Tim Winton - The Turning

The boat is my business, Rae.

You’re a bastard.

And you’re a bigger bloody idiot than I thought you were, he said and hung up.

She put the girls into their own beds and thought about piling them into the ute and pissing off. But she was so tired. She lay on the bed to wait for Max. One look at her in the hard fluoro light, one clear glance at her now would strike him dead, she just knew it.

She tried to stay awake but the pillow drank her up.

She woke with him on top of her. He had her sore arms pinned and his pants were off. She struggled but the bruises made it hard. He grabbed her in the dark and slapped her. He shoved himself in her face, half smothered her until she got loose a moment and was halfway off the bed, her elbow snagged in the curtain, before he caught her and shoved her face down and hit the back of her head so hard she felt the gash open up. She didn’t scream or cry out for fear of waking the girls; they’d seen enough already. She felt suddenly hot with love for them and said their names beneath her breath.

In the spill of light at the bedside she saw the little dome and her man upon the waves. She said his name, too, said it aloud with love enough to send a shudder through Max as he pushed her down. She knew she was safe from him now, not safe from tonight but gone from him altogether. He smelt of death already, of burning, of bile and acid. He was crying and she did not pity him. He was gone and it didn’t matter when. Everything was new. In her dome it snowed birds as the van rocked, birds like stars. The moment Max speared into her and tore open her insides she was full of hot and certain feeling. She was free. She had already outlived him.

FRANK AND HIS OLDER BROTHER MAX walked behind the men along the white beach at sunset. They walked for ages. The sun boiled in the sea and the bare dunes turned pink. Tackle jingled and pattered on the rods over the men’s shoulders. Frank listened to the rhythmic clink of the lantern glass and fell into step with it, singing under his breath: hot cross buns, hot cross buns. Veins stood out in his father’s legs. The men’s footprints were deep. They were like mouths with tongues of shadow hanging out of them. One-a-penny, two-a-penny, hot cross buns. It wasn’t Easter but Frank couldn’t get the song out of his head.

Now and then Max darted ahead to walk amongst their father’s mates. He said things that made them laugh. He was ten already and could make men laugh. He didn’t miss their mother. Frank knew he should shut up about her; it was only two weeks.

When they finally came to the rocks the men shoved pipes into the sand to stand their rods in and their father lit the gas lamp. The sun was gone but the sky was still light; it swirled yellow and green and blue like a bruise. When the tackle boxes opened he smelt whale oil and mulies. Frank watched his father tie on a gang of hooks whose curves flashed in the lamplight. Around them the others muttered and smoked. They were just like ladies knitting, like his mother’s friends. Max was down at the water’s edge skimming shells out across the tops of waves that spilled across the shelf of reef.

Now that he was used to him, Frank loved his father. It took a few days every summer to like the sweet and sour smell of him again, to understand the dark cracks in his palms and the way he squinted behind the smoke of his fag. Frank watched him pick up a half-frozen mulie and stitch it up the hooks. Max came up and threw himself down on the sand between them.

Now you boys behave yourselves, he said getting up off his haunches. When the tide drops you can come out onto the reef with us, orright?

Can we play in the sandhills? Max asked.

Yeah, but don’t go far. We might need someone to run the gaff out for us.

The other two men were wading out across the reef, the baits swinging in the last of the light, and before their father could join them they were casting into the gloom.

For a while Frank knelt in the warm sand to watch. You could see their heads and the curves of their rods against the sky. They were laughing. Moths came out of the dark to butt against the hot white glass of the lantern.

Max picked up the pack of matches that lay on the tackle box.

Let’s go up the hills, he said, slipping the matches into the pocket of his shorts.

Orright.

They walked over to the steep foredune and clawed up it and on the other side the sandhills rolled on and on forever. Frank jogged behind his brother down into long gullies and for long stretches the sand was firm under foot. All the way Frank heard the matches rattle in Max’s shorts. He breathed in time. He began to sing.

One-a-penny, two-a-penny—

Shut that up.

Sorry.

They ran until a wall of sand loomed and they kept at it until the slope made Frank feel they were running on the spot. In the end they clambered to the crest and straddled the knife edge of the dune so sand ran down the insides of their legs and spilled from the tips of their toes. If you listened hard enough you could hear the sand hiss as it slipped away. Max pulled out the matches and shook the box until it sounded like a rattler on a cowboy show.

What’re you gunna do? said Frank warily. You had to be careful with Max. He had side teeth like a dog and a way of looking at you that you could feel in the dark.

You don’t know what a blue flame is, do ya.

A what?

Watch this.

A match flared between them and Max lifted his legs and farted. Nothing happened until the flame scorched Max’s fingers and he dropped it and left them in darkness.

That was it?

No, stupid.

Frank looked seaward. He couldn’t see the beach or the grownups but the glow of the lamp was visible.

Max lit up again but nothing happened.

Here, he said, chucking the matches. Help me. Light one and hold it close.

Close?

To me bum, stupid.

When after several tries Frank got the match lit he saw that Max had slid his shorts off and was arched back with his bum off the sand.

Carn, hurry up!

Frank leant in and found himself peering at the dark squint of Max’s bumhole. He began to tremble with pent up laughter.

Closer, stupid.

Frank took the flame right in but he wasn’t very steady. He had the giggles now and something fizzed and Max recoiled with a howl.

You bastard!

Frank lurched to his feet. Max lunged at him and Frank spun away down the incline while his brother grabbed at his shorts. Frank could hear himself laughing as he went. Max was stronger and he could punch fast but Frank knew he could always outrun him. He spilled down into the hollow and found hard, flat sand as Max came roaring. The more he weaved and feinted the madder Max got. It was always like this, with him giggling nervously and Max bellowing behind. Frank knew how much Max hated him being faster. He could really duck and dart. At school lunchtimes the big boys always picked him for their footy team and they didn’t care what Max said. Their mother called him Rabbit and she didn’t care what Max said.

But the more he thought of Max behind him, boiling and spitting as he was now, the heavier Frank felt. He knew he could outrun him but the idea of Max got to his legs; the fear seeped into him and bogged him down until he just gave up and fell to his knees and waited for the flogging he knew would come. But when Max caught up he just sprawled out, panting.

I didn’t mean it, said Frank. It was an accident.

His brother rolled over. A fat red moon emerged from behind the highest, farthest dune. Frank felt sand in his shorts. His undies sagged, full and bulky with it, the way they were the day he pooped his pants at school. He remembered the way he had to wide-leg it to the toilets. With all the kids laughing. And how he locked himself inside to wait for his mother. How Max came in and said he’d kill him if he didn’t stop bawling and clean himself up. You’re adopted, he said, they found you on the tip, in a kennel. The day went on forever and their mother never came.