Swimming on Dry Land (18 page)

‘We could do with some rain to break the humidity. The weather man said it's on its way.' She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand as she speaks.

She is slim, natural-looking; a dark magnetism sits about her eyes. As she unlocks the front door, I catch the scent of her hair, cedar or beech, uncombed, roughly cut, pushed back in a way that suggests she doesn't care.

The living room is barren: hardly any furniture and no books or ornaments to speak of. Everything is purely functional. She offers me one of the wooden chairs stranded by the window.

‘I'll see what's in the fridge,' she says.

I survey the room as I talk to her through the kitchen door. ‘How long have you known Eddie?'

‘Four years. We were one of the first couples to move to Akarula. My partner, John, was working for Lansdowne Corporation. He helped set up the mine, sorted the business end of things. Eddie probably told you.'

‘I forgot you had a partner.' I shift the chair slightly so that I can see her padding around the kitchen in her bare feet. She sets a tray with cutlery and plates and a selection of food.

‘We planned to get back to Sydney by Christmas – it was never our intention to stay – and then one of the mine shafts collapsed. They hadn't secured it properly. John died the next day. Your brother was so good; flew here every week to check that I was alright. He knew John pretty well.' She hesitates as if she's going to say more but then changes tack. ‘Do you like cheese?'

I nod as she looks through the doorway at me.

‘Is your family from here?' I want to understand why she stays in this town.

‘Sydney. I didn't have the heart to go back on my own. Our life was here. Sometimes I wake up expecting to see him. Four years and I can still fool myself.' She pauses, holding a loaf of bread between her hands, and looks down at the worktop as she says, ‘We'd just started trying for a baby.'

She turns back to face me, registering, with a slight blush, that I've been watching her. ‘Sorry, I didn't mean to tell you all that.'

‘I'm glad you did.'

Her face softens into smooth silk lines that open up a new aspect. After putting on the kettle, she says, ‘He's a good man, your brother. I'll miss him.'

‘He's not going anywhere.'

‘No?' I get up and help her with the tray, setting it on the table. ‘With the mine closed,' she says ‘there won't be enough people left to make it worthwhile sending supplies. He can't stay there on his own.'

‘You don't know Eddie.' But maybe she does?

She lifts off the bread, a plate of cold meats and cheese, an assortment of jams, and props the tray up against the wall.

‘How's Caroline?'

I want to tell her, only what would I say?
Caroline and Eddie had sex.

Susan cuts a slab of bread as she talks. ‘You can leave stuff here if you want, until you get settled, save paying for two planes. I never use that back room. And there's a fairly cheap removal man; well, he's the man with the van in Wattle Creek, but he'll do anyone a favour. I can ask him, if you like?'

‘Thanks.' I don't know why she is helping me.

She makes coffee. Steam fogs up her glasses as she pours. She uses the sleeve of her blouse to wipe the lens clean. What was her relationship with Eddie? As far as I know, my brother's never managed to be friendly with a woman without taking her to bed.

‘Did you finish your article?' she asks, cupping her hands around the sugar pot. She looks different without her glasses on, more accessible.

‘Yesterday. They're putting it in the weekend supplement as a cover story.'

‘Congratulations.'

‘It might help, once more people know.'

We eat in a comfortable silence. Susan stares through the window at the street, her eyelashes catching the sunlight. I pick up her glasses and fiddle with them, making some comment about my father's poor sight. It feels as if she understands everything; there is no need for words. I finish my coffee, savouring the bitter aftertaste, and push my plate to one side.

‘Why are you looking at me like that?' she asks.

‘You remind me … of someone.' Not someone; she reminds me of the collared dove that used to perch on our crab apple tree and sing for its mate, the mate who never came. Every day for weeks it would sing as if today was the day. I think collared doves are one of those birds who mate for life. I could be wrong. ‘I should get going. It's a long drive,' I say, getting up and clearing the plates.

‘I'll give Larry a call – see if he's available. Leave those. You've still got time.'

She's right. I do have time. Right now it seems as if I have all the time in the world. I listen to her making arrangements for me on the phone in the hall. Her voice holds the weight of water, clear and refreshing.

As she takes a dirty cup from my hand, she says: ‘You'd better cancel that flight to Adelaide. Larry said he can fetch your things on Thursday, if that suits.'

I thank her and lift the tray through to the kitchen. Then I rearrange the flight for Friday.

‘Who looks after you?' I ask when I get back into the kitchen.

She presses her earlobe between her fingers, tilting her head as she slowly smiles. ‘You think I need looking after?'

I lean back against the sink and gaze at her, really take her in: her face, her hair, her chest, her golden skin. She opens out like a flower, getting pinker as she reaches for her sandals, and balances on one leg to pull them on.

I follow her to the car.

‘I'll let you know how Mr Markarrwala is doing,' she says, as I get in beside her. She taps the dashboard again.

We drive back to the hospital, parking beside the truck.

She gets out and says, ‘Safe journey. Give my love to Eddie. You know, you probably saved that man's life.' She sticks out her hand. I take hold of it, and we keep holding on until finally her hand slips out of mine. I watch her cross the few yards up to the hospital doors.

