Swimming on Dry Land (2 page)

Two minutes later I spot Georgie's footprints in the layer of red dust that covers the sharp rocks and ground and everything else – more like smudges than footprints because of the way she twists her feet when she walks. I get this prickling feeling, sort of excited and nervous at the same time; the ground is flat; you can see as far as the horizon, and Georgie isn't visible. I start imagining things, crazy things like her being picked up by one of the huge wedge-tailed eagles and flown away. You've probably heard stories about babies getting eaten by dingoes. Georgie's not exactly a baby though, and there aren't any dingoes that I've seen, so that's unlikely. But it is weird, the fact that I can't see her. Her footsteps carry on into the scrub.

After a while of following footsteps, I check behind me to see how far I've come. The service station looks toy-sized from here; I can hardly make out the caravan. I didn't think Georgie could walk this far. Her feet must be bleeding with all these rocks. She won't wear her special clogs, goes crazy every time Mum tries to put them on. Doesn't mind socks though. I bend down and inspect the rocks for blood or bits of clothes or fingers. What if someone has cut her up and scattered her around like bird food? You never know. I've read all sorts of stories – some of them were true. I keep on following the footprints. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and then the footprints stop.

There is a hole, partly covered over with old nailed-together wooden planks. The wood must have been rotten because some of it has fallen in on top of Georgie. I can only just make her out at the bottom of the hole. It's a long way down. Her body is all scrunched up, and one of her legs is cocked out at a funny angle; she's got her arm twisted up in her water bottle strap. There is not much room down there: the size of an airing cupboard, maybe smaller. I picture those posters, the ones that say
WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE,
with Georgie's head on. As I skirt around the edge for something to pull her out with, I notice more wooden plank covers, all with x marks on the top in flaking yellow paint. This must be why Mum told us not to cross the road. When I asked her what was dangerous about it, she said
it just is
, which is what she always says when she doesn't know the answer. I call down to Georgie to wait on. ‘Don't move,' I tell her, and she waves up at me, flapping her arms and one of her legs, opening and closing her mouth, doing her fish impression. I can't tell, with the glare of sun and all the shadow, whether she is smiling or not. This thin shiver slides right down my back. I have to hold my breath to get rid of it. When I let go and breathe again, I tell Georgie, ‘Mum's going to kill you when she finds out you crossed the road on your own.' Georgie lets out a grunt that turns into a moan and then drops to a kind of whisper, ending up in a stutter like this: aaadropddwwwwwwwrrlllL.

I find a smooth rock to sit on while I work out what to do next. Georgie carries on making queer sounds. I wave at her, throwing my cap and cardigan down the hole so that she can use them. That was a mistake.

There are things you ought to know. When Georgie was born, Mum nearly died because the doctor couldn't get Georgie out. I don't know if her head was too big or what it was. Mum was fifteen days in hospital. Dad and me had to clean Georgie's smelly bum and try to stop her screaming until Mum came home. That was more or less the start of it. We stopped going to Granny and Grandpa's house in Whitley Bay. Dad said there was no time and Mum said there was no money. No one could work out why Georgie stared into space, wouldn't feed properly, and spasmed all the time. If something wound her up, she just stopped breathing.

Take bathtimes. Any normal baby enjoys a bath, blows bubbles, scoots the plastic duck around. I know; I've seen them. Not Georgie. She dives underneath the water and flaps her arms and legs about, making out she's some kind of fish. I have to watch her all the time to make sure she doesn't drown. One time I left her too long and we had to call an ambulance. Was I in trouble for that! I used to get in trouble even when it wasn't my fault, except when Uncle Eddie was around. When he was visiting, you could do almost anything, and all you'd get from Mum was a raised eyebrow and maybe a quick don't-do-that-again smack.

Uncle Eddie came to visit us in England last summer. It was July or August, the summer holidays anyway. I was in the front garden pushing Georgie around the lawn in a go-cart Dad had made out of fruit crates.

