Tim Winton - Eyrie

Flipped open the Mac. Just to pass the time. And then he cracked. Couldn’t help himself. He trolled through the newsfeeds, taking in the headlines. Instantly bewildered. Same-same but worse.

Faith was right. The world was indeed choking on a bone. Obama trying for a bail-out. Everyone covering the bankers’ arses. Which was heartwarming. But here at home hardly a ripple. Endless reserves of mining loot. Safe as houses. Although when it came to bricks and mortar it seemed the good folks of Perth were stunned to learn that their property prices might flatten out, which would be for them, he imagined, confirmation the world really had slipped its moorings. Still, some bloke in Queensland, clearly refusing to surrender to the lure of introspection, had set a new record by busting forty-seven watermelons over his own head. Go, Australia.

After years of professional habit, or maybe just masochistic impulse, he sieved up the environment story of the day. But it was hardly news. In Hobart, evidently fretting about trade relations, the Feds had raided the Sea Shepherd ship, the Steve Martin , or whatever it was this year, Steve Jobs, Steve Buscemi — what did it matter? Anyway, they were back, those wild-eyed buggers, returned from another season of irritating the Japs. Glamour-hounds and donor-hogs they may be but he loved them. All bluster aside, they were doing what government lacked the balls to do. Had it been a gas field down there in the Southern Ocean the Feds would be sending gunboats. But they left it to these cowboys. And then pursed their lips in disapproval. Didn’t seem so long ago those vegan pirates were tied up here at the end of the street. Another petty imbroglio into which he’d been dragooned. Down on the quay in front of the cameras, facing off against the network girlies with their pancake make-up and Darth Vader hair. Calling in a bunch of favours to broker a deal and shame some dingleberry member of Cabinet into letting the vessel refuel and take on fresh celebs. Thankless Sunday morning’s work that’d been.

Anyway, enough. He slapped the laptop shut. Pulling back while he still could. For a clear head, pure mind.

He sat there. Pointlessly alert. And no one came by. Forty-eight hours ago he’d have counted this a blessing, a major domestic success. But now he was unsettled. Fidgeting in gormless anticipation.

It was bloody unnerving.

*

At noon, hungry and twitchy as a numbat, he gave up and went down into the streets for breakfast. Bub’s was only four blocks from home, on a side street off the Strip, but it was a trek getting there, hacking his way through a thicket of sticky tourists and weekend wood ducks. The joint was heaving. Saturday. What was he thinking? The moment he arrived Bub sent him out a sly double-shot and a muffin. Local privileges, that at least was something. And he appreciated it. But the crowd made him leery so he didn’t hang about. It was back to the bat cave for him. Sent off with a knowing hitch of the eyebrows by good old Bub who knew what was what.

A block from the Mirador he came upon Gemma and the boy as they emerged from a sports store. The street was hot and snarled with cars idling for a park. Gemma looked frazzled. The kid clicked along on a pair of football boots fresh from the box. The expression on his moony face managed to combine triumph and solemnity. He glanced back at his own heels and watched himself, slightly startled but pleased, in the shop windows.

G’day, said Keely.

Oh, said Gemma. Hi.

Someone got lucky.

His birthday, said Gemma.

Well then, happy birthday.

I know who you are, said the kid.

I’m Tom, he said. What’s your name?

You had rats, said the boy.

Rats?

Get out of the sun, said Gemma, hauling them into the lee of an awning.

How old are you? asked Keely.

Six, said the kid. We’re having fish and chips. Gonna feed the sea-goals.

Gulls, said Gemma. It’s gulls.

Must be the boots, said Keely.

Both of them looked at him blankly.

Goals, he said. Football boots.

Right, she said with a look of cringe-making forbearance.

Hapless, Keely looked to the kid, not really knowing what he expected — fraternal understanding? Weren’t pissweak jokes milk and honey to a six-year-old? The boy studied him. Shade or no, Keely felt hotter than he had with the sun beating on his skull.

Can Tom come? For chips?

Well, he said, sensing Gemma’s irritation.

Tom’s busy, said Gemma.

But it’s my birthday.

You mind? she asked, embarrassed or maybe just annoyed.

No, he said, of course not.

But it’s your weekend.

Not a problem, he said, startled by the look come over her face. Like she was glad, even grateful.

Not a problem, said Gemma. Your dad used to say that.

Really? I don’t remember, he admitted.

Not a problem. Jesus. That’s Nev orright. God bless him.

Anyway, he said, fish and chips it is.

The kid kicked the air. He glanced at himself again in the glass, brandished a gleaming boot.

Carn then, you two, said Gemma. Come if you’re comin, I’m roastin out here.

No cracks, said the boy, indicating the slabs of the footpath.

Right, said Keely. No cracks.

Crossing town in the direction of the marina, he found it was quite some effort avoiding joins or cracks in the pavement, what with everything else in his head. He was relieved to reach the green swathe of the esplanade, which teemed with picnickers and shirtless youths playing cricket. On the grass beneath the Norfolk pines the boy concentrated on avoiding dog poo, a sport closer to Keely’s heart and of which he was already a grizzled veteran. It was fun. Though he began to wonder if the kid wasn’t a bit compulsive about it. But who wasn’t finicky about dog shit?

Tell about the rats, said the kid as they came to the rail line that formed the last boundary between the town and the water.

Don’t start that again, said Gemma.

But Nan, you said.

Nan, thought Keely. Nan?

Quit bugging him, she said. Tom doesn’t want to talk about rats.

You told him about my rats?

John, George, Paul and Ringo, she said with a grin that was almost shy.

I’ll be damned.

I wanted them rats, she said, shaking out a fag with a laugh. I used to take em outta the cage when you weren’t there.

What sorta name is Ringo anyway? asked the boy.

Dunno, said Keely, straight-faced. It just came to me, I spose.

Gemma snorted.

They were good pets, he said. Good rodents all.

As they stepped over the rails at the crossing, the boy took Gemma’s hand and moved with a peculiar precision, as if the track were electrified. Left and right, people jounced strollers and wheeled bikes across, but the kid concentrated on avoiding all contact. And when they made the path on the far side he returned his attention to paving cracks. Soon they were on the boardwalk whose flashing green slats between planks reduced him to a geisha gait that was comical.

Where are those rats? asked the kid. What happened to them?

Kai, love, yer not gettin a rat, said Gemma. So don’t even ask.

I don’t really remember what happened to them, said Keely.

Maybe another time, Gemma said darkly. Enough about rats.

They’re hard work, said Keely. And they stink a bit. Anyway, they’re no good in a flat, sport.

I could keep em on the outside bit.

The balcony?

Kai, said Gemma, I told you. No rats.

Anyway, said Keely. You couldn’t just leave them out in the weather. Besides, he said, reaching now, but heeding Gemma’s desire to snuff the entire notion, birds might get them.

That’s right, said Gemma, busking it.

You know, like owls, kites, hawks. They all eat mice and rats.