The Break (5 page)

‘Okay, see you then, Neil. Four o'clock. Okay.'

Shitslinger perked up then, listened shamelessly, though there was no way he would ever admit to any interest in that call.

Cray turned to him, scribbling down the time on his desk calendar. He was pleased. He knew it was about the promotion, was relieved not to have to wait any longer. And it meant he could ring Rosie tonight. But best of all it was something Shitslinger didn't have a
clue
about. Pleasant change, Cray thought. How the hell Shitslinger had the job of
super was beyond Cray. He didn't have a single qualification to his name, and proudly declared this fact whenever calling someone else a
useless dumbfuck
.

‘Don.'

The man raised his brown, lined face in greeting. That was as far as the pleasantries went. ‘Have you seen those turkeys over at the pit? They don't know whether they're comin' or fucken goin' — there's about six of 'em hanging around like flies on a carcass — what's going on out there, Edwards?'

He called everyone by their surname, like they were in the army or something. It seemed to be the only way the guy could communicate, if you could call it that, and Cray braced himself for it every time he came back on site. His first beer at the wet mess would be for Shitslinger, or, rather, to get the bastard out of his mind.

‘No, I haven't been out there yet, Don. Was just about to get some of this other stuff out of the way. Seems to have accumulated while I was away.'

Don, oblivious to the suggestion that he was a slack bastard, nodded knowingly while expelling air through his nostrils. ‘No, I didn't think so. Don't you think you should get those guys organised before you start your paper-pushing, Edwards? I thought you were an engineer, not a fucken clerk.
Efficient
isn't exactly how I'd describe what's going on out there at the moment.'

Cray pretended to be interested in the pages of diagrams and complex maths in front of him. With Don around, he had to hang on to himself.

After a coffee, and after Shitslinger had gone to let fly at a few of the others, Cray drove over to the pit, spraying a fresh
coat of rust-coloured dust over the donga office as he left in the Hilux. It was only about a kay away on a good gravel track, and it gave him a chance to see the sky, and the odd saltbush and mallee tree. Tumbleweed raced across the land. Sometimes he'd try to beat it if it was headed for the road, for the car, rolling — almost bouncing — quick and light, towards nowhere.

The guys in the pit looked fine to him, spread out and settled, and no one was picking their nose, as far as he could see. Cray had a chat with the foreman, he was a decent bloke, and asked if the super had been hovering in his absence. The foreman confirmed it, said Dicknose had been ‘hanging around like a bad smell'. Cray knew what that was about, knew Shitslinger was gunning for him.

Cray stood next to the truck for a few moments, head tilted right back, trying to make sense of the blue. Where on earth did it begin? He closed his eyes, attempting to get the parts of his life to match up, before driving back to the office.

‘It's just a new management approach, it isn't a reflection on you, or your work, Ray — we're more than happy with that. It's about getting new blood into the place, you know, liven things up a bit.'

Yeah, I know.
He managed a nod.

‘That's why we want to offer you a position that better uses your abilities with the guys, Ray. You're well liked around here.'

Cray was listening. Just.

‘Look, we understand that Don isn't … the best with people. We want you to do his liaising for him, so manage things with the people on site, rather than spending all your time on the technical stuff. It'll mean working
with
Don more,
rather than under him.' He paused. ‘And of course there'll be some remuneration we can agree on. How does that sound?'

Working even more closely with Shitslinger? How did that
sound
? He summoned up a voice. Sort of. It came out as a choked gargle before forming into anything recognisable.

‘Neil, it's not what I'd hoped.' Gargle, gargle. ‘It was more that I was looking for … for a change in the on-site–off-site routine, you know? It gets tiring after a while, the to-ing and fro-ing, it's tough.'

‘Yes, it is. It's hard on families.' Neil nodded as if he cared.

Cray thought,
Rosie is never gunna go for this, this isn't better, it's worse, even if he pays me double, it's a shit sandwich
. And managing people with Shitslinger breathing down his neck was hardly going to make the work more palatable.

