by the cab of the truck, so once the wind started rushing I pulled my hat right off and held it between my legs. I liked the feeling of the wind in my hair, and if I hadn’t been squashed in alongside Hamish I would have felt utterly free. His arm against mine, moist and hot, kept jolting me back to the thought of climbing astride his lap. I hadn’t known how much unwanted thoughts could make you feel like a prisoner.

Reaching up, I pulled the elastic from my plait. If this was my one chance of riding in the tray, I wanted to feel all of it. My hair streamed out around me, the wind whipping it about. Hamish took his hat off too and leaned his head back against the cab, face tilted towards the sky. He closed his eyes, and the hand he pressed against the base of his throat relaxed and dropped slowly to his lap.

And that’s the way we rode into town. Hamish breathing slow and steady, eyes closed, like he was praying to some unknown saviour. And me, half wild with the freedom of it, but all the while fighting thoughts of him trapped beneath my hungry touch.

Wind-whipped and wild-looking, we pulled up in front of the bank. The whole town seemed different from the back of the truck. Less stale and ordinary. From that height I could look at it as though it was a place I’d never been before.

As soon as the truck stopped, Hamish was jumping over the side. He seemed a bit unsteady, like a sailor adjusting to solid ground. He looked up at me, his face bright. ‘I did it, Mema!’

If he was another type of person he would have punched the air, or maybe put his hand up for a high-five. Frank climbed out and walked around to help us get the bikes out.

‘You want a hand down?’ he asked, and I let him help me. I wasn’t used to people doing things for me.

‘Sorry.’ Hamish watched Frank. ‘I should have done that.’

I shrugged. Frank seemed to have a way of making things feel natural. I didn’t feel like a cripple around him, but like a lady from one of those old-fashioned books Mum had a bunch of—Jane Austen and those Bronte sisters. I’d never felt like a lady before. I liked it more than I expected. Re-plaiting my hair, I quickly twisted the elastic around the end.

‘So where are you two headed?’ Frank asked as he lifted down a bike.

‘First step, the bank—try to get some money out.’ Hamish fished around in the tray for the backpack. Handing it to me, he pulled the other bike down. ‘Then, I guess I’ve got to try to find somewhere to stay.’

Our town was only really this one street, you could see all the shops in a sweep of the eye, but Hamish didn’t know that yet.

‘Well, there’s either the pub just up there,’ Frank pointed to the left. ‘Or the motel out on the highway, near the petrol station.’

‘I’ll check them out,’ Hamish said. ‘Thanks, Frank. Thanks for the lift.’

Frank squared his shoulders. ‘The pub’s full of drunks and the motel’s a sad old place.’ He took off his hat, so worn and well loved, and I knew it meant he was going to say something important. ‘If you don’t find them to your liking, there’s a spare room at my place.’

Frank’s wife had died of cancer a few years back. She’d always been a quiet sort. Kept to herself, so I hardly remembered her. But I realised then that he must have been lonely with her gone. Truth be told, I hadn’t really given Frank Brown a lot of thought. I watched his fingers inch slowly around the rim of his crooked old hat.

Hamish seemed surprised, but he took it in his stride. ‘I think I’ll need to be in town,’ he said. ‘For work.’

Frank nodded. ‘Well, let me know if you do. Mema’s got my number.’

That was true. I knew it off by heart. I always had to ring him when one of his cows strayed into our yard.

‘Thanks, Frank.’ Hamish held out a hand to shake and Frank grasped it. ‘I’ll certainly keep it in mind.’

Part of me wanted to stand up on my toes and give Frank’s leathery cheek a kiss goodbye. Mainly because he was being so sweet, but partly—I guess—’cause he had made me feel like a lady. I didn’t move though.

He put his hat back on and held up his hand in a wave.

‘You take care now, Mema. Take care of that mother of yours too.’

I nodded and he turned and strode off towards the hardware store.

Hamish stared after him. ‘He was nice.’ He reached into the backpack and pulled out the drink bottle. ‘He’s not gay, is he?’

This was something I had never considered.

‘My gaydar is usually pretty good, but out here everything’s a little weird.’

‘Gaydar?’

‘You know? Gay radar?’

‘No.’ I’d never heard that term.

He shook his head like I was a lost cause. ‘Do you think he’s gay?’ Hamish asked again, taking a swig of water and handing the bottle across to me.

‘He’s been married the whole time I’ve known him.’ I took a sip of water and it was only when it hit my throat that I realised how thirsty I was. ‘His wife died a few years back but I’ve never heard anything about him being gay.’ I handed the bottle back to Hamish.

