Deeper Water (3 page)

When I brought the stranger home, I knew it would unsettle Mum. More than the flooding rain and more than Sophie’s tears. More than the thousand and one irritations of our quiet life—no electricity, leaking roofs, crazy animals and dirty, wet footprints all over the wooden floors.

There were some things no one knew about my mum, some things no one knew but me. That’s how it is when you live with someone forever—you become accustomed to their every move. Every sigh is full of nuance and even the tread of their feet on the floor has its own temperament. No doubt Mum felt the same about me. Secret habits emerge from the darkness and even the most hidden thoughts find an open space. This familiarity was among the things we never spoke about, and lately the list was getting longer. Privacy was a deep thing for my mum, though the town had always watched her. She didn’t shrink away from the stolen glances at her big, overripe body, but she liked more and more to be alone.

There were things that everyone knew about my mum. That she made huge earthen pots out in the shed, curved and dark and heavy. That the sale of a single pot could make good money at the fancy city galleries, but that she didn’t make too many sales. That her tongue was as sharp as a razor’s edge, but her touch was gentle and sure. That for a bit of wood-chopping, or roof cleaning, or grass slashing, or even a basket of fresh bread and vegies, she was good for a roll in the hay. Even at her age, even now.

And so it was that sometimes I would happen upon her, pressed up against a fence post, skirt riding high, while some lonesome neighbouring farmer breathed in the smell of her. And though it wasn’t a secret, I caught my breath every time.

The secret things I knew about my mum, and the things that everyone knew, had played on my mind for some time, since I was real little, I guess. Sophie and my brothers had such trouble at school, juggling all those knowns and unknowns, that by the time it came to be my turn, Mum didn’t send me.

‘What’s the world got to offer you, Mema?’ she asked. ‘I’m not playing that game anymore.’

You don’t even need a reason to home-school. You don’t have to be a conscientious objector. You just have to prove you do it. And Mum had no trouble proving that. Those home-school inspectors had one peek inside, one look around those piled-high bookshelves, and they knew I was learning. Books are for learning, after all, so I was learning, and that was that.

I didn’t fight it. School seemed pointless anyway. All the rules and regulations, made to be flouted. I’d watched Anja and my siblings become parched and sad with the stupidity of it all, and I figured I wasn’t missing much.

What
did
the world have to offer me?

When I was small, all around me flowed, gentle and sweet like the quiet edge of the creek. Then my brothers grew too big to be hemmed in, and Sophie met a bloke, moved out and had babies, and things became harder. The older I got, the louder those secret things inside me became, all those knowns and unknowns, until—apart from Anja—I’d rather talk to animals than people. Chat with Old Dog, muck around with the crazy cat, or follow the wandering Bessie. Make friends with the magpies and whip birds. Listen for the squeaking of baby mice and leave out crumbs to help them on their way. Sit with my legs dangling in the creek and let the guppies nip at my toes. And it was the same for Mum, ’cause she stopped talking quite so much to me.

Outside, with Hamish in tow, Anja and I headed off to check the creeks. The rain was falling hard again, not torrential like yesterday, but steady, as though it would never end. Our house is up on a hill and the paddocks curve gently downwards to the closest creek. From above, you can see the creek stretched out across the land like a giant serpent, winding off into the distance. Sometimes the view gets lost in clouds, or mist, or simply the rain, but when it’s clear, it’s magic. Those green hills stretching out forever, like they were sculpted purposefully to please the eye. When it stops raining you can hear the rush of the floodwater and it seems as though the creek is quite close, but actually it’s a series of small hills and plateaus away. Big grassy paddocks. Easier on the way down than the way up. Used to be mostly dairy farms and bananas, but nowadays it’s just the occasional small crop and a scattering of cattle. And then out on the flats, on the other side of town, there are the cane fields.

Anja started off walking, as sedately as she could, but soon she picked up speed and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she broke into a jog. Running in the rain is quite a pleasure, especially if there isn’t really anywhere you have to be. Anja and I discovered long ago that it could be twice as much fun in company, most specifically with each other.

Still holding my hand, she pulled me forward, testing my gait.

‘How’s the foot holding up today, Mema?’ she asked, tugging on my fingers.

‘Good-o,’ I replied, smiling across at Hamish. I wasn’t sure how to explain, and he looked puzzled under his umbrella, walking fast to keep up.

‘How about a race down to the old footbridge spot?’ Anja seemed to have decided ignoring Hamish was her best defence against awkwardness. ‘I’ll run in circles and you can go straight.’

She took off then, in a wide arc around us, like a puppy that was finally unleashed. I glanced at Hamish and shrugged.

‘What does she want us to do?’ Hamish asked, swapping the umbrella from hand to hand.

