Deeper Water (2 page)

This seemed peculiar but I was distracted thinking about whether to scrounge him up a doona.

‘When the power comes on I’ll do it via email.’

I sipped my tea and felt my nose crinkle. ‘We don’t have a computer.’

‘What?’

He looked as though he actually thought he’d heard me wrong.

‘Well, we used to have one, but it hasn’t worked for ages. You can only get dial-up out here and it’s not really worth the hassle.’

He smoothed his hand across his shorn hair.

‘I’ll just have to go into town then. Tomorrow.’

There were some crocheted blankets in a basket in the corner. They’d have to do. It was summer so it wasn’t exactly cold. I walked over and pulled one out, laying it over the couch.

‘Look, when it’s raining like this you can’t get out. You just have to wait for it to stop and the water to go down.’ Even in the candlelight I could see him go pale. ‘It’s okay. It happens a lot this time of year. We’ve got plenty of food and stuff. You’ll be right.’

‘I won’t be able to get out tomorrow? I could be here for days?’

I knew he didn’t understand flooding, what it was like, but I was tired. I felt Rory’s warm little sleeping body calling me.

‘You’re lucky you didn’t get stranded between bridges. Sometimes that happens. You get stuck between two creeks where there isn’t even a house to shelter in. That’s if you’re silly enough to be driving around.’

He patted his pockets again and then crossed his arms over his chest. Even though he was a man, he looked suddenly like a little lost boy. I hadn’t meant to be unkind.

‘Alright,’ he said, gaze on the floor.

I patted the rug basket. ‘There are more blankets in here if you need them. You’ll have to snuggle up on the couch.’ I walked around the house blowing out candles until there was only the one left flickering on the low table by his makeshift bed.

He stood in the centre of the room staring at me.

‘’Night, Hamish.’

‘Goodnight.’

Being an insomniac meant I had plenty of time to think. The rain was still pounding on the roof and I lay awake in the early morning hours imagining my brothers and what they might be doing now. I’m the youngest of six, the last one off the assembly line, and when I was little, puberty hit the boys one by one, morphing them into unrecognisable beasts. Their shoulders grew wide and strong, their knees large like bowling balls. Fluff grew on their faces, the only softness left. The house could no longer contain them and they’d bang their heads together like giant clumsy antelopes, knocking into furniture and damaging the walls. My mother’s angry voice was drowned out by their constant bickering, and oftentimes they shoved past her when she tried to peace-make between them.

I don’t know what is meant to happen to turn wild boys into men, but my brothers seemed overtaken by a force so completely out of their control that instead of growing up they just grew wilder. There was a closeness in the house once, but when the wave of adolescence came it seemed to wash the boys out to sea, and the distance between them and us became vast. At first my mother fought hard to hold them. Tying down their sails, penning them into corners, but in no time at all they got bigger than she could manage and simply broke through the fences and ran. Every now and again Jonah or Sunny will come back, just for a day or so, but we haven’t seen Max or Caleb for years. They don’t even ring to let us know they’re alright.

The dawn light was seeping into my bedroom and I knew Rory would wake up soon. It was still raining outside, but not quite as heavily. Thinking of my brothers made me sad. How completely they’d shaken us off and disappeared into the world. I watched Rory sleep for a bit to soothe myself. He was peaceful, mouth slightly open, dark hair wisping around his face. Rory’s dad was one of those crazy mixtures. Part Scottish, part Maltese, with an Italian grandmother and Dutch grandfather on the other side. Not a local boy—he’d blown in from some other place. He used to say he was a mongrel, and considering recent events it was hard to disagree. So Rory had come out dark, and the new baby had come out fair, and neither of them looked much like Sophie. I guess you never really know what you’ll get.

Soon as it got light enough I went to check on Bessie and the calf. Crept out before Rory woke up and hounded me for breakfast. You’d think Rory was starved the way he’d carry on. We called him ‘the Ibis’ ’cause he constantly scabbed for food. If you didn’t watch him he’d steal the dog’s breakfast from right beneath her nose. Poor old thing, having to fight for every morsel with a two-year-old. She’d just sit back and watch him, looking at us with her big sad eyes, hoping we’d intervene.

The rain was drizzly and light, but I slipped on my dad’s raincoat anyway. Dawn is my favourite time of day, the sky so light and pale and clean you can almost forget how dirty the world is. When it’s not raining I like to go out early and watch it turn a proper blue, but what I could see through the spitting clouds was grey and shapeless.

