Dunger (7 page)

 

Grandma wants to show me some chords on the red guitar but I tell her my fingers are too sore, so we move on to the box of photographs. This will be a horrendous task, days probably, because I have to describe each picture to her, and then write what she tells me on the back. Some she doesn't recognise, and these, the easy ones, get dropped into a bag to be burned. Others have stories to them about people and places I don't know, although every now and then there's a photo of Dad as a baby with Grandpa and Grandma looking so young I hardly recognise them. Grandpa has a long droopy moustache and round-rimmed glasses. Grandma's frizzy hair sticks out sideways like a gorse bush and she has one of those peasant blouses that fall off the shoulders, not quite to cleavage level. She looks awesomely quaint. I hold a photo in front of her eyes and she says, “Is that my Indian wrap-around skirt?”

“Seems like it.”

“Damn me if it wasn't just the niftiest thing. Indian cotton skirts and patchwork dresses. Leather sandals. It was all about being children of the earth.”

“Dad says you made sandals from seaweed.”

“Kelp. But it was a very brief fashion. They wore out in one morning.” She laughs. “That photo was taken at a gypsy fair when Alistair was seven months old. Write it on the back.”

There's a kind of slow, sick feeling bothering me, but it's a while before I realise what's causing it. Then it hits me with a thud. In sorting these photos she's preparing for the time when she's gone. She knows she's going to die. I'm now wondering if this entire holiday is a kind of goodbye to happy times in the past. The sadness of it blurs my eyes so I make a mistake and start putting good photos in the rubbish bag. She leans forward and yells, “You nincompoop! What are you doing?” and I feel embarrassed.

We have to stop to make lunch, which is homemade bread and mussel fritters. Neither Will nor I eats mussels, usually, but these have been ground up so they don't look like dead shellfish, and she's put in chilli and tomato and stuff, so they don't taste like it, either. We eat them with salad and they're actually amazingly good, and then, when I'm pouring everyone more lemonade, a car stops. The mailman! I run to the window. It starts up again, not a car but a red van, passing between the trees. Oh yeah, the man has picked up my phone!

I slap Will on the back. “He'll bring it back tomorrow!”

“No he won't,” says Will. “Wednesday. It's twice a week, remember?”

No, I don't remember, but brother poo-face obviously does. Well, Wednesday then. I come back to the table and continue filling the glasses. The kitchen is hot again and even the lemonade is warm.

Grandpa says, “You kids coming for a swim this afternoon?”

I look at Grandma. “You're absolutely sure there are no sharks?” I ask.

“Nobody said there were sharks,” Grandma says.

“You did!” I tell her. “We talked about it and you told me not to believe everything I heard!”

“I never said there were sharks!” She glares at Grandpa. “He probably told you. Silly old fool, he'll say anything for a laugh.”

“Be blowed if I did!” he said.

“Be blowed if you didn't,” she replied.

He leaned over the table towards her. “Woman, you got a tongue in you so long, the back doesn't know what the front is up to.”

I look at Will who shuts his mouth tight, glaring at me to remind me that I've started one of their useless arguments.

“You mean it's your ears,” she huffs. “Half the time you don't hear what you're saying.”

I have to interrupt. “Grandma, you told me there were sharks. Then when we went to get mussels, you told me not to believe it.”

She turns to me, her eyes bright. “Never! I never said there were sharks. What I said was ‘look out for sharks', which is entirely different.”

At that, she and Grandpa laugh like mad, as though this is the comedy show of the year, and it's me they're laughing at. I am extremely disgusted with their behaviour. It's all a big act, a two-clown circus. It occurs to me that all their quarrels may be nothing more than performances for their own amusement. Well, I am not amused. But seeing as it's so hot, and considering there are no sharks, I will go for a swim after all.

 

 

I'm learning about tides. High and low tide are about an hour later each day, and in this part of the Sounds there is a bigger than normal tidal difference, over two metres, which means if the outhouse was set in the mud at low tide, it would be covered when the tide was full. Today the tide is fully in at about 2.30pm but we go down earlier than that, while it is still crawling up the beach, since Grandpa and Grandma don't take much notice of rules such as no swimming after a meal.