When I climb into the truck and start the engine, her face lingers for a while, growing fainter as I drive away. It's almost one o'clock. I'm glad to get out onto the dirt road. I drive for several hours, letting the bareness of the bush wash through me. I think about the girls. I see them together, Moni holding Georgie's hand. I have a conversation with Susan, telling her about Eddie and Caroline. I imagine her response, her eyes, her mouth not quite closed. And then suddenly I am back with those Alsatians, walking in a straight line so as not to miss an inch, calling Georgie in different pitches, remembering all the times I've called her name before:
tea's ready
;
bath's ready
;
time to go
;
Doctor Sutton has arrived
. I didn't want her to hear that I was frightened, so I tried to make her name sound reassuring; I needed her to know that wherever she was, she would be alright. Some days I succeeded, others not. Did she hear me? When we crawled through the shafts, feeling the ground for clues, I was terrified that I would find her body. Horrible images etched themselves on my mind: her skin burnt off, her eyes picked out by birds. I didn't want to find her that way. Can you understand? I was afraid of finding her.

Eventually I manage to push these thoughts away and focus on the road ahead, a road that repeats itself endlessly. After another hour, I pull over to stretch my legs, empty my bladder, give my eyes a break. I stop the truck a few yards from one of the termite mounds – incredible structures: a family of several million termites serving one another harmoniously within a tight pecking order. I walk over to the mound, a reddish brown tower of earth, more than twice my height, and run my hands down the sides, feeling the crusted outer layer. How long does it take for them to build one of these? With a small stick, I work a hole into the crust. A few angry soldier ants appear, gnashing their jaws (you can tell they are soldiers by the size of the jaw). Within seconds they have blocked the hole. I pee against the mound before heading back to the truck. In the boot, I search amongst Eddie's tackle for some water. Georgie had water. How much, I don't know.

The waning sun cuts through the windscreen as I drive on. I stick my left hand into my pocket and pull out a packet of pills. These last few days, I've been forgetting to take them. With one hand on the wheel, I pop a pill from the foil wrapping and drop it on my tongue. As soon as the acrid taste coats my mouth, I spit it out. I grab the whole packet and fling them through the window. And I keep driving, slowly letting go.

On the edge of twilight, Akarula emerges out of nowhere, like the Emerald City. The fence looms large against the darkening sky. As I drive towards the steel gates, I notice something on the road. It's hard to see from this distance, with the play of light and shadow. I make out what looks like a large bird – a large bird that turns into a figure, a child. The wheels turn underneath me and my feet work the pedals, but I am no longer aware of driving. I can see Georgie, like a soft dancing flame. I strain my eyes, afraid to breathe in case I blow her out. The closer I get, the more unmistakable she becomes. And then, between blinks, she is gone. Moni takes her place, swinging her arms by her sides as she walks down the middle of the road. I stop the car right in front of her, dropping my forehead against the steering wheel. Moni's voice comes in through the open window.

‘Found you,' she says, matter-of-factly.

‘What are you doing out here? Where's Mum?' I concentrate on her freckled throat, trying to retrieve the sight of Georgie. She was there, right in front of me, swinging her arms.

‘I thought you'd gone. Mum thought so too because she said I wouldn't find you.'

I lean across the passenger seat and open the door. Moni walks around the bonnet and climbs in beside me.

‘Where did you go?' She links her hands on her lap as I kiss her forehead. ‘Are we still going to Adelaide?'

‘I took Mr M to hospital.'

‘Is he sick?'

I look at her as I search for the right thing to say. ‘He got caught in a fight.'

She nods, frowning. She has a permanent frown – we all do – from too much sun. I hug her tightly. She feels so incredibly small. ‘How did you manage to walk this far?'

‘When are we leaving?' she asks as she pulls a matchbox out of her pocket and shows me a metallic-green beetle, most likely a Carab.

‘Friday. Where did you find this little beauty?' (Moni looks nothing like Georgie. It
was
Georgie I saw.)

‘Under a rock. I had to dig it out.' My daughter purses her lips, examining me intently.

We drive the last few miles into Akarula, through the open fence gates, past the last two remaining houses in the street, and Mr M's tree. I've made good time; I didn't think I'd get back before dark. As we round the bend and park up beside the pumps, exhaustion hits. Moni gets out, coming around to my side of the truck. She draws me across the tarmac to the caravan where I collapse on the bed and close my eyes. Almost immediately I drift into a weightless sleep, half-hearing the sounds outside, thoughts merging into each other and dissolving, my body sinking further and further, until the gunshot.

Instinctively I cover my head as another shot is fired. I leap to my feet and fling the door open in time to see the windscreen of Eddie's truck implode. Caroline keeps firing randomly. Two more shots and the tyres go down. As she gets closer, she fires at the bonnet and the boot, putting a hole straight through the back window. Amazingly, the glass remains intact.

‘What are you doing?' I shout between shots. She ignores me or doesn't hear. Her face is swollen from crying.

The galahs have taken off in fright and flap around in confused circles. Caroline hooks the rifle skywards and fires again. One of the birds, the smallest, drops to the ground. I look over to Moni, who is crouching beside the petrol pumps, her face stiff with fear, her arms bound tightly around her legs. I head towards her, but then Caroline drops the rifle. Instinctively I turn back and sprint over to the bird. I stoop down and gather up its fragile body; the pink and grey wings seem to fade as its life-force seeps out.

When I look up, my wife is staring at me, her eyes stretched wide, looking truly broken, and old, incredibly old, in the last splash of light.

‘I thought you'd gone,' she says. ‘Why did you do that?'

Without a word, I straighten up, still holding the galah, and offer it to her. She takes it in both hands.

‘Promise you won't leave me here,' she pleads.

I promise; what else can I do?

‘Where were you?' she asks.

‘In Wattle Creek. Eddie should have told you.'

Something inside me falls over as I stand there watching Caroline cradle that galah like a new-born, the same way she held Moni for the first time, afraid and incredulous.

I pick up the abandoned rifle on my way towards the shop. The shaft is still warm. Where did she learn to shoot like that? After fifteen years, she still surprises me. Moni remains wedged beside the pumps.