Tim Winton - Eyrie

He sat a moment, listening to the kettle, trying to think. As the water ran and ran in the bathroom, nothing sensible came to mind.

He got up. Made a pot of tea. As he set the canister back on the shelf he reached for a couple of mugs with one hand and fumbled. Caught the first. But the other mug hit the floor and smashed.

The shower stopped running. He cursed himself and grabbed the broom. Handle looked fuzzy. Felt smooth in his fingers.

Who’s there? called Gemma.

Just me, he said, sweeping the shards into a pan.

Fuck, said Gemma in the doorway. I thought I was on me own.

Sorry, he muttered.

Geez. I nearly shat meself.

Broke a mug.

She’ll be happy.

Doris won’t care.

She rested her wet head against the doorframe, settling her nerves. Wrapped in a fluffy towel, she’d drawn a cloud of soapy steam into the kitchen. How could he tell her things were worse, not better? Was this the moment to say she should quit her job and move?

Couldn’t sleep?

In your little boy-bed. Feels wrong.

You should try the couch, he said.

He get off orright?

He nodded.

Lunch?

Could hardly fit it in his bag. Mum saw him right.

You sure it’s cool us bein here? I’m gettin a vibe.

It’s fine. It’s Doris.

I should make some other plans. But I don’t have any ideas.

Have a cuppa, he said. We’ll think of something.

Should just piss off up the coast — Carnarvon, Exmouth, Broome.

I think that would be smart, in the circumstances.

But, what about Kai? They’ll cut off me benefit. Won’t they? I’m not even declaring half me wages. And I won’t have a job.

Not right away.

Maybe go to the mines? But I can’t take a kid.

I dunno.

They’ll take him off me. I know it.

Gemma.

Put him into fuckin Care.

Here, sit down. It’s not that bad.

Keely got her into a chair, poured some tea and finished sweeping up the remains of the mug. She looked jittery.

Gotta be somethin, she said.

Yeah. Just need to think it through. You’re not on your own here, mate.

He found shortbread, got himself another mug and sat with her. She steadied a little, ate the biscuits quickly, with infantile greed.

Not exactly the old place, is it? she said.

No, not really.

Did you like it here?

I never lived here. She bought it about ten years ago.

Old. But fancy.

It’s a nice house.

She’s changed.

Well, she’s an old lady now.

Not that, she said. All this stuff. Way she talks. Kai, he’s such a delightful child.

He shrugged. Doris’s accent was as broad as ever but it was true, the vocab had moved up a peg or two.

When I was little I wished she was my mum. Pretended she was, sometimes. Like her and Nev were me oldies. She let us think it.

Think what?

That she loved us. Like we were family.

Keely didn’t know what to say. Because that was how he remembered it. And it had irked him, as a kid. Not that much had really changed. Last night Doris had nursed her like a frightened child. Hadn’t he seen Gemma luxuriating in the attention? So what else had happened that he hadn’t noticed? Probably nothing. Gemma had endured a long, dull shift, an entire night in which to mull over every detail, letting any tiny change become a disappointment.

She’s still Doris, Gem.

Well, Kai thinks she’s the duck’s nuts.

Yeah, he murmured. But you’ve filled his head with all these stories.

They’re true.

Only up to a point. Neither of them was a superhero. They’re just people.

Maybe she’s just puttin up with us.

Oh, mate.

Like we’re gunna break somethin, mess her house up. Ask her for money.

I don’t think so.

And now you think I’m not grateful.

No, he said. It’s a wrench. The sudden move, being in someone else’s place.

It just wasn’t what I expected.

Keely wondered what it was she had been expecting. He thought Doris had done pretty bloody well with only thirty minutes’ notice. Okay, maybe she wasn’t quite so ardent as she’d once been. But Gemma was a grownup now, not a little girl. And there was the boy, taking it all in. Of course Doris would be a bit more circumspect. Anyhow, she was an old woman. All this was out of the blue. On her doorstep. In Mosman Park.

It’s strange, he heard himself say. You know, seeing someone again after so long.

Gemma shrugged. Almost pouting. He felt a twinge of annoyance. Then talked himself down. The trauma. You couldn’t expect something as petty as good manners.

What if she doesn’t want us here?

If she didn’t want you here, you wouldn’t be here. She’d have written you a cheque the moment you arrived. To get rid of you.

Gemma blinked, considering this, but she seemed unconvinced.

She didn’t mind me when I was little. When I was cute. Didn’t have a girl in Bandyup then, did I?

Gemma.

She thinks I’m rubbish.

Oh, that’s just bullshit.

You don’t know, Tom. You’re like a kid.

I’m like a kid? he said, flaring up.

I’m not stupid, she said.

No one’s saying you’re stupid.

She knows you fucked me, Tom. She can smell it.

He let out a mirthless laugh. Not literally, I hope.

Look at you, gone all red. You can’t even think about it in your mum’s house, can you?

Don’t be daft.

Look at you.

Why are we even discussing this? There’s stuff we have to deal with.

Come on. Why don’t we do it now? Right here on her kitchen bench.

Why’re you doing this?

Frightened of his mum.

I thought it was respect, he said.

Same old goody-two-shoes, she muttered, sinking in her chair, tightening the towel across her breasts as her animation subsided.

He got up and tipped his tea into the sink.

I need a fag.

Not in the house, he said dully.

Don’t worry, Tommy. I’ll take me filthy habits outside.

He let her go, watched her out on the verandah as she fired the thing up and sucked on it angrily in the hot, dappled light. He wished he could reassure her. Wished just as fervently there was somewhere else she could go.

He saw her mug on the table and, thinking it was empty, snatched it up. Tea flew everywhere. Before he’d even found the dishmop the stain was deep in the wood.

It was one of those late-summer days when the river, blown hard against the lee shore by the easterly, smelt rank. Like something left too long in a pot. The thin stews of his early teaching days that languished on the stovetop, half fermented overnight. The sun drilled through his skull and he was glad when they reached the shade of the cypresses beneath the bluff.

Gemma hadn’t spoken since they left the house. She’d come along at his urging but dawdled and sulked enough to make him regret it. If only he’d brought a pair of Speedos. The sloughy river-bend was hardly inviting, especially now the wind corralled the jellyfish against the bank. The water was brown and chunky as a dishful of steeping mushrooms. He imagined hauling himself through it, all those slick domes sliding down his chest and thighs. Not pretty. But even that would have felt like a few minutes’ reprieve.

He sat out under the limestone crag where the grand old marri reached across the water. And there it was. The bird’s wingbeats were effortless. It banked and soared on an updraught, turned and eased away, keening. It looked weightless, as if the heaviest thing it carried were that plaintive, querulous call.

Your idea of a good time, she said, lighting another fag.

He surveyed the tangled bush, the dancing insects. A bit of remnant wildness. It reminded him of the swamp. Faith and him. The ragged gang of Blackboy Crescent kids plodding single-file through the melaleucas.