Black Painted Fingernails (7 page)

The following Saturday, during the game, Sophie went down to the creek and sat beside the bank. She stretched out and looked up at the clouds, hoping it would rain. Cardigan kissed like a girl. Cardigan smelt of incense and chewing gum. Cardigan wanted to lie naked beside her, and she’d promised him Christmas. Who did she think she was – Santa?

Her stomach cramped and she pushed her hands into her diaphragm to ease her breathing. She remembered his laughter, his hurt eyes, the story he told about the women in the commune who were into magic.

Witches
, she’d said.

He’d smiled.
Maybe
.

Sophie wondered where Cardigan was now. Was he thinking of her?

She cried alone in the field, the cows keeping a respectful distance, the clouds drifting off to rain somewhere else. She wondered if she could hitchhike to Melbourne and search the streets of Fitzroy. If only she was older.

Cardigan was gone, like a wisp of smoke.

Her father’s voice from behind made her jump.

‘It’s a forty-point lead. They can do without me for a while.’

Sophie sat up quickly, brushed the hair from her eyes and tried to smile through the tears.

He sat beside her and clumsily put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her near. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut.

‘Mrs Gleeson reckons you and the boy were close.’

She nodded into his chest.

‘I’m sorry, Soph. I didn’t know.’ He rubbed her shoulder. ‘It was a horrible thing. The boys at the station told me about it. Bloody kero heaters.’

She hugged herself into a tight ball, unable to bear the image of Cardigan so close to the flames; of Mr Madrigal, Lenny, gone.

Her father’s voice was measured. ‘Maybe he’ll write, from wherever they went.’

‘Mum never wrote.’

His body tensed, as if taking a blow. ‘No.’

The silence ached between them. The scent of the peach orchard blew down the creek; a cow wandered the bank looking for a place to drink.

‘Why didn’t you go searching for her, Dad?’

‘With three kids in tow?’ he scoffed.

‘Maybe we wanted you to.’

He turned to face her. ‘Did you?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘What kid doesn’t want their mother back?’ She thought of Cardigan and her voice tightened. ‘Or their dad.’

The full-time siren blasted from over the hill.

‘There’s a cliché they use in footy, Soph. What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’

‘Do you believe it?’

He laughed bitterly. ‘Not really.’

He stood and reached for her hand. She let him pull her up and they walked back to the game together. At the top of the hill, her father looked down on the town and shook his head. ‘Why would she want to leave this place?’

Sophie thought of her mother. And Cardigan in the city, lost to her.

After an hour of driving beside corn and canola fields, Sophie pulls over under a stand of rivergums. In the distance, a thunderstorm threatens, but it’ll be hours before it reaches us. Sophie tosses me the keys.

‘I need to walk. Do you want to come?’

I lock the car and follow her to the river. A swallow swoops under the bridge, skimming the slow-running stream. It lands on the bridge rail, its shiny black breast puffed out. Sophie steps from rock to rock, crossing what’s left of the river, the water trickling below her heavy boots. I stay on my side, tracking her downstream. Wild daisies line both sides of the stream like crochet.

Sophie gazes into the water.

‘Are you looking for fish?’ I call.

She lifts both hands and shrugs, as if to say,
Whatever I see, I see
.

There might be trout in the deep pools near the bends. I dig my shoes into the loamy soil on the bank and bend over to get a better look. Dragonflies helicopter, a yabby scuttles across the sand, my gawky reflection grins back.

I remember Dad and me going fishing when I was twelve. Dad showed me the shortcut through the back alleys to Camp Cove, following the track to his favourite fishing spot among the rocks, with the view straight down the harbour to the bridge. He carried the rods, reels and a basket. I took the bottle of water and curried egg sandwiches. Mum had warned me not to fall in and wanted me to take a lifejacket. Dad said he’d take care of me and rummaged in the shed for hooks and sinkers. We fished all morning until the sun blazed overhead.

Finally, I got a bite. Dad jumped up. ‘Don’t lose him, Jim. Let him play a while, tire him out, my boy. Don’t try to get him in too quickly.’ Dad’s eyes focused on the tension in the line.

I held the rod as though it was gold and reeled when Dad told me to. It was ten minutes before the shiny blackfish lobbed on the rocks, all snapping teeth and spiny fins. It writhed and leapt, gasping.

Dad cut the line and smacked the fish once over a rock, and it stopped flapping. He held it out to me. It was long, scaly and dead: its glassy eye unmoving, its mouth sagging open. I didn’t want to touch it, much less take it home to Mum.

