The Break (17 page)

Even after telling Cray what she'd decided to do, it had taken Rosie a good while to summon up the courage to pay a visit to the editor of the local paper. The
Southern Way
's office was an old weatherboard house in town, the editor's office the master bedroom.

‘Well, we'd love to have you on board, Rosie, the problem is there's not a hell of a lot going on at the moment …' He twirled his pen, looking at her, then gazed at one of the pieces of local art hanging on the wall. ‘But … the back page column needs someone — we call it Coffee Time.' He smiled apologetically. ‘It's just a friendly weekly feature about a local identity, you know, a family who's been here for six generations, or the new apprentice at the permaculture centre, something like that, pretty gentle stuff. Jacqui gets sick of doing them every week, that's all, it'd be nice to give her a break …'

Yeah, so you two can go for it hammer and tongs on your desk instead
, Rosie thought, remembering what Liza had told her.

‘Well, that sounds great,' she said, trying to ignore the image of him naked on his desk, bumcheeks squashing media releases.
Coffee Time. Possibly the pinnacle of my career
. ‘I really appreciate the opportunity.'

Rosie felt vaguely sick about going back on the promise she'd made to herself.

‘When do you need the copy by?'

After that, they shook hands, Rosie excelling at the grateful young person, and him playing the career mentor to a tee.

But a weekly feature, she thought. No muck-raking, no anonymous calls, no politics — council or office. And no Leighton tower.

Town was busy with people meeting friends, trucks hauling loads along the highway. She chucked her CV and folio on the passenger seat of the Woody and drove to Nurrabup, to the tiny salty cafe, where she knew she had a chance of being on her own with her thoughts.

When she drove up, Rosie saw the woman who ran the cafe, her hair wrapped up in a different piece of fabric today. She and a couple of seagulls were cleaning the tables outside.

There was no way around it; Rosie couldn't reverse out of the carpark now. She'd just have to get used to this, this total lack of anonymity. She realised now how much she missed that part of living in the city. Here, wherever people were, there was someone you knew. That was the way it worked. She'd just have to think about the
Southern Way
column later on, at home.

After the usual friendly preliminaries, the woman said, ‘Have you been coming to the meetings?'

‘It's great, isn't it? They're really keeping up the momentum.'

‘We just can't let it happen,' the woman said. ‘There's an energy about this place … It's not like anywhere else I know.'

Rosie nodded vaguely, thinking:
‘Energy', please, give me a break
. But she said, ‘The rec centre's been packed, hasn't it? Though I doubt it's going to make any difference now — like you said, they've got it all planned. We're just delaying the inevitable, aren't we?'

‘Well, yeah, I s'pose. And they're using the argument that the development will
contribute
to the town — services,
jobs — so they're getting lots of support that way. I mean, if it was just out-and-out logging for woodchips or something they'd never have a chance. But they've made it sound … good to a lot of people.'

They turned to look at the proposed site.

‘God, it's unbelievable, isn't it,' Rosie said.

She and Cray had walked through there last week. There were hundreds of arum lilies starting to bloom, and peppermint trees swayed over the smooth white cups. The lilies were weeds down here, she knew, but she thought they were beautiful all the same. In the bush it was dark and cool. Rosie felt furious — was it too much to ask, to want? A place that was left just as it was? Where birds scooped in and out, animals scuttled low down and the wind sent waves through the bush, like a sheet being thrown over a bed. She shook her head. She couldn't think of anything good that could come out of ploughing it down. Nothing.

Rosie was glad she'd had to chat to the cafe owner, after all. It was good to talk to people. It wasn't what you said, or didn't say. It was more a matter of being part of something, she thought, of the human exchange.

The following week, Rosie dropped the copy on his desk. It was a good story, a lovely story. It had been a pleasure to listen to the eccentric old woman, her dancing eyes, the way she called her
Rosie dear
, voice wavery.