‘Race. Down that way.’ I pointed down towards a big tree at a curve in the creek.

‘Why?’

It was hard to explain our rain-running, or the ways we’d invented to even out our discrepancies in pace.

‘It’s raining,’ I said, hoping it was enough.

‘Why’s she running in circles?’

I looked down at my foot. ‘To make it fair, I guess.’

Anja stopped in front of us then, oblivious to the raindrops bouncing off her face.

‘Come on, Mema!’ Her eyes were bright.

She finally spoke to Hamish, ‘Come on, flood guy!’

‘It’s better if we do,’ I said to him. ‘Everything is better.’

Hamish looked from me to Anja, uncertain. A few seconds ticked by, like he was weighing things up, and then he tucked the umbrella down low over his head and took off jogging in the direction I’d pointed.

‘He thinks we’re crazy,’ I whispered to Anja.

‘Flick your hood back,’ Anja said. ‘You know it works better when you get totally wet!’

She reached over and pushed my hood away and the raindrops started pelting my head. Pretty soon my hair would be soaked and the drips would slide down my face, down the back of my neck.

‘I need it today, Mema. I need it. Dad’s been real bad,’ she blurted out, looking down at the ground. ‘I don’t care about the flood guy. I don’t care what he thinks.’

‘Alright.’ I knew the deal and I wrapped my arms around her, giving her a squeeze. She was wet and cold and jumpy. ‘Let’s run.’

I took off over the mushy grass and Anja circled wide around me. I guess with my foot it was more lope than run, but it always got me to where I was going. If we pushed it too hard my hips would ache and I’d be all creaky the next day. I’d been rain-running since I was real small so I guess I was used to it. Somehow or other, even with the bung foot, my body had taken up the slack.

It wasn’t long before we caught up to Hamish, warding off the rain with the umbrella.

‘Where exactly are we headed?’ he called out to me.

There were all different places we liked to go along the creek, but when we raced it was always to the same spot. ‘See that big tree down there where the creek curves? On the last flat?’ I shouted back, beginning to pant. ‘There used to be a footbridge there. That’s the spot. You got to run!’

He picked up his pace.

‘Go on, Anja! Stop circling me. Give him a run for his money!’ I yelled to her as she raced out in front of me.

‘You reckon?’ She was starting to puff.

‘Yep!’

And she took off like a rocket. Outstripped him in no time. I liked our rain-running, but partly I just enjoyed watching Anja. No doubt there were better runners in the world, but Anja put everything she had into it. Arms, legs, everything whirled. It wasn’t graceful but it was energy in motion.

When I got to the old footbridge spot under the tree, Anja was bright red. Her face held colour for ages after she’d run, like she’d been scalded. Hamish and her were both still faintly panting.

‘That was … funny,’ Hamish said, glancing from Anja to me. He was trying not to smile.

‘It’s alright to have a giggle.’ I was still puffed. ‘Giggling is part of it. That or having a good cry.’

Hamish laughed then, an unfamiliar sound.

‘Fuck,’ Anja said, and then her eyes welled up and spilled over.

‘Do another lap,’ I said. ‘It’ll all come out if you do another lap.’

And she took off again, out into the open paddock.

‘You do this a lot?’ Hamish asked me. Anja was just a speck, moving in the distance.

I shrugged. ‘Only when it’s raining.’

‘What about you, Mema?’ He was watching me closely. ‘Laugh or cry today?’

‘I don’t know.’ My breathing was slowing. ‘Usually it’s only the two of us and I guess we bleed into each other. Usually we do the same. Together. But with you here I’m stuck in the middle.’

‘Between laughing and crying?’

‘Yep.’

‘That’s life, I guess.’

I didn’t know what to say to that.

‘How long have you known Anja?’

‘Forever.’

‘Only forever?’

He was trying to tease me.

‘Yep.’

‘She’s …’

‘She’s pretty quirky, but I love her,’ I interrupted, not really wanting to hear his verdict.

‘She’s very beautiful.’

This took me by surprise. Anja was one thousand things besides beautiful. It bothered me that it was the only thing worth remarking on.

‘She runs pretty fast,’ I replied.

‘She’s built like a thoroughbred. It’s no wonder.’

Anja ran about in the distance, galloping at high speed. From the way she was slowing I could see she’d cried it out. After a bit she stopped in the centre of the flat and let the rain wash over her. Hamish stood watching her, and I watched him.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this place,’ Hamish said, his blue eyes back on me. ‘It’s different.’

‘I guess.’

‘You’re different, Mema.’

I suppose deep down I knew that was true.

‘In a good way,’ he added softly.