‘Arreeeeeeeeba arreeeeeeeeeeeba arrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeee­baaaaaaaaaaaa!' Georgie was shouting and hitting me with a stick to make me go faster. When it got to be my turn, she said she didn't want to play. She wasn't strong enough to push me around anyway. Dad was in bed – he spent a lot of time in bed after he stopped working full-time for the newspaper – and Mum was doing something in the kitchen. Our neighbourhood wasn't rough, but we didn't get limousines driving down West Street every day, so when this white one pulled up outside the gate, I was pretty flabbergasted. (Flabbergasted is one of my favourite words.) First of all I thought it was Madonna. I'd seen her on the television getting out of the exact same car. Georgie was squealing and snorting, nearly wetting herself to get out of the go-cart and scab a look. The back door of the limousine opened and a man stepped onto the pavement in these spit-clean shoes. I didn't recognise him at first. He asked me where he might find Monica Harvey, and winked at me. That's when I knew it was Uncle Eddie. Then he shook my hand and asked if I remembered him. I did, except that he looked different all dressed up. You should have heard him: this strange twangy accent that made him sound like he'd swallowed a loose guitar string. He introduced himself to Georgie, but she just stared at him. She probably couldn't get over the fact that he'd shaken my hand and not so much as whistled at her first. I led him into the hall because Georgie didn't have the manners.

Mum came out of the kitchen once she heard our voices. She must have been flabbergasted too because she dropped her tea-towel, turned bright red, and stuttered a bit before she got her words out.

‘Eddie! What are you doing here? Why didn't you let us know you were coming?' All said in that high-pitched
oh my goodness
tone she puts on when she's surprised.

‘Caroline!' Uncle Eddie said, gripping Mum around her waist and spinning her. One of her sandals flew off and hit my head. Georgie giggled, until I kicked her in the shin. ‘What do you think?' He plucked at his trousers and did a half-turn.

Mum picked the grass out of my hair while she said, ‘You haven't changed a bit.'

‘You're even more beautiful.' Uncle Eddie smiled; you could tell he had brushed his teeth.

I showed Mum the limousine. ‘It's got six doors,' I said, trying to get a proper look at it – Uncle Eddie was in the way.

‘Some style you have,' Mum said, eyeing Uncle Eddie up and down and peering over his shoulder on her tiptoes. ‘This isn't Hollywood, you know.' In his suit and tie and thin-striped shirt, he looked like a newsreader.

‘Had a meeting in London. Thought I'd drive up and collect you. Fly you back to Oz. Can't seem to convince you on paper.'

Mum put her sandal back on and said, ‘It's not me you need to convince. You know what Michael's like. Complains if I get a different brand of milk.'

‘How is he?'

‘Same as ever. God, it's good to see you.'

The two of them carried on like this, ignoring me and Georgie. Mum took Uncle Eddie's jacket and laid it on the dresser while he explained about these houses he was building. He went on and on about a place called Akarula. Then they walked off into the lounge arm in arm. I took the car keys from Uncle Eddie's jacket pocket and went back outside.

‘Give them,' Georgie whined.

I opened the car and slipped into the driver's seat. It took Georgie all of two seconds to get in beside me.

That was some car. The back seat was practically a sofa, and there was a telly and curtains and a mini bar. I turned the wheel and we were off. We drove to America, India, Madagascar, and plenty of other places. I told Georgie about the animals we could see, pointing out the odd tree and high-rise building. We waved at passing cars, winding the window down because the weather was so hot. She added her own stuff, but mostly stuck to things in the town. Georgie even got car sick – that's how real she thought our trip was – all over Uncle Eddie's map. We had to get out in the end because the car stank. I slammed the door shut. It wasn't my fault Georgie left her thumb in the way. She didn't throw a wobbly; the shock of it took her voice away.

After I'd put the keys back in Uncle Eddie's jacket pocket, I washed Georgie's face upstairs and strapped a plaster round her thumb. That's when I promised that if anyone asked, I'd say it was me who got sick on the map. I think her thumb must have really hurt because her face turned see-through blue. Mum had to drive her down to Doctor Sutton's later on. The thing with Georgie is, when she gets upset or ill, she stops breathing. That's why she nearly died a hundred million times. So if she asks you to do something, you have to do it. She asked me to steal a fiver from Uncle Eddie's wallet, so I did.

