The Point (30 page)
On the way to his sleeping place he stopped among the usual scrubby bushes and peed, a long pee, the steady downward arc catching the glimmerings of light that water can always find in even the darkest nights. He woke the next morning with his head throbbing and some quite other much closer in fact just behind his eyes and sharp pointed and malicious stars, sending shooting pains through his brain. He pulled his coat up round his neck and turned his face to the wall. The air from the vent was stale and dry. Maybe he would feel better if he got up. Went down to the lake. Some fresh sharp air, smelling of water, clearing his head. He thought about that for a while and dozed a bit. Last night had been important but he couldn’t quite remember how. Maybe if he got himself going memory might return. He dozed for some time, his mind entertaining him with tricky half awake dreams. Entertaining, and troubling.
When he heaved himself up he kicked the wine cask, it tumbled lightly away. He stopped at the fountain to wash, sat for a while on the parapet. Its jets arced into the air and fell with swooshing noises and a fine spray across his face. A weak winter sun was shining and the grass was shockingly green. The ropes and pulleys of the flagpoles made a metallic clinking and slapping sound; when he closed his eyes he could have been on a yacht in the harbour. With the spray as well. He certainly felt queasy enough. Except that he’d been a good sailor, never felt seasick. He didn’t usually get drunk then, either; he tasted his good wine, drank it copiously but not excessively.
He wandered down to the lake’s edge. There were two people there, one he supposed was Gwyneth, the other he couldn’t discern. He changed direction, but Gwyneth called him. He thought of ignoring her, in fact he gave a dismissive wave of his hand, but she called him again so he went across to them. The other woman was Elinor who greeted him very cordially.
Look, said Gwyneth, pointing across the lake. She was staring rather excitedly at something happening. Clovis couldn’t make out what it was. He squinted. It didn’t seem a bird or a boat. It seemed to his brain an insuperable problem.
What, he said.
That woman, she was windsurfing, she’s fallen in.
Oh, he said. Now Gwyneth gave him something to work on he could see that’s what it probably was.
Well, they do, he said.
She seems to be having difficulty getting it to rights, said Elinor.
But the cold, said Gwyneth. What about the cold? What was it that you said? Two minutes, you’re dead?
She’s wearing a wetsuit, said Elinor.
How does that help?
Well, she probably won’t freeze to death, said Clovis.
Wetsuits are made of rubber so they keep you warm in the water, said Elinor.
Gwyneth was still excited: She might drown.
Oh, she must know what she’s doing, said Clovis. You’ve got to trust in that.
Gwyneth looked at him, surprised to hear him so cross.
Oh, she’s up, she shouted. She’s got it up.
Wobbly, but up, said Elinor.
A mother and child came wandering along the edge of the lake, in that way Clovis liked to see, the mother walking at the same slow pace as the child, no haste, no hurry, the mother learning from the child to take their leisure to look at the world. Grandchildren.
That’s what it was. He could walk like that with a grandchild, talking gravely about things, taking his cue from the child, seeing with his eyes. Holding his hand to keep him safe. But wasn’t there no safety?
The child’s piercing voice said, Mummy, is that a bunyip out of the lake?
It’s a windsurfer, said the woman, whom Clovis always thought of as the tummy mummy. And the little girl was Benison, funny name, but probably that was what she was, to the mother, and that was good.
But it’s big, and purple, like in the book.
Yes, but look, it’s a woman in a wetsuit, and she’s windsurfing.
I suppose it’s best that she isn’t a bunyip, said the child.
The mother considered this. Yes, I suppose it is. Look: pelicans. Shall we go and see?
They moved off, ambling, at the child’s pace.
The windsurfer was sailing towards them, carefully, the small craft shedding water as it went, threatening to capsize again, no longer skimming, tacking a little to come into the landing stage. It fell over again, smacking into the water, and the woman had to do the whole thing over again. It seemed as though she might not succeed, there seemed no reason why she should, why the craft might not be intractable. Things were.