I don’t know what it was about those words but they got inside me. When I looked back at Hamish I saw something new. Something inside me opened, just a tiny crack. When eggs hatch, cracks are how the chicks are born. The smallest of fractures and the world seeps in. So maybe it was only a glimpse of me I was seeing, a part of myself I liked that I’d kept hidden. After that I watched Hamish in a way I hadn’t done before. Keenly, as though he was the first man I’d seen. And just like that, everything changed, and it was fast, like rushing water, nearly knocking me off my feet.

That evening it stopped raining and after it had been dry a while the power came back on. It was always like that. Some part of the wiring had got wet and we just waited for it to dry out. Once the weather cleared, it never took long. Anja had run home before it got dark. She was scared of her dad when he hit the booze, but she worried about him too, so she was always up and down, checking he was okay. I don’t know if I’d be able to love someone who treated me so mean, but Anja was used to it, I suppose.

It’s always a relief to get electricity back on, even though it’s nice without it. The electronic clock on the fridge starts beaming the wrong time, someone sets it, and life gets back on track. There’s a bunch of things that need power to get done—clothes in the washing machine, toast in the toaster. That low hum of machines at work slides so quickly into the background you forget how loud they sounded when they first blinked back into operation.

When the lights came back on, Sophie stumbled out of the bedroom mumbling, ‘I’m going to have a bath.’ They were the first coherent words I’d heard her say in a while.

‘You want me to help you deal with your hair?’

Sophie has curly hair, a light brown, and it gets tangled real easy. Since she’d been out of action it had turned into one big knot.

She looked at me then, like she hadn’t in days. Her forehead was still bruised and the skin around her eyes was puffy and red, more lined than before the mongrel left, but her eyes were clear. Clear and sad. I could see my sister was back.

‘Mema, that would be grand.’

The truth is, I’ve always had a thing about my sister’s hair. Something about the way the curls snake their way around my fingers makes it seem alive. When I was little she’d sit there all still and thoughtful while I tugged and played and plaited. Her hair bounces and springs when she moves—it’s impossible to pass her by without tweaking one of her curls and watching it spring back into place. My hair is the opposite, dark and heavy like a horse’s tail. I usually wear it in big fat plait down my back. There’s nothing dancing about it, but when Sophie’s feeling bright she tells me it shimmers like a waterfall in the night, and I should love what I’ve been given. Sophie says my dad had hair just like me. Her dad had curly hair and mine had straight, and she says I should be thankful ’cause that was his gift to me. That and the old raincoat. But I’m not sure it’s much to celebrate, though the raincoat does come in handy.

‘You go in and soak for a bit. I’ll come in soon.’

The baby was sleeping in the bedroom but Rory was awake. Hamish was tucked up on the couch, trying to read one of Mum’s books, ignoring Rory’s advances as best as he could. Old Dog had snuck inside. We usually tried to keep her out on the veranda when she was wet, and even when it stops raining she takes a while to dry. I could see her tail poking out from under the couch, giving her away. I started packing up some of Rory’s toys, clearing up floor space, but I was watching the two of them. Even though he was only little, Rory talked quite a bit. He usually gave a running commentary on whatever he was doing. Sometimes it made perfect sense and other times it didn’t. Probably you had to know him pretty well to get the drift of his talk-stories. I liked his funny, croaky voice, even when I didn’t quite know what it was he was saying, but every now and then, when the day was especially long, the buzz of his endless words could get inside my brain and I’d wish he’d stop.

‘Come and give me a snuggle, Rory,’ I said, feeling bad for wishing he’d be quiet. Rory was finely tuned to the frequency of feelings. He’d know about yours before you were even aware of them yourself. You had to be on the ball.

He stopped talking and looked at me with his big dark eyes. ‘No!’ He lifted his chin. ‘No snuggles!’

I held out my arms but he just shook his head. He could turn in an instant. Happy to sad, gentle to angry—mercurial. I wanted him to stay calm ’cause if he got frustrated he’d harass Sophie in the bath.

‘What’s Nanny cooking for dinner?’ I asked him. Any mention of food would usually do the trick.

‘Dinner?’ Rory repeated and then he was off to the kitchen, quick as a flash.

I laughed and Hamish glanced up at me from his book. The Ibis would always respond to the lure of food.

‘He’s a talker,’ Hamish said, like he was fishing around for something to say.

‘He talks it through,’ I replied. ‘Everyone does.’

‘Not everyone.’

It was true. He didn’t. ‘You’re quiet. No one knows what you’re thinking.’

‘Nothing worth reporting, that’s why.’

I wondered about that. Other people’s thoughts. All those knowns and unknowns.

Hamish turned a page of his book and then sat up and stretched. Watching him, something in my belly dropped. He had a stillness about him most of the time, so when he broke into motion it seemed like a revelation. I wanted to look away but I couldn’t. Men had never been of much interest to me. I guess I saw them as just passing through, and I’d always been more immersed in the familiar, the enduring. Hamish was probably the most just-passing-through man I’d encountered, so it was strange that he should capture my attention.