Dad had woken up by then. All three of them were drinking wine in the lounge and laughing a lot. Well, Mum and Uncle Eddie were laughing. We all laughed in the three days Uncle Eddie stayed with us, even Georgie, who didn't like visitors; she usually swelled up like a puffer fish until they went home. The thing I liked about Uncle Eddie was that he didn't make a song and dance about Georgie. He didn't know that any minute she could die and, if he wasn't careful, it would be his fault. Nobody told him. Uncle Eddie kept picking me up and flying me around over his head, saying
this is what the plane ride to Australia is like
. He didn't tell anyone about Georgie getting sick, or his missing money. I didn't get in trouble about Georgie's thumb either. Mum said,
accidents happen
, just like that, and didn't even ask what we were doing in Uncle Eddie's car. Usually Mum would want the whole story before deciding what to do with me. Instead she played her guitar and made up songs, something she hadn't done in ages. They were good songs too. Me and Georgie danced around the lounge. I had my spinning skirt on. Dad watched us, and clicked his false tooth up and down to make us laugh. Uncle Eddie taped the whole thing on his brand new cine-camera.

That week Dad was doing film reviews at the cinema, which meant we got free tickets. Dad could tell you who was in any film that was ever made, when it was made, how long it was, the whole lot. On the Friday night Uncle Eddie stayed with us, we walked into town to see
E.T
. I showed Uncle Eddie Wogan's Bookshop as we went past; it was closed, so we didn't go in. Uncle Eddie pretended he was a B52 bomber plane and flew down the street with his arms stretched out, shooting at me and Mum until we fell over, making this pa pa pa pa pa sound for the bullets. It was fun, although Dad's games were better. Dad's games were real games. With Uncle Eddie, everything was made up. Dad didn't play much of anything now though; he was either too tired or too busy on his typewriter. Georgie didn't want to play the plane game. When she saw Mum and me lying on the pavement, she started making this whirring noise like a fire engine. It took Mum ages to calm her down. Georgie must have thought we were dead. We walked normally after that.

The cinema was packed because it was the first night of
E.T
. Dad had saved us the best seats, six rows back, right in the middle. He always got there early so that he could sit in his favourite seat – F14. In the interval, a woman in a paper hat and tinted glasses brought around ice-creams and drinks, the same woman who had ripped our tickets at the door.

Georgie wouldn't sit properly on her seat. She kept slipping onto the floor and rubbing her legs against the carpet until they were red sore. Which is why we didn't have carpets at home. Mum had to keep pulling her up, but once the film got started, she just left her there. I loved that film. In the bit where they take E.T. to the science hospital, I stood up and shouted when E.T.'s heart glowed again. I was so glad he was alive. I don't know what I shouted; I just wanted him to get away. Mum leaned over and pulled me back into my chair, handing me a liquorice allsort.

‘It's just a story,' she whispered. It's not real.' But it
was
real; it was happening right there in front of me. Uncle Eddie must have thought it was real too because at the end of the film he was crying. When I passed him my handkerchief, he said, ‘That was some film,' and blew his nose twice.

Dad had to stay behind to meet one of the newspaper men, so we said goodnight to him on the steps outside. On the way home, Uncle Eddie said he was going to build a cinema for Dad in Akarula. He was always saying things like that.

I asked him where Akarula was on the world map. (I know the world map off by heart.)

‘A long way from here,' he said. ‘Why don't you come and visit?'

I said I would. Then Uncle Eddie made me promise. I had to spit on my hand and shake his hand three times, like the Red Indians do in
Sworn Away
. Mum was busy inspecting the carpet patterns on Georgie's legs underneath the street lamp outside Woolworths, so she didn't see me promise.

The day before Uncle Eddie left, he took us out for lunch. We all got dressed up. Dad was wearing his wedding suit and Mum was in her best mauve dress. Me and Georgie wore the matching velvet skirts we got for Christmas, even though it was summer. As we were leaving, Uncle Eddie asked Dad to drive.