Lissy is wearing a bikini about as big as three handkerchiefs, and the oldies have the same bathing gear they wore yesterday, their underclothes. We all have beach shoes. Grandpa is quite steady on his feet. It's Grandma who's all over the place, afraid of falling, so today we know what to do. Lissy gets on one side and I manage the other, so Grandma's held by the elbows and hands. We walk into the water together. It's not too cold and there are no waves, just ripples against knees, thighs, belly. When Grandma is up to her waist she shakes us off and dives in, reminding me of the big seal at Marine Park: clumsy on land, but smooth in water. Grandpa follows her and they plough across the surface, out into the bay.

Lissy is fussing with her hair. “Will, let me have your swim goggles? Please.”

“No.” I'm fitting the goggles firmly in place. “You should have brought your own.”

“That's not fair,” she says. “I have to be Grandma's guide dog. You know I do. I can't get salt in my eyes.”

“Then I suggest you shut them,” I tell her, and I slide like a torpedo under the surface. Instead of heading out deep, I swim across the bay. The water is so clear, I can see rocks with clumps of mussels, shells slightly open, shoals of small fish that flash away in a shower of silver sparks, and red and green seaweed. There are no big fish. But I glimpse an arm in a screen of bubbles and see that Lissy is swimming near me. I come up and tread water. “Here! You can have my goggles. Don't lose them.”

“Are you sure?” She stretches out her hand.

“If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't offer them. I'm going up now. You and Grandpa can help Grandma.”

She grabs my swim goggles. “You haven't been in for very long.”

“I've got something to do,” I tell her, and I go back to the shore.

Now that I've cooled off, I want to finish the job on the tree before Grandpa gets back from his swim. I know he thinks I'm a city kid who knows fat zero about zilch, but I'm going to show him I can finish the branch. “I'll do the rest from the ladder,” he had said, making a fuss about it being too dangerous for someone inexperienced. Inexperienced? Excuse me, please? Who was it spent more than an hour sawing at a branch that's about as thick as he is? I need to finish it. I have to make the last cuts and see that massive log crunch to the ground because, who knows, it might be as close as I ever get to felling an entire tree.

I don't stop for a towel or shirt, don't even change the wet shoes, but squelch back to the macrocarpa and the spread of sawdust that lies under the branch. I already cut three-quarters of the way through before lunch. Now the weight has caused it to split again, so that arrow-shaped fibres are sticking up. The bush saw is clean and sharp. I put it over my bare shoulder and climb back to the nearer branch. It will be easy to cut through the splintered wood, and after that, there isn't much left.

I have the knack of this now: light cuts, the saw slicing without resistance, dust falling, fibres parting. I imagine Grandpa's face when he sees the massive branch flat on the ground. He might get mad, but I'm ready with an answer about the difference between dead smart and living smart.

The tree creaks. More fibres spring up and then the saw gets caught in a cage of splintered wood. As I try to wrench it free, there is another creak that extends in volume to a loud crack. Fortunately, I let the saw go and swing my legs over to the other side of my branch. I don't know what makes me do that but it is just as well, because the cut branch gives way in unexpected fashion. Instead of dropping, it rolls towards the place where my legs just were. There is another crack and it falls, tearing bark off the tree.
Whump!
It hits the ground. I'm shaken. I just sit there. What would have happened to my legs if I hadn't moved?

It's a while before I think about the saw. Where is it?

I climb down, look into the mess of wood and branches and see it underneath, Grandpa's bush saw bent like a paperclip.

I don't think I need to tell you what he says when he comes back from the beach. His face goes red, then purple. When he opens his mouth, he doesn't stop long enough for me to explain.

“You realise you could have bloody well killed yourself? Do you? Young jackanapes! You're as much use as tits on a bull. Didn't I tell you to leave it?” He stabs his finger at the air with each word.

Enough is enough. I yell at him, “
Vieux imb
é
cile
!
”

He is so angry he doesn't hear me, just goes on letting off steam like one of those whistling kettles. I walk back to the house, pretending I'm as deaf as he is.

I see him go into the bedroom and guess he and Grandma are changing after their swim. He's not mad now. He's laughing. His voice comes through the wall. “You know what? He called me a silly old fool, in French.”

She laughs too, very loudly.

I've had enough of their craziness. I go back to the beach to talk to Lissy.

 

Day three. Seven days to go. Grandpa and Will have got over being mad with each other about the tree, but I haven't stopped feeling sorry for Will. He was only trying to do a good job. It's amazing that a little kid of eleven can cut down a branch nearly as big as a whole tree. “You did well, poo-face,” I told him, and he said, “Thanks, slime-brain.”