The ground was sloshy underfoot and I wished I had gumboots. When I got to the tree near where we’d tethered Bessie, I could see that the calf was feeding and Bessie was munching on grass, as though nothing had changed. I walked over and held out my palm. The farmer who owned Bessie before us used to feed her treats now and again, so she was always curious about what I might have. Sometimes she’d charge at me from across the paddock like a dog welcoming home its master. Bessie at full trot could be intimidating, even for me, but I was used to her now. I didn’t have any treats that morning so I just let her nuzzle my palm, searching. It was a nice feeling, wet and warm in the gentle rain.

The calf still had that trembly look about it, all big eyes and ears, sucking away at Bessie’s teat. It was remarkable that an animal as large as that could have been tucked up inside her yesterday. The step between being in the world, or yet to be, seemed suddenly inconsequential. The calf had been there all yesterday too, just taking up a different piece of space. I thought about this for a little bit, but I didn’t come any closer to understanding it.

The chickens had woken up too and I could hear them doing their morning clucks, ready to face the world. Chooks are funny like that, up at first light as though it’s the most exciting thing. No matter the weather, they bolt out of their coop soon as you open the gate, all muscular legs and eager beaks, charging out to see what the day might bring. A few worms, some insects, lots of scratching around. They were the most enthusiastic creatures I’d ever known. When I got to the chicken coop they were waiting for me, slick with rain and bright-eyed. I opened the gate and they pushed out past my legs. Ready to forage—rain, hail or shine. The flood had made a mess of the coop. It was time to lay down some fresh straw. I didn’t much feel like stepping into the muck to look for eggs, but if I left them there the chooks might go clucky. Start thinking they could hatch them.

The mud squished up between my toes, but once I got to their undercover hutch it was dry. When you think about it, eggs are miraculous things. I mean, whole, perfect creatures hatch out of them. When I was little it was my job to gather them up, and it always seemed somehow magical. Every day there would be fresh eggs, warm and perfectly oval. Just the right size to hold in my palm. Sometimes I’d sneak one into my pocket, sure if I kept it warm all day it would hatch. I didn’t understand that you needed a rooster for them to be fertilised. For the first few hours I’d guard my egg, diligent and careful, but eventually I’d get distracted. Eggs are fragile, and by the end of the day it’d always be cracked and I’d be heartbroken. Mum started boiling me one in the mornings and then I’d carry it round like a talisman. It was safer that way, I guess.

After I let the chickens out, I figured I better go back in, see if Rory had woken the house. I trudged across the mud, pulling my raincoat off at the door and wiping my feet as best as I could. Keeping quiet in case everyone was still sleeping, I popped the eggs into their basket. In the lounge room Rory had the flood guy all bailed up in a staring competition. He looked like one of those territorial cats. Giving Hamish the evil eye—coming closer and closer, while keeping an unblinking gaze on his face. Hamish was lying flat, wrapped up in the blanket, like he thought burrowing was his best defence against the toddler.

‘Rory, this is Hamish.’ I stepped into the room, reaching out to my nephew for a hug.

‘Hi, Rory. Nice to meet you.’ Hamish looked relieved that I’d come in.

Rory didn’t answer but bounded over to me instead. I picked him up, sniffing his babyish head.

‘Who’s he?’ Rory asked me accusingly.

I realised I didn’t have much of an answer.

‘Hamish. I told you,’ I said. ‘He’s stuck here while it’s flooding.’

‘He is
not
my friend.’

I looked over at Hamish and smiled. Rory was the rudest of the lot of us. ‘Not yet.’ I could only agree.

It felt odd being all cooped up in the house with a complete stranger. Everything that happened seemed magnified. Rory’s tantrums, my mother’s pronouncements, Sophie’s silent, stilted sorrow, Old Dog’s constant scratching on the door to come in. The ratbag cat was playing up with the rain, knocking things off the shelves, chewing up boxes, making himself out to be a lunatic. Even the new baby’s bird-like cawing sounded unnatural under the stranger’s gaze.

Forced by the rain into eavesdropping, we listened as Hamish made phone calls. He called the hire company and the SES about his car, and tracked down his work number through information. Nothing could be done to get him out until the creek water receded. As I predicted. We tried to ask him a few questions—about family, about work—but his answers were so non-specific it hardly seemed worth it. Family—broken up and scattered all around. Work—‘consulting’ for some big company I’d never heard of. It was pretty much gobbledygook to me. He didn’t ask us anything. I don’t think he knew where to start. Mum’s not big on company these days and so after a bit she headed off to the storeroom, searching out fabric to make Rory some new clothes. Sophie crashed out with Rory and the baby around lunchtime.

