The Break (3 page)

As for his brother — well, Mike had pissed off to the city.

Ferg took out the thermos of coffee he'd made that morning, realising as he swirled it around that he hadn't put any sugar in it. He swallowed the creamy stuff, trying not to taste the bitterness of it on his tongue.

Sam was busy charting constellations, lying on his belly on the rug, cold slits of draught coming up between the boards underneath. He heard the wind and the huge old marri going nuts out there, and was that someone knocking at the front door, or just his imagination
going wild
, as Nanna Pip would say? He imagined the wind was a superhero force, stealing the sound from the visitor, wrapping it up and sucking it down underneath the weatherboard house. (He'd explored under the house a couple of years ago, got his Darth Vader tracksuit pants all dusty, and found a cat's skull right under their fireplace. Mum didn't like the skull much, wouldn't touch it, but Sam heard her ask Dad later how long it might have been there. He'd strained to hear his father's reply, but couldn't move away from the window because he was keeping a log of shooting stars that passed over their house.)

The pale green paint was peeling off the outside of their place, but Sam liked it. The house was big and old and had heaps of different spots to explore. There was a fence where Mrs Perry's place began, it was bent right down where they climbed over it all the time, and it wasn't like other fences that you couldn't go over — like the one at school. Mrs Perry always said, ‘Hello, Sam,' in that funny voice of hers when he was crossing through her garden to get to the hill, or the river. Mrs Perry was from Scotland, that's why she sounded funny. She called her chooks
chewks
. He loved the sound of their clucking and scratching and picking over the soil. Yep, he was glad they didn't live in one of the new houses in town. Little brick boxes, Dad called them, snorting. They were all the same — all
beige
, he said, with
beige
garage doors and
beige
carpet inside. Sam
felt sorry for the kids who lived in those beige places, and sometimes brought home a friend, showed them his bedroom, with the big window, and the marri right next to the front door, and pointed to the purply-blue blur of the blue gums in the distance, where his dad was working. But he only showed the cat skull and his charts to Jarrad. He was the only one who understood that stuff. And he was into the internet.

The flyscreen door creaked like a bullfrog, and Sam heard the sound of Dad's voice, and another voice, but he couldn't hear well enough to tell who it was. The
wind
. It was really howling now, and Sam wondered if the marri would be okay — it was close to their powerline, and he got up real quick to ask Dad if any branches needed trimming, or anything. Sam didn't want to miss out on his sci-fi story, and besides, he didn't much like candlelight, which made everyone look spooky.

‘Liza, Mike's been out on the verandah …'

‘Knocking away like an old dero.' Mike grinned stupidly.

Liza laughed. ‘You dickhead, you should have just come in!'

‘Dickhead!' he protested.

They were all laughing, standing in the kitchen.

Ferg wandered over to the kettle, shaking his head at the silliness. ‘Who wants one?' he said, holding up his special after-work mug, a huge thing.

‘Yeah, tea thanks, Fergs. But a normal mug'll do for me, thanks, mate.'

Liza tutted. ‘Shame Pip's not here.'

‘Where is she?' asked Mike.

Liza and Ferg looked at each other, then said in perfect timing, their voices a funny harmony, ‘Ladies' bridge.'

‘
Ladies' bridge!
' Mike smothered a laugh.

‘She goes with Mrs Perry, once a fortnight.'

‘No, sorry, that's good,' Mike said. ‘It's good. Poor Mum. She must miss the old man like hell.' He shook his head.

Not that you do much about it, Ferg felt like saying. ‘Reckon she does,' he said.

Fergus thought of their mother there, in the brightly lit hall with tables of oldies dealing cards. Pip wasn't really into bridge, he knew that.
I go for the social side
, she'd told him one day when they'd waited for Mrs Perry to bring the car around. Despite that, he reckoned it was a good thing. She usually came back pretty cheery, with a few bits of gossip about local goings-on.

Sam skidded in on his socks.

‘Hey, Sam!'

Liza watched him take them all in before saying, ‘Dad, do we need to check the marri, cos the wind's up and it might hit the powerline. Hi, Mike!'