Eight hundred words later, and she had Coffee Time (that
name
!): the story of a woman who'd been born in Margaret River and had lived here ever since. It was a great way, Rosie thought, of getting to know a town that was at the same time open and closed to newcomers. A great way to neutralise the brain-deadening effect of working at the hotel, without
having to give up the job altogether. (There
was
something in the pulling of a beer from a silvery wet tap that satisfied her immensely.) She still felt sick, though, when she thought about admitting it to Nat and Salt, to her folks; saying she'd gone back. Thank god for 329 kays.

On the way back to the house, Rosie dived into the nippy turquoise water at Hut's Beach. A few metres out she turned to face the shore, looked up to the top of the hill where you could just see their house and, sometimes, the shape of a man on the verandah, searching for patterns in the swell.

But today was too calm for swell. Rosie let her body sink through the shades of cold, and settled on the ocean floor.

At the meeting that evening, Rosie scanned the information being handed around about the Nurrabup development. She couldn't imagine anything the area was less suited to than the developers' original — and thankfully rejected — plan for a golf course. When council didn't approve it, the developers sold it back to the local bloke they'd purchased it from. So he'd already made a hefty profit from the stuff-up, but now of course he wanted more. Subdivision had been approved by council. Sketchings of a shopping centre and hotel had been accepted. RAID was trying to get anything they could now, height restrictions, buffer zones, anything to lessen the impact. Anything to stifle the arrogance of council.

‘What about the sewage from the area, Mr Hanlen?' Someone was on his feet, notes in hand. ‘It says in the plans that effluent from the estate will be pumped into a “ponding area”, meaning it'll be left to seep into the sand — eventually the sea.'

People shifted in their seats, straightened up to hear the response. Heads nodded and shook, people murmured to themselves. Rosie didn't know the speaker but clearly he knew what he was talking about.

The guy continued. ‘We know you reckon you've got this all wrapped up, Mr Hanlen, but if you think this community's gunna sit by and let you wreck it out there, you've got another think coming.'

Rosie's knees pushed her up. Kids and oldies were cheering, clapping,
hear-hear
ing. Plumbers, hippies, business people, surfers, waiters, farmers. Rosie grinned wildly. Mister Stokes — Bernie — and some of the kids he taught who'd come
with their parents were crammed in at the back. Across the room, Liza and Ferg and Sam.

He was shouting now. ‘We're the people of this town, Mr Hanlen,' — he looked around at the faces — ‘and we have time. We'll stick this out as long as it takes.'

The whole room was on its feet. The hair on Rosie's arms went vertical. Cray had his whistle fingers jammed into his mouth. The stage microphones were useless.

Sam was finding it hard to wind down after the meeting. He glanced at his computer, its shut-down screen. He wasn't allowed to log on this late. He was meant to be getting ready for bed.

He thought about the situation at Lumptor while he rummaged about for his PJs. Last time he'd checked, the planet was hanging on. But Sam thought he might have found a loophole to help save the Lumptorians, if only there were some way he could let them know. He'd found a way of disarming Valstran's vapour-armour, he was almost certain. This was chemical warfare, after all. Valstran had no problem eliminating Lumptor's essences, preventing the respiration of its inhabitants, so why should Lumptor stick to the rules? As far as Sam was concerned, now was no time to be nice.

He peered out the window. It was a black night out there. Even the marri's outline had disappeared into the blackness.

As he pulled his jarmie top over his head Sam spotted his backpack dumped on the floor, and remembered that his lunch was still in there. Yuck. Festering sandwiches with slobbery tomato. He'd told Mum about not putting tomato in his sandwiches — it soaked into the bread and by lunchtime it was like eating an old sponge. Wet bread. Ugh. The thought of it made him bare his teeth. He took the lunchbox into the kitchen. He had a couple of notes Mum had to sign. Excursions. One to some local factory (thrilling), and the other to a surf carnival. Sports days were okay, at least you could take munchies and frozen cordial in your drink bottle and cheer for your team.

In the lounge, Ferg, Liza and Pip sat staring at the TV. No one was talking. Sam saw Dad get up and snap off the set.

Pip came to, then, with a little snore, tried to pretend she'd been awake all along.

‘This is ridiculous,' said Ferg.