Clovis said: It’s quite possibly intractable.
Intractable, said Elinor, as though someone had fed her a delicious morsel. Yes.
Oh, she’s so fat, said Gwyneth, giggling into her hand. Oh look at her, she’s monstrous, huge.
A bunyip after all, said Clovis.
The woman in the purple wetsuit manoeuvred the windsurfer close to the wharf, jumped off and pulled at its rope. She couldn’t manage to get it out of the water, but she let it tip over and tied it to the rail. She stood panting on the edge for a moment, hands on hips.
Anybody got a mobile, she asked.
Would you like my red one or my blue one, said Clovis.
I’ve got mine, said Elinor.
Gwyneth watched the woman dial, speak to someone to come and fetch her, pronto, she was fucking freezing, stared with curious child’s eyes at the quick sharp exchange.
Is that fun, she asked, waving at the windsurfer.
It is until the fucking thing turns feral.
Her long black plait was so full of water that it dragged her hair down against her skull and dripped on the ground. Her teeth chattered. She picked up the plait and twisted it in her hands, wringing the water out of it.
Are you cold, asked Gwyneth.
No, my teeth always rattle like this … Sorry. It’s just my head, really. The rest is okay.
Reluctant, Elinor unwound her scarf which was of fine dark-green wool embroidered with white crewel work. Here, she said, at least keep the wind off. I’m Elinor Spenser, she added, as though names would turn this odd abrupt woman into a polite one.
Anabel Onofrio.
This is Gwyneth, and this is Clovis, said Elinor.
No surnames necessary, eh?
Clovis had sat on the bench of the ferry wharf and closed his eyes. He was feeling overwhelmed, not just by this large grumpy purple woman come stomping out of the water, but by the idea of her. Maybe it was still night. Maybe it was a hallucination from all that dreadful red wine and it wasn’t the next day and him hungover but still going on. Perhaps she was a messenger come to answer the questions he’d been asking himself; he could remember that there had been questions but not this minute what they were but if he could be left alone free of hallucinations or messengers or maybe just a weird group of people they would come to mind. But the eddying wind had gone, he could feel sun warm on his eyelids, the shooting pain of stars was in his head, not in the heavens. His heart felt bruised; he wondered if this was because of the wine or the questions.
Gwyneth looked at Anabel as though she must certainly be some messenger from the deep. It didn’t occur to her that Anabel’s question might have been one to answer. Anabel wrapped the scarf tightly round her head. Where’s that bloody Nigel, she moaned. How many hours does it take to drive round the fucking lake, for chrissakes. I’ll have had time to go and eat a bloody three-course slap-up lunch at the bloody restaurant by the time he gets here.
Flora came over from The Point.
It’s getting like Piccadilly fucking Circus here, said Clovis to himself. He didn’t swear, so this indulgence relieved him.
Hello Anabel, said Flora. Hi Elinor. She waved her hand at Clovis and Gwyneth. I see you all know each other. Elinor, this is the marvellous radish woman I was telling you about. Among other things. Anabel, do you want to come in and get warm?
But at that moment Nigel turned up in a utility truck. He gave Anabel a hug and a kiss; he was quite a small man but his arms reached round her curves very neatly. Between them he and Anabel heaved the windsurfer, first the ski part, then the sail, out of the lake, Anabel standing in water that wasn’t much above her waist and shoving while Nigel pulled, and stowed it in the back of the ute. Elinor, Gwyneth and Flora stood and watched. Clovis thought they looked like spectators at an event being put on for the purposes of being seen, rather than from any intrinsic necessity. Like a play you mean, he said to himself, his head hurting. Nigel squeezed Anabel round the waist, she cupped his bottom in her hand. She unwound the scarf which was stained with wet blotches and handed it back to Elinor. Thanks, she said. To Flora she said, I keep meaning to come and have a meal at your place, see what you do with my vegies. Maybe I’ll manage it before I get too old to chew. She waved and the ute drove sedately off.
