The Break (12 page)

All this preoccupation around her.
What am
I
doing?
she thought.
What do I do, what's my thing?
All the house stuff, the family stuff, it kept her busy but she had room for more, she knew that. It was a pleasure, running the household. She liked each day, rising with the morning, pottering around the house, making life a smooth ride for Sam, for Ferg. It seemed to take all day, attaining, maintaining, that smoothness.

You're bored
, Ferg had said, a while back.
Bored
.

‘Mum's happy.'

Liza turned her head towards Ferg, rested her cheek on the pillow.

‘Well, she hasn't spent longer than two or three hours with him in years.'

‘Yeah.' He sighed, and then went quiet.

Liza watched a spider scrambling between the weatherboard planks.

Ferg flopped down beside her on the bed. ‘What a hopeless bastard,' he said. ‘And what an unforgiving prick I am. I just can't forgive the selfish little shit for putting us all through that — Mum and Dad … All that negotiating we had to do with the bank, and trying to keep that part from Mum. God, and remember how Dad's hair went white in the space of three weeks when it all came out, about Mike eating into their equity for smack.' He laughed caustically. ‘Fucker.'

Liza didn't want to go through it all again, but she could see Ferg needed to, it was the only way he'd have a hope of moving on. ‘It was hideous,' she agreed.

Ferg sat up, his back straight against the bedhead. ‘I mean, forging your own parents' signatures — for fuck's sake! I still can't believe it, really.'

She shrugged, helpless.

‘And now here he is, back again, like's it's all fucking hunky dory.'

‘I know. It's going to be hard. You might have to tell him some of this stuff yourself; get it off your chest.'

He shook his head. ‘I get too angry, Lize. I don't trust myself.'

Liza nodded. She understood that.

They both watched the spider, just a little fellow, going about its business.

‘Families … you know, they're the hardest work, my love.
But they're worth it. I think. No: I'm sure. They're worth it.'

‘And that's the other thing,' Ferg said, riding on his outrage. ‘I feel about eighty years old when he's around. Bad-tempered and rigid and …
conservative
. Mike's boring older brother. But it's his fault! Everything he's done, it's changed us, made us sort of scared, sort of straight-up-and-down …'

His face turned to the window.

‘That thing with the doughnuts. I never even
think
of buying Sam treats.'

Liza let his silence settle.

‘I don't want him butting in, humiliating me. I just can't relax with him around.'

Liza wrapped her fingers around his wrist, held it tight. ‘You're not
rigid
, Ferg, you're not. That might be how you feel at the moment, when Mike's around, but it's not how you are with me, or Sam.'

She saw him blink.

‘You have to try,' Liza said. ‘For yourself, for Sam. And Mike. Seriously, Ferg. You have to sort it out with him. It won't go away otherwise.'

‘
We
have to sort it out — he and I. It's not just up to me. I've fixed every fucking thing for him before. Let's see how good
he
is at mending shit that's broken.'

Rosie queued at the shire offices to pick up their local licence plates. AU: another stamp of their new identity. While she waited, she looked around the reception area, at displays of plans for new buildings and notices of development. In the local paper she'd read about a land development behind a popular family beach, Nurrabup (locals knew it better as ‘Nurries', for god's sake). The vision was on the pin-up board in front of her: sweeping cuts into the bush for smooth black roads leading to mansions that no local would ever be able to buy. Or, for that matter, want to live in. Wealthy western suburbs retirees, yes, but surely none of the community's backbone. Rosie frowned as she tried to make sense of the soft-pencilled drawings, the scaling of the thing. How close to Nurrabup would it be? How low-profile would they make it? What did locals get out of it?

Public consultation
, the notice said,
all concerns and suggestions considered. Submissions accepted until close of business Friday
.

Rosie slid the Kingswood into drive and took the long way home. She smoothed down hills and crawled up the other side, passing vineyard entrances — long, winding gravel tracks to sophisticated jarrah tasting tables — and forest chalets for weekend getaways. She turned left at Hollows Road and immediately took a hard right towards the small community of Preston, where the river snaked alongside her, deep below the road. Ten kays out of town, Preston was where the river eventually surged into the ocean in a yellowy
stream carrying grommets and boogie boarders, stirring up the granular sand of the town's main beach.