Liza was tired. Nothing anyone said would help, but Ferg looked at her like he wanted an answer.

‘It's not the end of the world, Ferg! Yes, Mike was late and yes, Pip missed her doctor's appointment as a result. But I called the surgery to apologise and I don't think your mum's too worried about it, so let it go.'

‘But it's like it's my fault now! Why am I feeling bad, for Christ's sake?'

‘Probably because you're going on and on about it!'

Sam backed away to the kitchen so he could hear the rest in safety.

‘For
Christ's
sake, Mum, go to bed if you're tired.'

Oh god. Poor Nan. After a pause, Sam heard her say,
Well goodnight then!
, and something about the Lord's name.

‘Oh fuck!' Ferg pleaded with Liza.

Sam looked around the kitchen, at his old blue lunchbox. He'd lost the lid last year; they'd been playing frisbee with it at recess. Now it had an orange lid that didn't quite fit: the corner always popped off.

He had the notes in his hand.

Sam tucked the pages under the poking-up corner of his lunchbox lid, didn't breathe in while doing so lest the fetid sandwiches reached him, then ran down to his room. He closed the door behind him.

Home.

Sam was propped up in his bed, reading, when someone knocked very quietly. And, wrapped in his daggy old terry-towelling robe, his dad poked his head around the door.

‘Sam,' he whispered.

He came over and sat on the edge of the bed. Sam put down his book and looked at his dad. Outside, the marri swayed, talked in night languages.

Sam waited for him to say something, to explain why he'd come in, was still waiting when his dad tried to chase away a salty bead straying down his cheek. Only thing was, he flicked it onto Sam. Sam didn't know what to do. His dad was … well, he was crying, and not saying anything. Sam looked at Captain Kirk on the base of his lamp, as if he might tell them what to do.

Sam reached over and hugged him, as best he could. Squeezed his dad's humping shoulders.

From the cottage window, Mike could see the main house, with its golden-lit windows. He imagined Liza curled up on the couch next to his brother, both of them reading, while Sam dreamed of technologies yet invented and Pip nodded off in her chair.

He thought about the scars in the skin of his over-used arms, the gaping wounds in his head, his screwed-up head. Tree shadows leaned over the cottage, conferred among themselves. He thought of how he'd forgotten the doctor's appointment he'd promised to take Pip to that day. By the time he'd made it back to collect her it was too late. He was always too late. Too late for everything. He thought of the line of Liza's neck. The way her collarbone lifted her freckled coppery skin. Mike looked down at his grubby jeans and worn boots, at the way earth was jammed into the cracks in the boots' leather, ground into the creases where his toes bent with each step.

He was hungry. He scanned his inadequate food collection — tins of tomatoes, tinned corn and beans — and felt ashamed that he could not, at this stage in his life, look around at a good steak, fresh eggs and a loaf of bread, and maybe even the odd vegetable or two. He was sitting in the sag of an old single bed, and somewhere in the world was a woman he loved, who had once loved him, who had lain at night with her ear at his lips, listening to him, wanting his words, noticing the sliver of moon, its opaqueness, when life was clean, when he was clean, before he sullied it all with grubby need.

Sam's eyes shone with light reflected from the screen. He'd turned down the volume to zero, so he could hear anyone coming towards his room. He'd switched off his room light. If someone came, he'd cover the screen with his lever-arch file and launch himself into bed.

No one came. And that night Lumptor fell.

As he read, Sam felt spewy. He couldn't believe it. The planet was shrouded in grey gases concocted by Valstran's lab army.

He'd always thought it would be okay, all this time he'd been following the story; that the people of Lumptor would stumble across a solution — his solution! That Valstran would end up being their slave, or something. That the good guys would win.

But Lumptor was cyber-ash.

Sam concentrated.
That old good-guys-win-bad-guys-lose stuff is crap
, he thought reluctantly. Seppo schmaltz, his dad called it. Sam usually agreed with him, but … well, he'd hoped the Lumptorians would crush Valstran into a pulp, after they'd tortured him, that is.