Tim Winton - The Turning

Well, it’s lovely in, said Carol.

Which is when I jumped. I still had her bag in my hand. The water was cool and stupidly chemical and I floated a moment with a spritz of trespass bubbling through my limbs.

At the edge of the pool Vic was only moments from joining us — he already had his arms behind him like wings — when a dark look travelled across his face.

Hey, he murmured. You reckon this is even the right house?

It better be, I said.

Oh, God, he said. Stay there, I’m gonna check.

Stay here ? said Carol, still laughing. I don’t think so.

We clambered out and followed Vic. There were towels at the cabana but we didn’t stop to use them, just slopped back down the winding path with a new, feverish urgency.

Vic hesitated at the back door. He almost hailed the house as his mother had earlier, but then he looked at Carol and me and the puddle we were making on the pavers beneath the pergola, and eased the slider aside and let himself in. Carol and I looked at one another. I handed her the beige bag. She’d lost a shoe and her hair was flat. Her big sensible undies were showing through the cotton dress plastered to her.

We’ll be a sight, she said.

But will we look too eager?

Bloody hell, said Vic emerging from the house. Let’s get out of here!

What’s wrong, love?

It’s not them.

Oh gawd, I don’t believe it.

My shoe. I’ve left my—

Bugger it, Mum, I’ll lose my job.

We bolted back through the garage and piled into the Camry. As Vic hurtled us backwards down the drive I saw our footprints and drips on the concrete.

Oh, dear, said Carol.

Wrong house, Mum.

But I wrote it down. Seventy-eight Quay Largo.

Vic had hardly got the vehicle into forward gear when we saw the spill of Christmas partiers on the driveway of number seventy-five.

Oh my good God, said Carol.

It’s Ernie, said Vic.

We can’t stay now, said Carol. We can’t possibly! Drive!

I felt myself sliding low in the seat.

Go, said Carol. Drive!

We shot forward. Vic mashed the gears. A spray of faces flashed by the window. Vic grappled the Camry round the corner and out of sight.

Carol and I were half dry when we got home. Vic went straight to the fridge and opened a bottle of champagne.

Here’s to not being struck off, he said holding up his glass.

Oh, don’t be melodramatic, I said. It was a simple mistake.

Maybe I wrote down seventy-five and read the five as an eight, said Carol. My writing’s not good and my eyes are worse.

It doesn’t matter, Carol. For what it’s worth, I enjoyed it.

Give me a glass of that, said Carol. Vic, where’s your manners?

But you don’t drink, Mum.

You don’t think I have an excuse, this once?

Pour your mother a drink, I said.

Yes, I’ve lost a shoe over all this.

Carol gulped the wine and refilled the glass herself.

They were at Ernie’s, she said. The people, the neighbours, they were over the road at Ernie’s.

Another coupla minutes they’d have sprung us in their pool.

They’ll find the shoe, I said, breaking into a giggle.

You think they saw us?

We were all over their driveway, said Vic. Oh man, what if they got the rego of the car?

Oh dear, said Carol with a titter.

I’m serious, Mum.

Well, excuse me, constable!

I was laughing again; I couldn’t help it.

Some reunion, said Carol. Actually, it went well, considering.

Kerbside drive-by, I said. The best sort.

No time for arguments. Ideal.

You two, said Vic. Jesus!

Victor, she chided. Not at Christmas.

Let’s open another bottle, I said.

Gail? said Vic.

No, I want to. This is the most fun I’ve ever had at Christmas. I’m serious.

Carol laid an indulgent hand on my arm and I just kept talking.

When we jumped in the pool I felt ten years old.

When you jumped in the pool. Mum fell.

I had this forbidden feeling, this naughty feeling.

Vic groaned.

Be quiet Vic, let her speak.

When I was little we went to church three times of a Sunday, I said. But at Christmas only once. It’s a bit arse-about, don’t you think? We weren’t allowed to say Merry Christmas because it condoned drunkenness. It was Happy Christmas or the doghouse. Oh, I’m sorry Carol, I wasn’t thinking.

Because Bob was an alcoholic? she asked. Look at me, I am tipsy. You’re too careful.

Oh.

My mother was a drunk, too, she murmured.

Really?

I used to fish her out of the pub at twelve years of age.

Mum, said Vic. What about a cup of tea?

She used to smash windows with her high heels. I never wear heels, but now I drink. I used to want to be a teacher, you know.

You would have been good, I said.

Kindergarten. Do I seem the type?

I never went to kindergarten, I said. My parents wouldn’t send me.

What was wrong with them?

I don’t know, I said. I never had birthday parties either.

Never? asked Vic.

Not once? asked Carol.

I asked my mum about it a couple of years ago. I thought I just might not be remembering. But she said she wasn’t really into that sort of thing.

Bloody hell, said Vic. You never told me this.

We never did home reading. Other kids had their mum or dad check their spelling lists. Nothing. Sports days, they never came.

Was it work? asked Carol. Some religious thing?

No. Well, the church did soak up all their time and attention. But with us. . I don’t think they ever got interested.

Vic started stacking plates and running water. Carol and I kept talking while he worked around us. The more I said, the more agitated he got. He didn’t care for my parents, but now I knew he’d never speak to them again, and I thought that was probably fair. They were vain, careless people and I’d forgiven them, but there was no reason for him to; he had no need. I knew that Carol had only just buried her mother the year before. Just the way she held my arm, I knew she understood.

Don’t mind him, she murmured. He gets upset on my behalf, too.

I know.

Has to defend everybody.

That’s him.

I’m in the same bloody room, girls !

He was a dear boy.

Yeah, right.

By the way, son, what did you see in that house that made you skedaddle?

A wall of photos, he said. No red hair, no freckles, no ugly cousins. I knew I had the wrong joint.

They’re all married now, said Carol. All of them with kids, apparently.

Lovely, he muttered. More wobbegongs. My cousins all looked like carpet sharks.

Careful, I said. You share the same gene pool.

Don’t even say the word pool , said Vic.

Strange, but they’re nothing alike, Ernie and Bob.

Vic was silent at the mention of his father. He plunged his hands into the suds and washed.

Bob was everything Ernie wasn’t, said Carol. But you could never tell their mother this. Bob cleaned up every mess his brother made. And when he needed help he got nothing. Just this howl of disappointment, disapproval.

I’ve heard some stories, I said, hoping to head Carol off somewhat. Vic was clenching his jaw now.

Ernie and Cleo were off again — on again. They were like a bad movie. She ran away to Kalgoorlie once. Took the kids and all. Bob gets dragooned into driving Ernie up there to save their marriage. It’s his mother’s idea; in fact, she comes along. They drive all day, seven hours to Kal and get there on sunset. Mrs Lang words Ernie up and sends him in, and Bob and her sit in the car for two hours.

While Ernie and Cleo were hashing it out? I asked.

Well, that wasn’t what they were doing.

Mum—

Bob and his mother sat out in the car while Cleo and Ernie had an amorous two hours, punctuated by the usual barney — which meant they were off again — and then the three musketeers drove home all night so Bob could make the morning shift.