‘He’s yours, Jim. You did it,’ Dad said.

A trout darts from the shadows and I jump, almost toppling into the stream. I look up quickly. Sophie is sitting in the shade watching me. I wave like a kid who’s caught a fish and doesn’t know what to do with it, who wants to throw it back in and see it vanish in the light. I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my pants, then scramble down the bank, powder sand between my toes.

‘Don’t worry, it’s not deep!’ Sophie calls.

Or is it?

Stepping gingerly into the stream, my arms stretch like a tightrope walker without a pole. My body tingles with the chill. Round, slippery granite rocks dot the sandy bottom. I lower my hands into the flow, feel its persuasion, want to sink slowly and float downstream, face turned up to the sky, arms flung wide. But I keep my balance, taking one child-size step after another, the water buckling my knees.

‘I’ll save you,’ Sophie shouts.

I pause midstream. ‘How?’

‘I’ll dive in and drag you free.’

‘What if I can swim?’

‘Well, then you can save me.’

A trout arrows towards the bank and into shadow.

‘It’s only up to your knees!’ Sophie scoffs.

I take the last steps quickly and pull myself up on the opposite bank, treading carefully through the sand to where Sophie sits. She makes space for me in the shade. ‘I knew you could do it.’

I flick water at her. She laughs, a sound as fresh as rain.

Sophie reaches carefully between the branches of an overhanging tree and picks a wild blackberry, rolling it gently in her fingers, feeling its soft prickly fur before eating it with smacking lips.

‘Those berries could be sprayed, you know.’

She frowns, picks another berry and offers it to me, pushing it close to my mouth as I lean away. The purple juice runs down her fingers.

‘Come on, James. Don’t let me be poisoned alone.’

She forces it into my mouth. It’s succulent and sweet. Sophie picks a handful, feeling each berry for ripeness, judging whether to eat it or feed it to the fish. She collects the berries in the lap of her dress as we sit on the grass and look up at the sun dissolving into thunderstorm in the west.

‘I’m offering you afternoon tea . . . much better than scones.’

So I give in and lie back.

‘They stain like lipstick, dark purple witch lips,’ I say.

Sophie goes quiet, her eyes staring into the distance.

We sit together by the stream and I wonder, if the storm comes, will it flood this waterway and wash away our footprints, the berries, every trace of what we leave?

‘My dad and me used to search for fruit,’ Sophie says. ‘We’d walk for hours and he’d know instinctively how to find the ripest berries.’ She closes her eyes, remembering. ‘One time we jumped the fence to the orchards and picked a few peaches, hoping the farmer wasn’t around. Dad held a peach to my nose and offered it, like a prize, a gift for being with him.’ Sophie reaches for another berry and slips it into her mouth. ‘We had nothing to do but eat and walk in the fields.’

Michael Spalding carefully steers his M6 convertible between the hedge and his wife’s Volvo, parking it next to the camellia bushes. He reaches to the passenger seat for his briefcase, locks the car before walking up the driveway to the back door and wonders how his son went today.

Angela greets him at the door. She’s holding the phone, pressing redial, the colour high in her cheeks. ‘He’s out of range!’

Michael touches her elbow and leads her into the kitchen. ‘Well, he said he might be, darling.’

He opens the fridge and takes out a bottle of iced water, pours a tall glass and drinks it in one go. His wife stands near the door, phone in hand.

‘Nothing we can do, Angela.’ He shrugs.

She makes a clicking sound at the back of her throat and strides into the lounge room to the drinks cabinet.

Michael notices his briefcase is still at the door, waiting to be invited in. He carries it into his study and places it behind his desk. Outside the double doors, the photinia hedge is glossy red with new growth. He reaches for the photo on his desk: James at the beach in baggy boardshorts and rash vest, looking out from under a twist of unruly hair. Those size-thirteen feet and big hands should have made him a strong swimmer. Yet, he’s so meek and—

‘Michael.’

He closes the door to his study and walks to the drinks cabinet, remembering he promised himself on the drive home that he wouldn’t drink until his son returned – a six-week health regime. Angela has already poured him a glass of something clear and strong, with a slice of lemon on top.

‘I’m not drinking tonight, love.’

She makes a gesture with her hands for him to bring the glass to her. She’ll drink for both of them, until James returns.

‘Do you want to keep driving?’ I ask when we return to the car. Sophie shakes her head, yawns and wraps her arms loosely around herself. She licks her fingers and studies the deep stain. ‘If only we could distil blackberries for nail polish.’

