Tim Winton - Eyrie

Gemma swivelled and held up a hand, halting Keely’s unhappy progress, so that he was left lurking there, mid-stride, stranded in the sun, awkward and shamefaced, about as threatening as a faded traffic cone.

Without speaking they waited a long couple of minutes. Down the row a dreadlocked busker was setting up outside the markets. Gulls wheeled above the street as a keg truck pulled up at the corner pub. A once-great drinking place. Now the haunt of Facebook hipsters and metrosexuals. Another lost cause.

When he returned, the young man dumped a cardboard carton on the porch at Gemma’s feet. She stood her ground and held out a hand to receive something that was a long time coming. Eventually the punk handed over a small object, perhaps a key. Then he said something that set Gemma’s head back. It was as if she’d been slapped. He closed the door on her with a sneer and after several seconds she stooped in her heels, took up the box and stalked unsteadily down the path.

What the fuck was that? he said, fumbling the carton she shoved at him in passing.

It took some effort to keep up with her and she didn’t slow down until they were at the roundabout beside the football oval. She was white-faced and agitated, blinking back tears so fiercely he thought she might strike him.

Are you alright?

Shut the fuck up.

She blundered into traffic and he followed her, juggling the box and copping car horns and howls of abuse. When they were safely across and headed for the carpark in the lee of the old prison, she began blotting her eyes with a tissue. There was mascara down her face.

Gemma, what’s the story?

Doesn’t matter.

What’s in the box?

Nintendo, she said, blowing her nose on the mottled Kleenex.

A computer game? All that back there was for a Nintendo? You’re kidding me.

She broke away and he trudged behind her until they were amidst rows of parked cars baking in the sun.

Come on, Gemma, you’re not serious.

He followed her up and down ranks of vehicles. The sun was vicious. He saw the dress glued to her back with sweat.

Finally she stopped in front of a battered little Hyundai. A thick sheaf of parking tickets fluttered from the wipers. Gemma sighed, swiped them up and unlocked the car.

It’s Carly’s, she murmured, pulling her hair free. Get in.

The superheated Hyundai stank of cigarettes and mould. Keely sat ankle-deep in burger wrappers and chip buckets, breathing oven air.

No petrol, of course, muttered Gemma. Let’s find a servo.

Keely refrained for a moment but he couldn’t help himself.

The charmer back there, that’s Kai’s father?

She turned the key in the ignition several times and eventually the engine came sluggishly to life.

Stewie. He’s a turd. Christ, wind your window down!

He lowered it all the way and she stabbed at the aircon button, hissing through her teeth.

I don’t get it, he confessed. All this get-up, all the drama.

It’s Carly’s stuff, Kai’s stuff. Pictures, toys, clothes. What’s so hard to understand?

Well, what was I there for? he asked, half knowing already.

There’s bloody court orders and letters and he wouldn’t give it up. Two years! I’ve had no car, nothing for Kai, and no one bloody follows through. Not the coppers, DOCS, no one. I’m payin for taxis just to get to work.

Didn’t you say there was a restraining order?

There’s a list of em, take your pick. Not worth the paper they’re printed on.

And you went over there?

You saw me, why ask?

Because I didn’t know what the hell I was getting into, Gemma. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do.

I needed a bit of support, orright? Sorry to put a dent in your busy day.

It was so hot in the car, Keely was surprised to feel an actual flush of shame.

Anyway, she said, relenting. You looked the part. That’s the main thing.

Thanks. I spose. Remind me, though, what part was I playing?

I was just messin with his head. Little arsehole couldn’t decide if you were the bailiff or my bloke. He was twitchy as shit, wired by the looks. In the end I reckon he was wonderin if you might be my lawyer, or even a cop. I never said a thing about it and he didn’t ask. I just left you out there — like a mindfuck, she said, beginning to enjoy herself. You do look pretty bad-tempered with a hangover. The beard wouldn’t have worked, made you look like a hippy preacher with a hurtin heart.

Well, this is all very handy to know, of course, he said, grateful the car was moving; even a roasting breeze was better than none.

He’s got parole conditions, she said, steering them towards the exit. The house musta been full of speed or something, cause he caved real quick.

What if he hadn’t? What if he’d done something to you? Really, Gemma, what was I supposed to do?

I dunno, she said, lurching out into the traffic. Tell him love conquers all and punch him in the throat. I saw Nev put a bloke through an asbestos fence once.

That was probably a prayer meeting.

She laughed and he joined her.

He rooted through the carton as she drove. Apart from the papers and toys the only thing of use was the laptop. As a boxful, as a trophy of war, it wasn’t much.

He’s flogged everything else, she said as if reading him. Only reason he kept the computer and the Nintendo is to use himself. Maybe you could look at it for me, the laptop. Kai’ll need it for school. They do everything on a computer these days and he’s not gunna miss out. I dunno the first thing about the bloody things. Would you do that?

He nodded.

This thing’s hers, she said, whacking the wheel, but it’s registered in my name, so guess who pays the rego and the fines. I couldn’t stand walkin past it every day knowin Kai and me’re catchin the bus, it was eatin me up.

Well, you’re game, I’ll give you that.

Now and then you need a win, she said. Keeps you goin.

She veered into the BP. He thought of Prudhoe Bay; it was involuntary. British Petroleum, he thought — what a friend they had in Jesus.

While she pumped the fuel, Keely sat nursing the cardboard carton. In the end he felt silly enough to get out and stand on the greasy concrete. Across the vehicle, in a wavering tableau of heat shimmer and fume shadows, Gemma stood with one hand on her hip, the other gripping the nozzle. With her body cocked liked that and all her hair rippling off her shoulders, she was a sight in her little black dress. Keely felt a surge of admiration. She had more guts than he could hope for. Just looking at her made him happy all of a sudden, just for a moment, and when she caught his gaze and his dopey grin, she looked at him quizzically, and then became guarded, as if suspecting she’d been mocked.

You look great, he said.

Oh, get fucked, she said, grinning.

*

Despite the fact that Kai’s school was on the same block as the Mirador, Gemma insisted on collecting him in the car. Keely’s headache was luminous; he would have preferred to get out, cross the street and go up in the lift, but he didn’t have the heart — or maybe the nerve — to leave her in this moment of triumph, so in the minutes before the bell rang, they idled in the sweltering line around the block behind all the other vehicular parents and guardians and afterschool carers.

He doesn’t like surprises, she said. But he’ll like this one.

Why the convent school? Is it just because it’s close?

Well, duh.

I wondered if you might have gone Catholic.

Nah, just went to Sunday school with you and Faith. Whatever that was.

Like you said. A hippy preacher with a hurtin heart — Billy Graham meets Billy Jack. Singing ‘Morning Has Broken’ if memory serves.