They were all looking at Ferg, awaiting his response.

‘Have you come to stay again, Mike?' Sam plopped down on one of the wobbly wooden chairs, remembering the time Mike stayed in the sleep-out a few years ago when Auntie Jenny went to Europe. Liza said Sam wasn't to bother him then, just let him be, when he had asked her why Mike looked sick, kind of bony, and never got out of bed until after lunch.

‘No, no, mate, just come to say hi. I was on a job out at Brenn Head, fixing a seized chipper for a bloke who does tree lopping. Thought it was a perfect opportunity to swing by.' There was a slight pause. ‘But I am thinking of coming to live down this way.' He looked at his hands. ‘Thinking about it.'

His mum and dad looked at Mike. Dad's mouth was slightly open.

‘Mike …' he said. ‘When?
Why
? I thought you liked it up in the city. There's not all that much to do down here, mate.'

‘I'd need to get some work. Seen any job ads for an itinerant plant mechanic lately?' He laughed.

Sam swallowed the warm, thick milk of his hot chocolate and kept hold of the cup to warm his fingers. He was getting that funny feeling in his bum, and he held on to the cup tight. It was tingling like it did when he lay in bed at night listening to Mum and Dad arguing. Sometimes he'd sneak out of his bedroom and down the hall to catch a look at their faces, to see exactly how angry they were, if they might stop soon.

He told his bum to shut up. It was all okay, they were all sitting around now, laughing, right?

Ferg hadn't slept. He'd stewed all night. And when he'd told Pip over their morning brew the news about Mike possibly moving down, she'd lit up. And Ferg felt like he was twelve again. Of
course
she'd be glad to have Mike down here; he was her son too. That thing of Pip being closer to Mike than to him, that was just a hangover from when they were kids.
I was a little shit, then
, Ferg thought.
Fair enough if Mum thought I was a pain in the arse.
That was when things were still on even ground for Mike, before he'd changed course. It really seemed like that, when he and Liza had talked about it, tried to figure it out; it was like a boat changing direction, straying from its plotted course, being blown by shifting winds. For the hell of it? Maybe. He was smart, that was for sure. Mike had always bettered Ferg at school, got top marks and slaps on the back from the old man. It didn't matter in the end. Fergus had spent good time with the old man before he died, and they'd had Pip living with them for years now; he knew those were good things, important things. He thought they were, anyway. Maybe they were just bullshit. Mike had hurt the folks — not out of malice, of course, but out of pure fucking selfishness — and Pip still thought the sun shone out of him, never said a word against him. Maybe if she knew the truth, he'd often thought, but they'd promised never to tell her; it'd be the end of Pip discovering something like that about one of her boys.

Ferg held a scrap of old netting over a hole in their main net for the orchard, and cut it to size. He wasn't sure how best to secure it. A stapler? Wire? Gaffer tape? Yeah, gaffer tape, that fixed everything.

It felt awful to relive old jealousies. The thoughts corrupted you, scored your insides, and he knew he had to just let it be. Maybe it was part of why he'd only wanted one kid, one Sam. So he couldn't slip into that himself, as a father, being closer to one child than the other — so cruel, so unkind. Thank god Sam would never have to deal with that.

Who knows if you've made the right choices
, Ferg thought.
You can't ever know that
.

Ferg reckoned he knew one thing. He had something in him for Sam that he didn't have for any other soul on this planet.

Cray's week home was up. He had hardened in the last twenty-four hours, his face less fluid, his mind bringing the desert back into focus in preparation for the coming transition — from Freo, Rosie, their nights out, swimming at Leighton, cooking up meals for the two of them that could have fed ten; to the donga, pressure and stress, extremes of heat and cold, no recreation except drinking and swearing, and borderline inedible canteen food.

‘God, and
Shits
linger!' he moaned, closing his eyes for a moment against the thought. Four more weeks, he reasoned. Four more, and he'd be back here, in their bed. And then it'd be time to go again, to go through all this again. ‘Bloody hell!' he yelled, chucking the papers against the wall.

‘Oh, don't, Cray.'