Neil lifted his head. ‘I don't think we could change the fly-in fly-out break-up for you, Ray, not this year, anyway. Perhaps once a system has been set up between the managers, maybe then, but not now.'

Not this
year
? Cray found politeness from a source he didn't know existed. ‘You understand — I'll have to think about it, speak to Rosie — my …' Partner? He hated that bloody new-age, politically correct expression. Girlfriend? Hardly. That sounded insulting, somehow.

Neil nodded. ‘Of course, of course, Ray. Talk to your …' He nodded. ‘Give me a ring tomorrow.'

Seagulls sprayed into sudden low flight like bowling pins going down on impact. Rosie hardly recognised Fremantle on a weekday. Every now and then the warm salty air blew around her, around the people carrying bags and pushing prams, around the men reading papers in the mall near the two-dollar shops and the ageing buskers, around druggies making calls at the phone boxes while their kids scrapped in shopping trolleys behind them.

Walking along, she looked up to the top of an old white building that housed a newsagent and tobacconist at street level, and saw paint peeling from the walls, windows with tatty verticals drawn, and window ledges moving grey with pigeons, cooing and bustling, and she wondered who, if anyone, lived up there. Or if anyone lived above the pale green undertakers, someone-or-other and sons.
I'm going to be a funeral director when I grow up
, she imagined a small voice saying in front of a class of hopeful astronauts and nurses and firemen.

The buildings were mediterranean against the strong blue sky and were crossed by the white darts of seagulls.

She broke out into the open part of the terrace. Here, Italian cafes lined the street, providing pause for retirees flicking through the
Fin Review
and mums with babies, groups of uni students and artists, and old men who talked around small tables with tiny cups and tight black shoes.

After buying olive bread for her lunch, Rosie detoured around the scene and turned down past Timezone, where bored teenagers loitered and young couples tried to shoot hoops for prizes. She decided to drop into Elizabeth's, have a browse. She hadn't been there since she was a student, when
she would roam the shelves for particular titles that would save her a few dollars' precious rent money.

Coming out of there, slipping the old book into her bag, Rosie felt the inherent pleasure in reusing something, in ditching the need for a brand-new thing, the perfect, white-paged, twenty-dollar version. How freeing it was. Somehow, she had an excuse for shabbiness now, whether it was the book, or her clothes, or the fact that none of their plates or bowls matched, and just having to make do. Making do felt better than
wanting
things, so much simpler. She'd almost forgotten, she thought. Of how things could be, how the day could be. The midmorning blue of Fremantle's sky; the strange mix of daytime shoppers. The musty smell of a second-hand book.

When she got home, the light on their answering machine was flashing with messages from Nat, who'd heard the news about her job, wanted the details, and one from Emily, who wanted to know if she was okay. And there was a message from Cray, trying hard to sound alright, but his voice defeated with news about his meeting with Neil. Something in Rosie dropped when she heard him say that there wasn't going to be a change to his work routine, that there wasn't a promotion in the offing, just a move sideways.

Things must be bleak out there, a thousand kays away.

‘I don't know what I'm going to do,' he'd said. ‘Call me when you get in.'

Rosie sank into the sofa, wanted to think before she rang him back. She pressed on the TV for the company of background noise. This was a habit Cray disliked with a passion. He would mute the volume but leave the vision on. Rosie loathed that.

He must be so disappointed. What could she say to him?
Do a job you hate, just for the time being, until we sort something out; we need the money?
After what she'd done? She'd rather go back and work for
The Messenger
than let him battle on with Shitslinger.

God, things were messy now. This had all gone wrong; this wasn't how their lives were meant to be, they were young, for god's sake, they had no kids, no dramas, life should be fun!

She wondered, briefly, if Cray could remember the smell of a second-hand book.

Leighton Beach was on the TV. The newsreader's pat voice.