‘Not that I care,’ Hamish continued. ‘I’m not funny about it.’

He drank from the bottle and I couldn’t help thinking that his lips were exactly where mine had been only seconds before. It made the heat in my body rise.

‘I’m just,’ he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘checking what kind of offer he’s making.’

I reached out for the bottle and he handed it over. ‘I think he was just being friendly.’

Hamish nodded. He seemed to have a whole new lease of life, now we were in town. ‘Okay, well it’s good to know I’ve got Frank Brown up my sleeve.’

Hamish surveyed the street like he was ready to roll, but I was feeling a little lost. Something about being in town with him was unsettling me.

‘Let’s stash the bikes somewhere. I’ll pick them up later with Mum. I need some food, I think.’

We wheeled our bikes round the corner to the river bank. The town was built around a road that crossed the main river, the whole place perpendicular to the water. It was shady on the river bank, a few old trees and a couple of park benches speckled with mould. I leaned my bike against a tree and Hamish leaned his against mine. We sat down on the bench, one of us on each end.

I pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it across to him. ‘Lucky dip.’

He must have been hungry too ’cause he barely had the paper off before he was biting in. It only felt like a few seconds and his sandwich was gone. I was going more slowly with mine—the whole thing tasted wrong in my mouth.

Hamish looked down at the river.

‘So, tell me about your town, Mema.’

I was silent for a little bit, thinking what to say. ‘It’s only that strip of shops, that one street.’

Hamish scrunched up his paper bag and threw it in the air, catching it again like a ball. It was something one of my brothers would have done.

‘There’s not much to it.’ I’d always felt a bit ambivalent about town, always a little on the outside.

‘Where do you and your friends hang out?’

I didn’t want to tell him that it was only me and Anja. That I didn’t have any other friends. That we hardly ever came into town, and certainly not for fun.

‘Not really here.’

‘You go further afield? To the movies and things?’

I guess he was remembering what I’d said the other day about where to go on a date.

‘Sometimes,’ I said, looking at the brown flow of the river. ‘The markets are pretty fun. We do them once a month.’

‘But they’re not in town?’ he asked, throwing his paper bag up again.

‘No, the markets are about an hour’s drive from home, further than here. It’s a nice spot. Everyone comes from all over.’

I was trying to imagine what would happen around here if you couldn’t get into a car. There was no other way to get from place to place. I wondered how Hamish would go, where he needed to be for work.

‘I’m going to have to get over the car thing.’ He scrunched the paper bag up tighter, holding it in his palm. Evidently he was thinking the same thing I was.

‘So, to the bank first?’ I’d finished my sandwich and was itching again to get moving. We could leave the bikes here.

‘Yep.’ Hamish stood up and threw the ball of paper into a nearby bin. ‘Then I’ll be back in business.’

I stood up and put mine in the bin too, swinging the backpack over my shoulder.

‘Let me take it.’ Hamish held out his hand.

Handing the backpack over, I wiggled my toes inside my boots. They were making my feet feel stifled.

‘You right?’ he asked and I nodded.

I had nothing to say to that.

The bank was in the centre of town, an old building, all grey and red tiles, well maintained, with sloping supports below the windows outside that all the little kids in town liked to climb up and slide down. I did it when I was small too. Nothing ever changed.

There were a couple of toddlers climbing up the slope in their cheap plastic thongs, while a bunch of people chatted on a street bench, half watching. Even though the group looked vaguely my age, I didn’t know any of them personally. My town seemed to specialise in young parents. Hanging out in clusters, dyed hair and piercings. There was a brittleness to them, pale skinned and dark under the eyes. Sophie always said it was drugs that made them look that way, but I didn’t know anything much about that. Further along, a few blokes who’d gone to school with Jonah stood puffing on cigarettes. When my brothers were still around, they were always getting into fights with boys like that. Old school grievances hanging in the air, unexpectedly raw. Words would get said. Tempers flare. Walking past them nowadays, I was never quite sure what they might do.

Hamish strolled along, taking in the shops that lined the street, unperturbed by the crowd outside the bank. As we walked past I heard it, soft but clear.

‘Slag.’ One of the blokes coughed it under his breath. Softly, so it was half swallowed. The men around him tittered.

Looking at the ground I kept walking. At home words like that didn’t mean much, but out on the streets of my town it was different, they came at me through the air like a slap. Time seemed to slow. I could feel Hamish glance across at me, but I didn’t look up. These things didn’t happen often, but enough to make me wary walking through town. To make me keep my head down.