At some point Hamish and I started playing flood games. Canasta, Monopoly, Euchre and finally Scrabble, and it was fun for a while but by the afternoon, time was starting to drag. I’d already snuck out a few times to check on the calf, and I was about ready to do a runner down to the creek to see how high the water was when Anja poked her head around the kitchen door.

Anja is my oldest friend. She’s tall and gangly and strong like a horse and always wears the most revealing clothes she can muster. Mum says she’s a sight for sore eyes, but I can never tell if she’s being ironic. As a kid Anja was wild, not in a naughty-type way, but like an animal. She’s always lived with her dad up on the hill behind our place and they never got electricity. When she was real small she used to sleep in a hollowed-out tree trunk in the forest, right on the edge of a big drop. It was as if walls couldn’t hold her. Somewhere along the way she got obsessed with Marilyn Monroe and everything changed. She dyed her hair bombshell-blonde and started wearing bright red lipstick all the time, even when there was no one around to see. I love her but I’m a little scared of her too. There’s no predicting what she’ll do next.

‘Mema!’ She stepped inside, shaking off the raindrops like a dog. ‘I’m going crazy up there. Let’s do something.’

She was wearing the shortest cut-off jeans you could possibly imagine, with a tiny halter-neck top. I glanced around to see Hamish visibly jolt.

‘Fuck, who’s that?’ Anja said to me, blushing the brightest pink. She was a practising sex bomb but she didn’t actually have much practice.

Hamish stood up and opened his mouth to speak but Mum got in first, shouting out from the storeroom, ‘Mema rescued him from the creek, Anja! Like a kitten!’ She chuckled loudly. ‘A half-drowned cat.’

‘I’m Hamish,’ he said, the colour rising ever so faintly on his neck.

‘Yeah? Hi.’ Anja’s voice was squeaky and she tossed her blonde locks.

It was a pleasure to see her, dripping water on the floor. I stood up too, and Anja came round the table and hugged me sideways, not taking her eyes from Hamish. Well, he was exotic in these parts. A fully grown, clean-cut man.

‘So …’ Anja was trying to make conversation. ‘How long you been here?’

‘Just since last night.’

Hamish leaned his back against the kitchen bench. He looked casual but I could see he felt awkward. Looking down, he turned a Scrabble tile in his fingers.

‘You like Scrabble?’ Anja asked.

‘Yeah, it’s okay.’

‘I hate Scrabble, don’t have the patience. I mean there are so many things you could be doing, right? Why would you spend hours staring at square letters till your eyes go foggy? Mema always wins anyway.’ Anja was rambling now, but it was true—I always beat her. Scrabble was her least favourite game.

‘Not against Hamish. He’s a strategist.’ I didn’t really mind losing. I just liked the shape of words.

Hamish scratched the back of his neck. ‘It is a game. You play to win.’

‘It’s all about winning and losing, Mema,’ Mum called out. ‘You remember that.’

I was pretty sure that was aimed at Hamish. Mum had a way of finding everyone’s weak spot. It was a gift. I know it made some people nervous but I appreciated it. Weaknesses were far more potent when they stayed hidden. Your own and other people’s. Rising up to ambush you in unexpected moments.

Hamish looked at the floor. I didn’t know what he was thinking.

‘I mean,’ Anja was standing close beside me, her elbow clunking against my upper arm, ‘I know it’s still raining, but I thought maybe we could go do something.’ She bent her head towards me. ‘You know? Pick some passionfruit or something?’ As far as I knew, there were no passionfruit to pick, but Anja was twitching at the edges, just a little, on the verge of some big emotion. Oftentimes her dad got to drinking and things at home unravelled. It had been like that from the beginning. She’s spent half her life at my house.

‘Let’s go then,’ I said, grabbing my dad’s old raincoat. ‘You want an umbrella?’

I knew she wouldn’t. ‘Nah. I’m soaked already.’

At least in summer it was so warm it didn’t really matter how wet you got. I didn’t want Hamish to come ’cause I knew Anja probably needed to get things off her chest, but he was glancing anxiously at the storeroom. Evidently, he didn’t want to get stuck with Mum.

‘You want an umbrella?’ I asked him.

He looked down at the clothes he was wearing. Mum’s oversized jumper, still hanging down low at the neck. Feminine on his broad shoulders. They were the only clothes he had.

‘I guess so.’

Outside on the veranda I hunted for the umbrella. It was black and a bit buckled. I shook it out for spiders and then handed it to him.

‘Thanks, Mema,’ he said, really looking me in the eye. Hamish had a steeliness that mostly stayed beneath, but every now and then you’d catch a whiff of it. I nodded back at him, but I was thinking about my mum hiding herself in the storeroom.

Anja grabbed my hand, squeezing it hard, and then we all stepped out into the rain.