We should be used to odd things happening in this place, but day three starts with a different kind of strange. Yesterday, it was the bellbird chorus that woke us, this morning it's folk music somewhere outside the house, and at first I don't know who's making it.

You get to know people's voices by the way they talk. When they sing, it's a different sound. So it's a while before I work out that our grandparents are having a duet in the backyard. When I open the door I see them over by the stream. They're in their pyjamas, sitting in those funny old metal deck chairs, playing their guitars and singing a song about a Spanish captain who had a lady in every port. And you know something? It's awesome. They can really play, like proper musicians. Grandpa flicks his fingers through the strings and rattles them on the wood. Grandma picks the melody. Their voices are a bit whispery but the song still carries right into the house. Will joins me in the doorway. It's very early, the sky is that grey colour before the sun hits it, and there are pillows of mist on the hill. Grandma's got a blanket around her shoulders. Her walking stick lies across her feet. She sings, “Put your shoes under the bed, the noble lady said, and we'll dance the night away.”

I'm not sure if Grandma understands what that means, because if she did, I'm sure she wouldn't sing it, but her voice is amazing for an old lady. I glance at Will. His mouth is hanging open, like, is this crazy or is it crazy?

Grandpa sees us and raises his hand.

Will is in his shorts. I'm still wearing my sweetheart pyjamas with their pattern of flying pigs, and my hair is a mess. We push our feet into sandals and walk over while Grandma does some fancy flamenco chords to announce our arrival. Then they stop playing to talk to us. The bellbirds take over, chiming across the bay.

“We didn't mean to wake you up,” says Grandma. “We came away from the house.”

“Oh,” says Will. “I thought you always played out here.”

“Didn't want to disturb you kids,” Grandpa says. “We couldn't sleep and the gee-tars were all tuned up ready to go-yo-ho.”

A sandfly lands on my ankle and I slap it. “Sing something else. Please!”

Grandpa strums a chord. “Name it!”

“I don't know,” I say. “Anything. Whatever.”

Will says, “Sing something Dad liked when he was little.”

So that's when they start “There was an Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly.” Of course I recognise it because Dad used to sing it to me and Will, but I've never heard it with guitar accompaniment, lovely little arpeggios in the breathing pauses, string squeaks at the dramatic moments. The singing is good too, although the breaths come often, and Grandpa's chest makes a huffing sound. The music gets right inside me. I feel like I've just discovered a really interesting book that's been on the shelf all my life and I never knew it.

Grandma says to me, “You want to learn guitar?”

“Yes,” I nod, and then add, “When my fingers are better.”

“Me too,” says Will.

We help Grandma back to the house. She's not wearing her glasses. I suspect she can't see a thing, and that all her playing is done from feel, which means she could play on a moonless night. Wouldn't it be something to perform like that? How much can you learn in seven days, I wonder?

Grandpa says he's so hungry he can eat an elephant, so Grandma gets out the cereal. “We'll have breakfast in our pyjamas,” she says.

“I'd prefer mine in a bowl,” says Will, trying to be smart.

While they are laughing at my brother, I set the plates and spoons on the table. “I think I'll buy a guitar.”

“You might pick one up second-hand,” says Grandma. “No point in getting something fancy until you know it's your thing.”

I remember what she said about my hands being like hers, and I know, I just know I want to learn. “When do we get paid?” I ask.

Oh. I've said it. Will looks shocked. He sits up straight and turns to Grandpa. I put my hand to my mouth.

“You already have,” says Grandma.

“What?” I remember manners. “I mean, I beg your pardon?”

Grandpa reaches for a bowl. “Your money went into the trusts last Friday, one thousand dollars each, and more when we can manage it.”

“Trusts?” says Will.

“For your education.” Grandpa looks at Will, then me, and he frowns. “You didn't think you'd get that amount of money to fritter away on rubbish, did you?”

We don't say anything.

Grandma sits down. “We've set up trusts for your future, one thousand dollars each. We'll add a bit here, a bit there. By the time you're ready for university it will have amounted to something.”

I can't speak. My tongue won't work.

It's Will who says, “Do Mum and Dad know about this?”

“We talked it over with them,” says Grandma. “I assumed they'd tell you the details. By the way, if you two want to learn the guitar, you can have mine. But that means you'll have to share it.”

Will puts down his spoon. “Trust!” he mutters to me. “It's called a
trus
t
! What irony!”