I drive a little over the speed limit. I’m suddenly bone-weary and want to make the next town before sunset, to find a motel. My car points into the gathering clouds, sniffing a change in the air. A kilometre-wide sheet of rain hammers the plains.

‘You turn off up ahead for Hillston,’ Sophie says, her voice assured.

We look at each other.

‘You can drop me in the main street.’

Her words rumble in my head like the storm. She picks up her handbag from the floor and places it quietly on her lap, clutching it like an old lady on a train. She crosses her legs.

‘I needed this lift. Thanks.’

The first heavy raindrop blots the windscreen.

‘It’s raining, Sophie. How much further do you have to go?’

‘In the opposite direction to you. Near Robinvale.’ Sophie loosens her grip on the bag. ‘I could sleep in the car, if you’re stopping. The seat goes way back.’

She pushes the lever and stretches out beside me, her eyes admiring the roof, and rubs her hand along the soft leather of the seat. ‘It’s as comfortable as some beds I’ve been in.’ She returns the seat to upright and drops the handbag back on the floor, beside her boots. ‘I’ll get an early start, with the truckies heading west.’

‘Sure, if you want.’ The silence presses. ‘Or I’ll get a room. With an extra bed,’ I add quickly, so she doesn’t think I’m plotting anything. Which I’m not. ‘Are we still talking truthfully?’

‘Yes, James. If you want.’

‘I can’t leave you on the side of the highway, not in this storm.’

‘I’ve been in worse places.’

‘Let – let me get a room. And tomorrow, I’ll drop you at the turn-off. There’s always a spare bed, Soph.’

I didn’t mean to call her that. It slipped out.

She says, ‘Thanks’ in a quiet voice and I know that like me, she’s thinking of the sound of ‘Soph,’ and what it means, me calling her that.

Like catching a fish together on a blue-sky Sunday morning.

Like eating a peach picked fresh from an orchard.

Like sharing blackberries that stain like bruises.

Beside the road, a foal gallops across a paddock. The mare trots alongside, herding it towards the safety of the trees. The foal flings its head back as if it wants to face the storm front on, confident it can outrun it, sure it can outrun anything. The mare canters under the trees and neighs. The foal wheels back and runs to its mother. They nudge each other and wait.

A car horn blasts from behind. A ute pulls out and speeds past, the driver gesturing rudely. I was so involved with the horses, I hadn’t noticed myself slowing down. We watch the ute pull away, the man’s fist threatening us out the window.

‘I’ll buy you dinner, for the bed,’ Sophie says. ‘And I won’t tell the waitress we’re lovers, if you don’t tell her I’m your sister.’

‘You mean we’re extending the truth . . . what do we call it?’

‘The truth factory?’

‘Okay, we’re moving the truth factory from the car into the pub?’

‘It surrounds us, James, all the time, like a—’

‘Don’t tell me – like a spell!’

‘You’re learning.’

The ute is waiting at the first traffic lights in two hundred kilometres. I keep my distance, careful not to smile in case the driver sees me in the rear mirror and gets out, wanting to make something of it. He has a shaved head and his rear window is plastered with stickers and an Australian flag. The light turns green and he wastes rubber, loudly.

There’s a Welcome Motel on the opposite corner. Four Telstra vans are parked out front, the technicians sitting on fold-up chairs in a circle under the awning, a carton of beer between them.

I drive past and turn into the main street. At the first roundabout there’s a statue of a soldier, head bowed, eyes staring down the gunbarrel-straight road out of town with the names of the fallen engraved below his feet. Wreaths of plastic flowers circle the statue. I angle-park near the biggest pub, which has a blackboard menu beside the entrance advertising
Roast of the Day
for ten dollars. We jump out and run through the rain to the footpath.

Inside, there’s a smell of stale beer and worn carpet. My eyes blink, adjusting to the gloom. A wooden bar runs along one wall, opposite two pool tables surrounded by men in singlets, beers in hand. Spinning fans hang from the pressed-metal ceiling, threatening to take the tip off any pool cue held too high.

The men watch as Sophie shakes the raindrops from her hair.

Someone near the door mutters about the night looking promising and a few blokes laugh. Their hungry eyes roam from her to me. One bloke with a five-day growth and trucker’s cap stands in my way, chalking his pool cue. I bow my head and squeeze between him and the bar. He nudges me with his shoulder. The barmaid scowls at me for no reason other than that Sophie is beautiful.