She does grow fantastic vegetables, said Flora. I get all sorts of special things from her. Like those
crosnes
I had the night of our dinner, remember? People call them Chinese artichokes. They look a bit like a peanut, and taste so nutty and sweet. And she does cardoons, and salsify, all sorts of things you can’t get normally. She’s a treasure.
Can anybody buy her stuff?
Don’t know. Maybe she just sells wholesale. I could ask her.
Anyway, Elinor, what are you doing here?
Oh, said Elinor, just taking a walk along the lake. Her words were so airily false that Flora laughed.
I see. That’s your story and you’re sticking to it.
Elinor frowned. Oh well, she said, I came to talk to Clovis.
When he turned his face to her she went on: I came to ask you for a meal. Lunch, or dinner, whatever … and Gwyneth too, of course.
No, said Clovis loudly. Sorry, he said impatiently, I didn’t mean to shout, but I do mean no. Gwyneth can go if she wants. But I can’t go. I’m not a person to have for dinner.
The three women looked at him as though he was the spectacle.
I’m a vagabond, a tramp. You don’t have such people to dinner.
I can if I want to, said Elinor.
But I don’t want to. It’s not right for me.
You dined at the restaurant, said Flora.
Yes, and there were a number of reasons. It’s a public place, and on my doorstep – ha, you see – and I was being brave, and I wanted Gwyneth to try it. But no, I cannot dine in a private house. And now, please excuse me, my head aches, I need to go and be my derelict self somewhere else. He nodded, almost bowed, with a faint groan, and went across the grass towards the library.
He would walk, a long regular walk was what he needed.
Gwyneth looked at Elinor but the invitation was not repeated. Flora said, I understand what he means. She said goodbye to Gwyneth, so did Elinor, and they walked off in the direction of the restaurant.
What did he mean, asked Elinor.
He saw that you were collecting him.
I wasn’t. I like the idea of knowing him. He’s interesting, he speaks so well, he says arresting things.
For a homeless person
. You’re trying to collect him, he won’t be part of it.
He’s a narrative, I’m curious to know what it is.
Exactly.
But why else do we know people? Apart from families, whom we love for strange visceral reasons …
And sometimes wish we didn’t …
And sometimes wish we didn’t … apart from family, we get fond of people because we pay attention to them because they interest us.
Yes, okay, but Clovis has removed himself from that world.
You’re trying to pull him back into it, he doesn’t want to go.
He might change his mind.
So incorrigible, said Flora. How do we stand you? Do you want some coffee?
Yes please, said Elinor. And then of course there’s chemistry.
What?
Chemistry, falling in love with people. I think we sometimes fall into friendship with people out of chemistry, too.
Clovis isn’t having that, either.
Not so far.
I think you want to go to bed with him.
Don’t be coarse.
The chemistry of a vagabond, a tramp. Hmm, said Flora, could be quite rich, rare and rich. An excellent old vintage, indeed.
Hmm.
Oh shut up, said Elinor.
It would be a mistake to see Flora as frail. Would have been. She looked such a waif, not young, and worn in a touching way, with her velvet head and her face not wrinkled but not blooming as once it would have and her eyes just slightly shrunk from their youthful lustrous largeness. You see, I saw her clearly. A waif, and somewhat plaintive with it, yet how I loved to gaze on her and feel her touch my heart. A waif, but tough, and strong, quite wild in her way. To see her heave her great copper pots was to know this. As it was when she made love, her body hard and sometimes like a weapon, coiled and arching, her muscles taut. I could feel the tremble of her energy, her violence.
But so sweet. When she made love she smelt of apples, crisp and sweet and running with juice, and tongue-prickling tart as well, and then later, after we had slept and turned together on waking, would come the musky odour of our orgasms caught under the doona.