‘Rosie, this promotion, if I get it, things'll be so much better — two weeks on and one off. And I'll get to move out of the donga, too. Never thought a brick-and-tile in the middle of nowhere could look so good.' He let out a breath. ‘I bloody hope I get it.'

‘You'd better stop thinking about it till you find out for sure, Cray.'

‘Yeah, I know. The extra money could come in handy now, though.' He threw her a cheeky look. ‘Now that you're a
lady of leisure
. Or is that bludger? Slacker?'

‘Well,' she said, ‘we'll have to do a few cheap meals, then, won't we? Toad-in-the-hole on Tuesdays, and Wednesdays can be toasted sandwich night. And there's always Mum's best liver on toast for Thursdays. Mmm-mmm.'

‘Oh, god,' he croaked.

Rosie fell back onto a pile of pillows and cushions. ‘I don't know what I'll do. No job. No hope. May as well just give myself up to the Church. Didn't you know, Cray?
God has a plan for my happiness.
Oh, here's one — I heard it the other day:
God has no problems, just plans
.'

‘Jesus Christ,' Cray said, pulling her towards him. ‘Well you know what?'

‘What?'

‘Forbidden fruits create many jams.'

‘Oh. My. God.' Rosie cringed. ‘You'll need to take your hand off my boob, then, won't you.'

On that last night they walked down to the Seaview to meet friends, play pool over a few pints out the back. The pub was conveniently located opposite the local brothel, something everyone seemed to know but Rosie, until one day Marty made a crack about the knocker shop and she unravelled the facts along with some of her naivety.

The Seaview, like its neighbour opposite, was fairly grungy, barmaids still proffering a titty kitty some nights. Other nights there were bands out the back, local outfits trying to break into the Freo music scene. While the old guys drank themselves into oblivion at the front bar, shoving notes down sticky cleavages, the younger Freo crew hung out near the poky stage out the back.

When the band had finished its second set, Cray and Rosie's group stood around their keg-for-a-table and watched the musos packing up their equipment.

‘Poor bloody drummer,' said Marty. ‘He'll still be here at midnight.'

‘'Nother round?' said Salt.

Cray yawned. ‘Nah, not for me. Got an early start tomorrow. Unfortunately.'

‘Oh, mate!' Marty said. ‘Let's get you back in the water again, four weeks tomorrow, okay? Wash off that mine dirt.'

Cray laughed. ‘We do shower up there, you know.'

‘Together?' said Salt.

‘Not generally.'

‘Shame for you, mate.'

‘Fellas!' Rosie interjected. ‘I reckon I'm getting rather …
tired
too. Salt, can you get Nat to call me when she has a chance?'

‘Sure thing, Rosie, will do.'

Rosie and Cray took the slow wander home through the dark shushing streets of South Fremantle. The walk took them past cottages with clutters of bikes out the front, towering sunflowers and the occasional gargoyle. The conversations they shared on these walks were ones where they thrashed out new views, relinquishing some after a few streets, and settling on perhaps one crucial belief by the time they'd passed the hospital.

As they meandered back to their place, Rosie caught the silhouettes of people moving about their homes, bare feet padding over floorboards, quiet conversations, bedrooms with lights out and children sleeping.

When Cray gave Rosie a boogie board for her birthday three years ago, her folks had decided this infatuation of hers with this surfing, fishing bloke was just that: a passing fixation. Never in her life had she shown any special interest in the ocean, let alone in long-haired unemployed specimens obsessed with waves. They were sure the relationship wouldn't last, even though they kind of liked him — he was gentle, friendly, polite. Older. A bit too old for her, they thought; how could you still ‘be into' surfing at thirty? Cray liked red wine a bit too much, didn't bother wearing shoes — his thongs didn't count, of course. Just not the kind of guy they'd expected Rosie to love. They had fixed ideas about the way things should be. Rosie could just imagine how they were going to react to the news about her job. She could see their reaction a mile away.

Kneeling down beside the phone, Rosie hesitated. If she didn't ring them she'd have that bit longer with just Cray around her. She looked across at the weekend papers, separated into their sections, fanned around the fireplace where the two of them had sat last night, and pressed the combination of the phone's rubbery buttons.