We walk to a booth in the far corner, which has plastic orange upholstery and a sign above reading
No smoking inside
. Someone has scrawled the word
bastards
in biro on the sign, except they spelt it
barsteds
.

Sophie slides into the booth. I stub my toe and bend uncomfortably. My head strikes the lamp over the table and it swings wildly, shadow-boxing, as I flop heavily onto the seat. Sophie reaches for my forehead.

‘No!’ I react.

My fingers feel for blood, find only a lump itching to grow. Reaching up to steady the lamp, I dare not look at the men laughing across the room.

‘Are you all right?’

My hand covers the bruise and I blush hotly.

Sophie dumps her bag on the table, beside the coasters and tomato sauce bottle. She leans towards me, her fingers reaching to caress.

‘I’m fine!’ My voice is louder than I intended and the barmaid looks up from the beer taps. I quickly turn to the wall, so no one can see my embarrassment.

Sophie pulls away and sighs impatiently. She fumbles inside her handbag. The humiliation pushes all the air out of me and I sink back into the seat. Sophie places a small oval make-up mirror on the table between us.

‘You want me to look into
that
here,’ I say.

Sophie’s voice is hushed, ‘I thought you’d want to check . . .’

‘I know what I look like.’ I steal a glance towards the pool table. ‘And so does everyone else.’

‘Who cares what they think?’ She looks to the ceiling. ‘You shouldn’t be so . . .’

‘I don’t need help to make myself look foolish,’ I say bitterly.

Sophie slides the mirror off the table and into her handbag. She gets up, strapping the bag over her shoulder. ‘I need a drink.’

The men watch her stroll to the bar, where she orders from the barmaid. Instead of returning to our booth, she leans on the counter, watching the pool game. Suddenly alert, the men start concentrating on every shot they make.

I retreat to the toilets and check out the red mark on my forehead in the mirror above the sink. I turn on the tap and consider drowning myself in twenty centimetres of water but decide to apologise instead.

Sophie is back in the booth, sitting opposite a man who’s taken my seat. He has a scruffy beard and a flannelette shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He doesn’t stand or offer his hand when I return.

‘The name’s Larry.’

There are two drinks in front of Sophie, a beer and a whisky.

‘I was just inviting the lady here for a game of pool. My mates and me are placing bets.’

‘I don’t know if—’

‘Don’t be shy, mate. You can come over too. For a while.’

Sophie reaches for my hand. ‘You can go, Larry,’ she says. ‘Now my boyfriend’s back.’

‘Last chance, lady. Pool and a few laughs?’

Sophie ignores his offer and smiles up at me.

Larry reaches for the whisky and downs it in one gulp. When he gets up, I step back to let him pass. He holds up the glass. ‘Weak as piss.’

I’m careful to avoid the lamp when I sit back down. A muscle in my arm twitches involuntarily.

Sophie slides the beer towards me. ‘I ordered two roasts, with vegies. Is beer okay? That creep just drank my Scotch.’

She looks at our hands on the table, touching, her long fingers covering my knuckles.

‘I’m sorry about before, Sophie.’

She grins. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll blame the yobbos.’

The barmaid slides our meals across the table.

I blink and focus on the roast, thick with gravy, on my plate. The vegies are watery, the meat stringy, the pile of chips threatens to spill onto the floor. I try a few: they’re thin and crisp and salty.

Sophie chews slowly on a chip. ‘I worked in a pub like this, just after I left home. I hitched a few hundred kilometres east, walked into the first pub in town and asked for a job.’

She adds extra salt to her chips.

‘The publican looked me up and down and said, “No worries, love. We’ll have men travelling miles to be pulled a beer by you.”’

A fly buzzes over my plate.

‘I told him that’s all I’d be doing, pouring beers. I stayed for two months, saved what I could, had two proposals of marriage and five offers of a quickie out the back.’ She grimaces. ‘It was easy to resist. I bought a second-hand station wagon and kept moving east.

A bloke with tattoos and a tray of beers walks past our table, singing tunelessly along with the jukebox. He trips on the scrunched-up carpet, but doesn’t spill a drop.

‘My first day in Sydney, I went straight to the beach and swam in the ocean.’ She finishes her chips and reaches across to take some of mine. ‘There was a howling southerly and the waves were all whitecaps. I didn’t care. It was the Pacific. I slept in the back of the car for a week until I found a share house in Newtown.’ She sprinkles salt on my chips as well and looks around the pub at the bartender collecting glasses and the unlit fireplace full of pine cones. ‘This is the first time I’ve been back this way.’