Tim Winton - Eyrie

Keely honked with laughter.

Fat as tennis balls, they were. Cried me eyes out.

Oh well. They died happy.

As they reached Keely’s door Kai belted back down the walkway.

How do you spell it?

Spell what? said Gemma.

The eagle bird.

Osprey, said Keely, spelling it out for him. I can show you one on the computer. Actually I know where one lives.

For real?

Yeah. True. I can show you.

Today?

Kai —

Well, today’s a bit hard.

Tomorrow?

You got school, said Gemma.

Nan, it’s Sunday!

Well, Tom’s busy.

Actually I’m not.

Well, it’s your funeral.

It’d be fun. We can all go.

Terrific, she said without enthusiasm.

I’m gonna get ready, said Kai, turning for home.

It’s tomorrow, love, said Gemma with tender exasperation.

The screen door slapped to. Keely bellied up to the rail and looked down at the beetle-backs of the tenants’ vehicles below.

Listen, he said. If you need someone to look after him. I mean, I know you work at night.

We’re fine, she said. He’s used to it.

Sure. And I guess you can’t be too careful.

Gemma stood beside him, forearms on the rail. Her hair luffed against his arm in the wind. She smelt like the mums of the old neighbourhood, of smoke and aluminium deodorant, fried food.

Well, she said. I didn’t go to any uni, but I’m smart enough to trust a Keely.

I don’t even know what that means.

How is she?

Faith? She’s in Singapore.

I mean your mum.

Oh. She’s great.

Must’ve been proud.

Yeah?

I used to see you on the telly.

Oh, he said with a grimace.

In a suit. With them greenies.

Yep. That was me.

You their lawyer or somethin?

Campaigner, he said. Spokesperson.

Spokes person .

Anyway. Doris is great, he said. I’m calling her right now. About tomorrow.

She’s comin?

What? No.

Oh. Right. Well.

Is ten okay?

For what?

Birdwatching.

Christ, she said. Can’t wait.

Years ago an old friend from uni told Keely that only two good things ever came out of Fremantle. And both of those were bridges. He thought of her as the train trundled across the Old Traffic Bridge towards the gilded city. The river shining below for a moment and then the farther shore suddenly beneath him. Melissa was from a stolid suburb of Perth. Wembley, if memory served. She’d gone on to teach history and English. Went back and did a master’s degree. Or maybe it was a doctorate. But last he heard she was up at the mines along with everybody else, flying in and out in hi-viz every fortnight, making four times the dough for half the hours. As a bus driver. Said it was boring as hell but the money soothed all wounds. The way she said it sounded defensive. And that saddened him. As if she expected a crack about her being another cashed-up bogan. What a pious knob he was.

The train eased through the stops until there was no mistaking the tiny but telling territorial differences. The trophy cars. The pouty boutiques. The irrepressible confidence of life in the dress circle.

*

He found Doris in the restaurant courtyard with a glass of something newly poured. She was jotting things in a spiral notepad. In the fading light, beneath the trellised vines, his mother was as handsome as ever, perhaps a little less approachable for the self-possession she projected these days. Against the rough pavers and terracotta pots, she was silvery, slim, more noticeable than a son might prefer. Her thick grey hair was twisted into girlish plaits that flapped against her arms and when she hoisted them across her shoulders and stood to greet him, the ethnic confusion of bangles clunked and chimed chaotically — that maddening, reassuring clangour. They were a nightmare at the movies, those hoops, clanking and rattling at every moment of mirth or dramatic intensity, but they’d become the sound of her. She was a calm, quiet person, often so restrained that without the bracelets and baubles you’d never register the intensity of her excitement or agitation. That was the bit of her he remembered most from his bruised adolescence: the chatter and rattle of bangles as she turned pages and made notes, studying late into the night after he and his sister were in bed.

Well, she said, pouring him a glass. What a good idea. Monday really was too long to wait.

You must know somebody. To get a table Saturday night.

Bollocks, she said. I promised we’d arrive early, eat like pokie machines —

And tip like a Haulpak truck, eh?

Money, she said with a sigh.

They’re right. It talks.

But wouldn’t it be lovely if now and then it had something interesting to say.

Keely smiled, enduring her benevolent glance — yes, he was a ruin — and tried to give his full attention to the riesling she’d ordered. Something from the Porongurups, something new.

Well?

Nice, he said. He swished it round his glass, in his mouth. Beneath its citric charm there was something almost sandy. He felt his temples draw in a little, like windows pressed against their frames by a suddenly opened door. He realized Doris was speaking.

Sorry, he said. What?

Nothing, she said. I was just faffing on about the wine. To impress you.

But her face had fallen and he suspected she’d been talking about something more important. Doris, love, I’m always impressed.

She smiled for him and it smarted.

He drew himself up, took in the rich spillover of kitchen vapours, the briny scent of the river. Saw his right leg twitching waywardly. The house music — some generic World nonsense — was loud. He shot a look at the staff flexing their tatts by the kitchen pass. No use asking them to turn it down; these days restaurant music was not for the paying customer.

Hey, he said into the taut pause in proceedings. I might come by tomorrow and grab the dinghy.

Just in time.

How’s that?

I was getting ready to turf it out at the next street collection.

Couldn’t blame you.

Well, it’s been a while.

I’m thinking of a spin on the river.

Good. Lovely.

Listen — did I sleepwalk as a kid?

I won’t even inquire about that rapid transition.

Sorry.

Somebody once peed in the linen press, if I recall.

Don’t remember that .

Well, she said with a laugh. Then you may have your answer.

But you would have said. If it was one of us there’d be an inescapable family legend.

Probably. But I do recall small bodies ghosting about in the night. Having to steer them back to bed.

Kids from the street, he said. Your lame ducks.

Lame ducks? she said with arched brows.

Doris let him marinate a moment. He saw the irony. Now that he was the chief wounded bird in her life, the least functional member of the family. He raised his glass, all the acknowledgement and surrender he could manage.

I remember a lot of sheets on the line, a lot of wet beds. All those kids you took in.

They had their reasons, she said.

I don’t doubt it.

But, no. Neither of you wandered or wet the bed.

Huh.

A long moment passed. Doris jingled.

Why d’you ask, love?

Keely sipped his wine, tried not to gulp.

Oh. Nothing, really.

She gave a diffident nod but he knew she wasn’t buying it. She hoisted a clacking arm and summoned one of the prowling narcissists for some service.

Keely tried to address the menu but he was preoccupied by her heightened watchfulness. The flash of her specs coming off and on — clunkitty-click. Every vegetable, every bit of protein on the list had a provenance more complex than a minor Rembrandt. And he didn’t know what half of it meant. What the fuck was a coxcomb of Serrano solar ? Or was he just obtuse? Christ, he was starting to sweat. He was leaving great smudgy fingerprints.