Tim Winton - The Riders

‘Poor man’s fare tonight,’ he said sitting down. ‘Billie, come and eat something, mate.’

The three of them sat with the fire snapping peaceably behind them. Outside the wind pressed about in the silence. Scully watched Alex chewing tentatively, as though his teeth were sore. He sucked down more rosé. He looked like a greedy little boy.

‘Don’t waste your life, Scully. Or hers,’ he said, motioning with his head at Billie.

‘I don’t plan to.’

‘She’s a nice girl, Jennifer.’

‘Yeah. I always thought so.’

‘But no artistic instincts whatsoever.’

‘What?’

‘Well, besides sensibly deserting domestic bliss.’

Scully poured himself the last of the rosé to ease his discomfort. ‘She wants to be something creative,’ he murmured.

‘It’s not something to want. It’s something you have. It’s a curse. One she doesn’t have.’

‘You weren’t saying that to either of us when we were paying you to teach her. Sitting out on the terrace with the easels up and all that.’

‘My dear boy, I needed the money and it was no ordeal. She has the most delectable pair of legs.’

‘You are a bloody scoundrel,’ said Scully just managing a friendly tone.

‘Well, all is not lost.’

Billie finished picking at her food and slid off her chair to return to the cat. Scully thought he’d better finish up and go.

‘I think Jennifer missed something she wants to get back, that’s all,’ said Alex with grease down his chin. ‘She’s something of a snob, a dilettante. She wants recognition. She wants to be more interesting.’

‘Yes.’

‘And she has wonderful legs.’

‘Is she on the island?’

‘I’ve been here for weeks and see no one but old Athena who looks out for me down there at the chapel. I couldn’t say.’

‘You’ve got no idea? No one you think she might… be with.’

‘The expats? No.’

‘Rory?’

‘Good God, no, give her some credit. Rory’s a reptile.’

‘I think he’s modelled himself on you.’

‘Badly, badly.’

‘No one?’

‘One of the islanders? No, they couldn’t keep a secret longer than a nanosecond, though plenty would have had hopes, I dare say. A summer fling that stuck, perhaps?’

‘Hadn’t thought of that,’ said Scully. ‘A tourist, you mean?’

Alex shrugged. Scully thought of it. It meant she probably hadn’t come back here at all necessarily. And the baby? Oh, why did there have to be the baby? But he still knew nothing. There might have been no fling, no other man. She might have arrived in Ireland by now, having expected Billie to pass on some message. God, his head was fit to burst.

‘I’m sorry for all the money,’ said Alex without much conviction.

‘She’ll slit your throat in your sleep when she finds out.’

‘I’d have thought she’d be rather flattered. Tell her about the legs part.’

‘Alex, she’s serious. I don’t think it’s a fad. She really wants to be something more.’

‘You’re too soft on people, my boy. You think the best of them. She just wants to be noticed.’

‘What happened to you, Alex?’

‘Me? Oh, the opposite. I became too interesting. To myself and others. I became a sodding entertainment. I stayed too long.’

‘Why don’t you just leave, get off the island?’

The old man laughed. ‘In a basket perhaps. I don’t know how to live in the world anymore. Thirty years is a long time.’

Alex sighed, opened the litre of Cretan red and poured himself a glass, leaving Scully’s empty again.

Scully reached for the wine and poured a long glass. It tasted as dark as it looked.

‘I suppose you’ll go back to town and tell them I’m up here with nothing to show for the great retreat. I can see the gloating tradesman’s look on your face even now.’

‘Have an olive, Alex.’

The old man pressed his fingers into his eyes and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Scully. I’m a pig.’

‘Scoundrel is the polite term, I believe.’

Alex laughed, his eyes tearing up again.

‘You can’t paint?’

‘Your wife and I have that in common now. So, what will you do? Now that you’re a deserted husband.’

Scully drank off his wine, poured himself another, and looked at his scarred hands. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t follow them, it’s undignified.’

‘I don’t care about dignified. I’ll follow. Anyway, I have to think about it a bit. What about you?’

‘I’m going to put myself out of my misery. Cheers!’ Alex gulped at his wine and closed his eyes with pleasure.

‘I’ve gotta go.’

‘Yes, there’s a child to consider. You could stay here,’ he said hopefully.

‘Thanks, but we’ll hoof it.’

‘Wait, I’ve got something for you.’

Alex scurried upstairs while Scully straightened Billie’s pullover and retied her shoes. There were bluish shadows beneath her eyes and she reacted irritably to his touch.

‘Here it is.’

Scully stood and helped Alex with a battered folio which he laid over the table, across the food and unwashed dishes. From it the old man drew a yellowed sheet of paper which Scully accepted silently. It was a pen-and-ink drawing of a Parisian street scene, richly detailed and quite beautiful.

‘Rue de Seine,’ said Alex. ‘Nineteen-sixty.’

‘I was three years old in nineteen-sixty.’

‘Just promise me you won’t show it on this island. Those vipers have had their last laugh on me. Bacon liked that one.’

Scully felt giddy with wine and fatigue. It was a real piece of work, even he could see it.

‘Thank you, Alex.’

‘Here, roll it up. Say hello to that girl when she turns up. Tell her to go back to bureaucracy. As a form of parasitism it’s far more efficient. Speaking of which, you wouldn’t have a few spare drachs, would you?’

Scully dug in his pocket, laughing.

• • •

THE NIGHT WAS CLEAR AND sharp. There was no moon and the gravel track unwound dimly. The island was silent as Scully carried his daughter across its spine and down through the piney groves in the shadow of the mountains. It was late when he found the wide flat path above Kamini and came by the cemetery with all its lit candles and shrines. He stopped by the wall feeling Billie asleep against his sweating neck, and watched the flickering at the heads of tombs where cats slunk about fattened with shadows and bristling at the rattle of plastic flowers. Sweat turned cold on him, and looking at that little lake of candles, he was afraid without knowing why. He went on, almost at a trot, until he began the descent into the harbour of the place he had once loved.

He came finally and sleepily to the hotel whose courtyard door was still ajar, and he took Billie upstairs, fumbled noisily with the key as she slid down his back, and got her in to lay her on the bed. He undressed her and slipped her beneath the blanket. Starlight sloped in faintly through the balcony doors and the fishhook of the harbour shimmered below. He needed to sleep, needed to think, but the water reminded him hopelessly of other nights, and he left Billie sleeping, crossed the courtyard and slipped out through the gate.

ALEX MOORE SHUFFLES BACK from the donkeymen’s hut with the bootleg ouzo clutched coldly to his chest. The stars hang down through the sighing pines in the most irritating and painterly fashion. The earth is uneven, so bloody terrestrial ahead of him.

The big white house yawns before him, empty, virginal — yes, face it, virginal in every imaginable sense — and he goes stooped and bagtrousered up the steps to the heavy door and the waiting silence.