To get out to Nurrabup Beach you had to drive through Preston, into scrub-covered sand dunes and towards lonely limestone coast that offered long right-hand waves at Gas Bay and Grunters.

Rosie turned off before the surfers' limestone tracks, into the carpark overlooking the slightly weedy Nurrabup beach and the ever-popular salty cafe. That was all there was here, an uneven carpark and a crusty cafe that doubled as beach change rooms. She got out of the car and stood with her back to the water, looking over the acres of peppermint trees and smokebush that held the earth down, that provided dark shelters for possums and euros and the occasional scampering chuditch. Rosie could barely imagine bulldozers there, crushing the scrub, transforming the place into a twig-covered dustbowl, a developer's delight. She imagined project managers checking on the site's progress, driving through in Hiluxes, pointing blokes in the right direction. Nervous buyers measuring their seven hundred square metres and examining the views, the slope, the drainage.

Rosie's foot twitched on the gravel.

‘That's where they're planning to put the estate,' a voice said from behind.

Rosie turned around. It was the cafe owner, her hair wrapped back in a wide headband.

‘How big will it be?' Rosie pointed. ‘That whole area?'

‘Yeah, going right back towards the caravan park. The plans include a new shopping centre and hotel, if you can bloody well believe that.'

Rosie concentrated. ‘But it's not definite yet, is it? I mean, it's open for public submission or something at the moment.'

‘Open for lip-service, you mean.' The woman laughed
cynically. ‘Nah, it'll happen alright. What the shire wants, the shire gets.'

Gulls rose and fell with the wind.

‘If there was a petition or something — would people sign it?'

‘Yeah, of course, but …'

Rosie scanned her face. ‘But you don't really think it's worth the effort?'

The woman looked at her. ‘No, it's worth it. Worth a shot, anyway.'

Three men in their fifties sat around the bar, an almost measured two metres between their stools. They knew each other better than they liked to admit, would occasionally look up from their amber lifelines and say a few words, like:

‘Seen John?'

‘Huh?'

‘John. Yer seen him. Around.'

‘Not for a while.'

‘Keepin' a low profile, I reckon.'

‘Yeah. Keepin' his head down.'

Conversation picked up when the staff refilled glasses or reached for another stubby from the fridge.

‘What's been happening today, Phil? You're normally here before three.' Rebecca grinned cheekily as she straightened the glass into the last few mils of the pour.

‘Aarrgh.' He lit up another Craven A, adjusted his elbows on the bar. He threw her a look. There wasn't much you
could
say to that.

Rosie liked the guy on the left, behind the Matilda Bay tap. Tony, with greying blond hair, and not so long in the tooth as Phil, an ex pro-surfer, divorced, Rebecca had told her. He'd have a laugh listening to Phil and the others, to the gossip shared behind the bar, might swap a few jokes every now and then, but generally kept to himself.

‘Did ya get into the water today?' Phil croaked.

Apparently, every morning Tony took his board out to Margies' main break, paddled towards the horizon with the others. He'd catch a few, wasn't quite what he used to be, but he still got out there, every day.

‘Yeah.'

‘Cold, was it?'

‘Nah, ya wimp. It was beautiful. You should try it sometime.'

‘Too old for that rubbish,' Phil snorted, snort turning rapidly into a deep cough.

Tony looked at Rosie. ‘The day I can't get myself out into the ocean — then … well, not much left for me.'

Rosie wiped the bar around his glass. She knew from Rebecca that Tony's ex-wife lived in town with another guy, that there'd been an altercation not long ago on the steps of the post office. A mate had had to pull him away after he'd yelled something along the lines of
You slimy shit!
, with kids and mums skirting the scene.

He tipped his glass towards his lips.

This place, Rosie thought. Not the retreat she had thought it would be. Lives could still be on display.

