Tim Winton - The Turning

This is boring, said the other boy, Jared.

Yeah, said Ricky faintly, treading a line between solidarity and mutiny.

Well, you’ll think differently in a minute, said Dyson. Here, climb up between these big posts. See these little flat bits? Lie there. Here, I’ll show you.

Dyson crawled up beneath the supports of the wooden bridge and lay on his back in the moist gravel so he could look up at the sky slatted through the timbers. Sceptically, the boys joined him. He sensed that he was about to make a fool of himself and shame Ricky by association but he didn’t have a better idea to entertain them with. He was also suddenly mindful that this was something he’d discovered with Fay. There was such a long list of local things he couldn’t dissociate from her; she was there at every turn.

Dad? murmured Ricky, embarrassed.

Stay down. I can hear something coming.

The boys fidgeted beside him. Jared smelled of Plasticine or something else slightly musty. He was, very distinctly, a stranger, someone else’s child.

Just then a semi broached the bend and Dyson began to laugh in anticipation. Within seconds the truck was on the bridge and the piles and sleepers roared. Spikes spat and rattled and the dirt beneath them shook. Dyson began to yell. It startled the boys a second until his voice was swallowed up by the great, hot shadow that passed overhead.

Hey, said Jared quietly in the aftermath. Cool.

For another half hour they lay there waiting, giggling, yelling and laughing themselves to the point of hiccups.

As she took delivery of her muddy son, Jared’s mother seemed brazenly curious about Dyson. He stood blushing on her verandah as she sized him up. It seemed that word was out on him. He wondered if it was his apparent availability or his wife’s suicide that interested her. Either way he didn’t linger.

It was almost dark when they got home. The harbour lights were on, the jetties pretty in a way that they could never be in daylight. Dyson was only halfway out of the car before he saw a shadow on the verandah and then the glow of a cigarette. He knew it would be her. Ricky pressed against him as they mounted the steps.

Just me, said Fay.

Her face was little more than a white dab in the gloom.

Fay, he murmured.

Didn’t mean to startle anybody.

That’s okay.

First ciggie I’ve ever smoked on your mum’s verandah, that’s for sure.

Dyson found the lock and opened the house. He hesitated a moment before switching on the porchlight and when he did Fay seemed to cringe beneath it. Her face was pale, her hair without lustre.

It’s getting chilly, he said. You’d better come in.

I can’t stay.

No. Fair enough.

Dyson tried to understand what he was feeling. It was so strange to see her again. She blew smoke from the side of her mouth, the way she always had, and tossed the butt out into the yard.

This is your little boy.

Ricky, said Dyson.

Your dad and me, Fay said with an attempt at brightness. We went to school together.

Ricky licked his lips. Dyson ushered him inside toward the bathroom and stood in the doorway.

Mum told me about your wife.

Oh, he asked, startled. She did?

I’m sorry to hear it.

Well.

And she told you about me, I imagine.

A bit. She didn’t elaborate. I met Sky.

Isn’t she great?

Yeah. She looks like you.

So Mum didn’t give you the gory details.

No.

God bless her.

Well, he said. She’s a trouper.

Dyson tried to look past Fay to the harbour lights and the navy sky still tinted by the vanished sun, but even thin and wan as she was in the unflattering light, she had a compelling presence. The cargo pants and jumper hung off her and her lips were chapped. She seemed wrung out, chastened, even. Yet she took up all the available space out there on the verandah.

For some reason I wanted to tell you myself, she said looking him straight in the face, her arms folded across her breasts. Once I found out you were home I had to explain myself. We go back so far, you and me. I didn’t want you finding out from someone else.

Sure, he said uncertainly.

Funny, you know. I’ve had to give up worrying about what people think anymore. Burnt all the bridges. But with you. . it’s different.

It shouldn’t be. Fay, we don’t even know each other. I don’t mean to be. . but we were kids.

And here you are.

Dyson folded his arms.

I was in rehab, Pete. I’m six months clean.

That’s good. That’s great.

I fucked up. Been fuckin up for years.

You don’t have to talk about this, Dyson said, hearing water purl into the bath up the hallway.

But I want to. Maybe you don’t wanna hear it.

I’ve got Ricky to get through the bath, he said. The hot water.

Yeah.

Maybe you’d better come in?

No. It’s alright.

Can. . can I do anything for you?

Like, why am I here? she said with a wry smile, eyes glittering.

It’s just that I’m not that steady yet, myself. You know? I don’t know what I can offer you.

I need a friend, that’s all.

Dyson sighed, torn.

I know it’ll be hard to trust me.

Fay.

I’m supposed to seek out good people. But it’s alright. I understand. I’ll see you.

Chilled and miserable, he let her walk down into the dark while behind him water pounded into the bath. He hadn’t even let her tell him what it was that she was addicted to; he didn’t even offer her that kindness. But how could he tell her that he wasn’t as uncomplicatedly good as she imagined? How could he be honest with her and say that he was afraid of her and afraid of his own reactions, frightened of lapsing into old habits? Self-preservation — did it ever feel anything but ugly?

He pushed the door to and switched off the porchlight.

In the morning, bleary and unrested, he came upon Fay outside the school gate. He supposed that for a while at least such meetings would be inevitable. And then one day she’d be gone again. The sky hung low and dark. There was a bitter wind from the south. Fay wore a huge stretched jumper that looked like one of Don’s and she hugged herself as she turned to him.

Haven’t done that for a while, she murmured.

Bring her to school?

I think she was embarrassed.

Ah.

Hurts, she said fishing out a fag. But I spose I deserve it.

Dyson walked uphill, careful not to hurry, and she fell into step beside him.

Sorry about last night.

Well, he murmured. Me too.

Out over the sea a storm brewed. The air in its path felt pure and steely. Dyson couldn’t help feel that Fay’s cigarette was an offence against such clarity. In even thinking it he was, he knew, his mother’s son, but that did not make it less true.

How’s your folks? he asked.

Good. But I don’t know how long I can live with them. They want me to stay a while but nobody’s naming dates. I’m kind of on probation with Sky. And with them, I spose. They won’t give her up easily. Not that I blame them. They’ve been good to me. Dad used to drive three hundred miles every fortnight to visit me in rehab. They’ve been great, you know, but I think I’ll go mad if I stay too long.

Where would you go? he asked.

Oh, I’ll stay in town. Rent somewhere close so they can all see each other. Sky needs them now. She knows I’m a fuck-up so she’ll need reassurance. I have fantasies about a little house on one of those old dairy farms out along the coast. Something clear and clean, somewhere I can start again from scratch. You know what I mean?

Yeah, he said. I do.

But there’s nowhere you can really do that. Everywhere you go there’ll be some link. A bit of history. Anyway, I’m broke. Need a job but still feel a bit too ginger to cope with the stress.