A cough again. ‘Slag.’ And then someone else, ‘Slut.’

This time Hamish stopped and turned, staring. I stopped too and everything went quiet. One of the men threw his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with his shoe. The group on the street bench looked across at us. No one spoke. Hamish kept staring, and the men stared back. The air around us seemed to thicken. Everything felt clogged. I blinked a few times, as though hoping if I closed my eyes they all might disappear, but they didn’t. We were caught there, ensnared somehow. Suddenly, the door of the bank swung open and someone stepped out. A toddler slid down the sloping wall, crying out as she hit the bottom. One of the mums jumped up to get her.

‘You guys are such dickheads,’ she muttered as she went past.

The men looked away, like the hadn’t heard her. The moment that had held us in its power was over, and they all shifted back towards their business. Hamish took one last look at the blokes, then strode up the stairs and into the bank. The last thing I wanted to do was wait outside without him, so I followed.

We stood in the queue, waiting for the teller.

‘What the fuck?’ Hamish hissed sideways at me under his breath.

I didn’t know where to begin.

‘You heard it, right?’

It was far too complicated trying to explain about all the knowns and unknowns. How uneasily the town held our secrets.

‘It’s just,’ I shrugged, ‘people being nasty.’ Mum always said words like that seemed big, but people only used them when they felt small.

‘It’s not okay, Mema.’ He was whispering, though in the hush of the bank I wondered if everyone could hear. Two people stood in front of us, a woman and an old man, but neither of them looked our way. ‘This is your town. You shouldn’t get abused just walking down the street.’

The teller called the woman up and we stepped forward in the queue.

‘Most of the time it’s fine,’ I said, wishing he would stop.

‘But it’s you.’ He leaned closer to my ear. ‘You don’t even
do
boys.’

The old man in front of us didn’t stir. He was probably as deaf as a post. I felt my cheeks go pink.

‘Does that matter?’ I asked, thinking of my mum. ‘Would it be alright if I did?’

He rubbed the back of his neck in irritation. ‘No, of course not. It’s only … when it’s you it’s
really
not alright.’

The old man stepped up to the teller.

‘It’s not important, Hamish,’ I said, wishing I was anywhere else. ‘Just forget about it.’

Hamish shook his head like he wasn’t finished and then it was his turn at the counter. I stood off to the side by the window. His banking had nothing to do with me. Every now and again I’d see a babyish face at the glass, one of the toddlers making it up the slope outside. Even in their pilled polyester clothes they seemed wholesome, open-faced with big toothy grins. I wondered what happened between then and adulthood. It was as though as they grew older something important shrivelled inside. It made me think about Rory, about whether that would happen to him. I looked around the bank—the drab carpeted floor, the dull walls—there was nothing to attract the gaze but a big white card behind glass displaying the date. Like the only thing that mattered was keeping track of the time. Everything looked so vacant and worn.

Hamish was having trouble with the teller. He leaned forward, tapping his fingers on the counter, trying to make a point. I moved closer. There wasn’t anything I could do, but he looked like he needed a hand.

‘Look, I told you, I don’t have any identifying documents,’ he said through the hole in the glass. ‘I lost everything in the car and I live two thousand kilometres from here.’

‘Sir, we can’t access your account without being sure it is you.’

‘I must be able to prove it’s me without a document. Ask me some security questions!’

The woman behind the glass looked pained. ‘I’m sorry, sir, in these circumstances that will not be enough.’

‘What about my signature?’ Hamish said, picking up a pen from the counter. ‘You must have that on record somewhere?’

‘Maybe.’ The woman moved back on her chair. ‘Let me get my supervisor.’

Hamish turned around to me. ‘Fuck! They won’t even let me get money out.’

I looked at him—unshaven, strange tan marks, mismatched clothes. It was quite possible they thought him half-mad. This was a conundrum. Once someone decided you were crazy, how did you convince them you weren’t? Maybe every attempt to prove sanity only made things worse. I suppose it didn’t help to have me there—the lame girl with the handmade skirts. The supervisor came through from a door out the back and approached the glass. He pulled his glasses a little way down his nose, peering at Hamish over the top.

‘So, you washed off a bridge further out? The whole car went under?’

‘Yes.’ Hamish was holding the side of the counter, fingers like a vice.

‘Did the SES come?’ the bank man asked, as though it was just an interesting story. ‘They’d have a report.’