‘… The nineteen-year-old man died last night after being escorted down the Leighton tower by paramedics in a similar attempt last week. The death has angered the man's family, who say he was suicidal but that the psychiatric unit of Southern Districts Hospital discharged him on the weekend, describing him as “low risk”. Hospital staff refused to comment today. An inquest will be held.'

The curtains shifted in the breeze. The newsreader placed the page at the back of the pile, looked up to camera, and began the next story.

 

 

 

That things survive — indeed, sometimes thrive — on these dry, smoothed yellows of the sand dunes is remarkable. Arms of succulent groundcover reach and grip. Eventually, waxy magenta flowers open into sandy gusts; insects hide in the calm of the plants' tiny places.

Out here you either resist or succumb to the rushing sand.

A woman in a sarong stands in the fuzzy distance on the beach. She leans lightly into the wind, her weight perfectly balanced, as if the wind were a waiting cocoon, as if she might fall into it and never get up.

Ferg pushed through the bush, bending branches out of the way, hearing them flick back behind him. Much easier being here on your own, he reckoned. Having to hold branches wide for people behind you, hanging on to their tips as long as possible before letting go, being careful of where they snapped back — all that was a distraction from things he was looking out for, listening for. He pushed through where the trail dipped away under lower scrub, away from the house, down towards the olive river.

He hadn't been here for ages, berated himself for it when he reached the first rocks where he could see the water, hear the trickling where it broke the surface, reached the banks, found a mossy rock. It sounded like china beads rolled about in the palm of a hand, it was so gentle, so light. How could a sound, he thought, be so kind? He sat, listened, breathed.

Fergus thought about Liza, about himself, about Mike and Sam and Pip. Families. He tried to be objective but knew there wasn't much chance of that. Things had changed over the years. What he'd said the other night was right: Liza was bored. That was why she gave him heaps, he reckoned, in bed some nights when the others were asleep. He hoped that was all it was. He understood — Christ, life
was
boring, generally — but he didn't know how to fix it for her. The mundaneness, the everyday, every day. Maybe it got her down more than she realised. She'd get bogged down in little things, things that didn't matter. There was often tension before they fell asleep. They rarely had sex anymore. It had just petered out, really. They'd talked about it a couple of times, and that was
excruciating. They knew they both needed to try harder to keep it all together.

But he was bored too, if he was honest. Underwhelmed. Still on the farm, following his old man's dream. He tried to think. Had it ever become his own dream?

They all seemed to be in a sort of slumber — all of them except Sam — shuffling through the days, not doing much, not caring for much, not caring for each other much, well, not enough, anyway. He didn't want Sam to think it was okay, all this. They had to snap out of it, sort their shit out — but it was so hard to change some things. He wearied. Thinking only created something he then had to try to sort out.

Down below, wind rippled across the skin of the river. Something leapt out of the water, twisting and flapping, then re-entered the water. Silent.

 

 

 

The fish powers through the water, past strands of weed and smaller fish. It darts away from streaks of light that waver with every movement; light siamese to the water's every shudder. Down, down towards slimy rocks and silt, a sprint to elude the thing slipstreaming its tail — and then up, breaking through into the harsh light, fighting its way through the long, weighty moment until the curve returns it, softly, smoothly, into the murky world of the river.

The man looks up, surprised at the sound of the breaking water, catches the limey silver lines of freedom, and fear.

It was just before closing time when Mike reached the chemist on the highway. He'd stuck with the place because he liked Annemarie, the pharmacist, and because it was reasonably far from where he lived.

He walked towards the counter at the back. There were a couple of other people in there, mums buying Panadol, tampons, cough mixture, Combantrin.

‘Come through, Mike,' Annemarie called, ushering him towards the office, where she let him take his daily dose, rather than making him stand in front of everyone in the shop, swilling the stuff down like a naughty kid.

‘Thanks,' he said. ‘Have you had a good day?'