As they stacked the dishwasher, Rebecca told Rosie about the parties they had from time to time, around glowing branches and popping sticks heaped into a forty-four gallon drum, with cartons of stubbies and bottles of wine and guitars and joints and all the hotel staff, and sometimes Tony would come and get drunk and end up cornering one of them for hours, talking and talking and reaching for another beer, poor lonely bastard.

There was a party at Rebecca's place tonight. ‘Why don't you come, Rosie, you and …'

‘Cray,' Rosie helped.

‘Yeah, Cray. You two should come along, we'll all be there. There are still a couple of the casuals you haven't met, and the new kitchenhand, Morgs — he's a laugh, he's doing up his bongo van to go on an endless surf trip, he reckons, around Australia — and Anya, though she's a bit of a space cadet. Talks
all the time about
auras
and
iridology
. I suggested she try colonic irrigation after the last party, she was crapping on so much.'

They laughed, Rebecca checking to make sure none of Anya's allies were around, although apparently there weren't too many of those.

But Rosie was unsure. Ever since she and Cray had come to Margies they'd been living in a kind of bubble, and Rosie loved it, wanted to protect it. But when you socialised, people would ask questions.
Where are you from? Oh. What did you do there? Ohhhhh. How long have you two been together? And so what does he do?
They would come to conclusions. Like her or dislike her. Rosie didn't want it. And yet it
would
be fun to be among these people: blond sixteen-year-old kitchenhands who talked about carving at the Bombie and Carter's; single mums who muttered about their exes; travellers saving a few bucks and soaking up the mellow atmosphere; chefs forging careers and drizzling red wine
jus
around the edges of plates; uni graduates taking time out before
getting serious
. Her. Cray.

‘And where were you two last night?' Rebecca was grinning at Rosie, with her worming explanation of tiredness, but Rosie could tell it didn't matter, except that now it was known:
those two keep to themselves
.

Still, Rosie wanted to know. ‘How was it? C'mon, what's the goss.'

‘It was great, really great fun. Everyone got completely whacked and Tim did his usual thing of strumming a few tunes on his guitar and making up songs about …
Noelene
.' She whispered, wary of the stealthiness of the manager, who apparently was on Noelene's side, and who snuck up on gossiping staff like paparazzi.

Rebecca looked around, moved away from the kitchen. ‘You haven't met her yet, she's the owner, she comes down every now and then. Everyone hates her. She storms around like a little bull, pays out on the chefs all the time. They reckon she slept with —' Rebecca jerked her thumb towards the bottleshop.

‘
Rod
ney!'

She nodded, with revolted emphasis.

‘God!' Rosie imagined it. ‘He is
vile
.'

Rebecca kept nodding, then shaking her head, at the thought of them.

Back from the kitchen with a mango cheesecake, Rebecca slid the heavy plate into the cabinet.

‘And guess what else you wouldn't believe … about Phil, you know, Mr Swan Gold …'

Jesus Christ, Rosie thought, waiting for it. I hope they don't have anything on me. Better not give them anything to work on.

Meanwhile, Corynne came in and grinned mischievously, knowingly, to Cole. Everyone loved Cole, he was the hotel staff favourite, camp as a row of tents. He was cleaning the milk scum off the coffee machine froth arm.

‘How're you feeling this morning, sweetpea?' He grinned back at Corynne. ‘How was that little treat I gave you last night?'

She lowered her voice. ‘Lovely, thanks.'

He moved closer to her, conspiratorial. ‘I didn't have any, but Dave reckons he had a snort and it sent him
intergalactic.
He couldn't talk for the rest of the night. I'm saving mine for a special occasion.'

Rosie pretended she couldn't hear them, kept folding serviettes around cutlery.

Rosie didn't have an after-work drink with the others, wanted to get home before sleep overtook Cray.

But she was still too late. He'd left the bedside light on, had a t-shirt over his eyes to combat the yellow shine. The light was for her.

Rosie clicked it off and closed the door gently behind her. In the lounge room, she sat and watched the bush moths launching themselves at the windows.