There was only really the couch to sit on in our lounge room. Usually we all squashed on together, but I was hardly going to do that with Hamish, so I kept standing there, wishing there were more toys to clean up.

‘Do you want to sit down?’ Hamish said, shifting over a little.

I glanced at the space beside him—his arm stretched out along the back of the couch. Moving towards him would be like stepping into his embrace. ‘What’s the book?’ I asked instead.

‘Just something I picked up off your shelf—an old mythology book.’ He held up the cover. ‘I’ve never read much mythology.’

‘Yeah? Mum was crazy about it at one stage.’

I hoped she wasn’t listening from the kitchen ’cause I knew she’d yell out and tell Hamish about my name. It was one of her favourite stories.

‘She the reader?’ Hamish tilted his head towards the bookshelves.

‘Well, the books are hers, but we all read them.’

I looked at the books, higgledy-piggledy, sagging on the shelves. The damp made everything warped. Some of the books had absorbed the water like sponges and sat bloated on the top of the rows, unable anymore to fit. When she was my age, Mum had done some kind of degree, travelled around a bit, then headed up here with Sophie’s dad to start planning the revolution. There was a bunch of them, all buoyed by hope, thinking they would find a better way to live. Sophie says back then there were always parties. They’d pack mattresses into the back of their station wagons and all the kids would crash in the car when things got too much. But there was none of that now, the books were the main things left.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘In my family?’ I paused. ‘There’s four boys between me and Sophie.’

He seemed surprised. ‘Four brothers?’

‘Yep.’

There was an old school photo of the boys on top of the bookshelf, obscured by a pile of books. I reached up and pulled it down, dusting off the spider webs. It was a shock to see their faces, still kids in primary school. Freckles and scruffy hair. Familiar and foreign all at once. I handed the picture to Hamish.

‘Max is the oldest.’ I pointed him out. ‘He’s probably the quietest of the lot.’ Max had the same dad as Sophie. ‘Then Caleb. He’s the one with white hair. Everyone called him Snowy.’ I didn’t know how to explain who had which dad—who was more related to who. ‘Then there’s Sunny, he’s a ratbag.’ I touched a finger to his cheek in the photo. Out of all the boys, Sunny had played with me most. He was already seven by the time I was born, so he’d always seemed grown-up, but looking at his childish face, I saw how small he’d once been.

‘Snowy and Sunny?’ Hamish asked, smiling a little.

‘Yep.’ I knew it sounded funny.

‘And who’s the littlest?’

‘Jonah.’ In the photo he looked babyish, missing front teeth, the collar of his school shirt frayed and worn, handed down so many times before it got to him. ‘They’re all big now, though.’

‘Four brothers, that’s almost half a footy team.’ He handed the picture back to me and looked around, and I guessed he was taking in the size of our house. ‘They moved out of home?’

‘Yeah, ages ago. Boys take up so much space.’

His blue eyes flashed up at me for split second, like he’d taken offence.

‘Not you, though,’ I added.

‘Thanks … I think.’

Part of me wanted to stay there near him but part of me wanted to run. It was an uncomfortable feeling. I wasn’t used to it. So I put the photo back where I’d found it and went into the bathroom to check on Sophie.

One of the dads remade the bathroom before I was born, and he did a good job too. It was a longish space, and the bath was set into the floor, right at the far end, so it dropped down next to the low window and all you saw from inside it was the bush outside. Sophie looked peaceful, but I knew that it might not be long before the baby woke.

‘You ready?’ I asked.

She turned her head real slow. ‘Yep. Work your magic, Baby-girl.’

My sister always called me that. Even now I was grown up. I guess I’d been a baby to her for so long. It sounded especially strange when there was an actual baby girl in the house.

I came and sat on the edge of the bath and my sister moved forward so I could get to her hair. Picking up the jug we used for the babies, I dipped it in the bath. Sophie leaned her head back and I poured the water over her. I loved the way, even when it was wet, my sister’s hair resisted straightening. I wondered about the structure of curls, what made them so unwilling to take another form. There was probably an explanation and if I searched hard enough I’d find it, but sometimes not knowing was almost as nice.

Sophie bent forward, resting her cheek against her upright knees, turning her face away from me, towards the window. I squeezed the shampoo in and massaged it through her hair. Rinsing out the soap, I added the conditioner. Sophie turned towards me, eyes still closed, her mouth upturned at the corners in a half-smile.

‘You and your hair obsession,’ she murmured. I reached out for the wide-toothed comb. ‘You should let me wash your hair one day, Mema.’ Sophie opened her eyes and looked up at me. ‘I know you won’t.’

‘I don’t like people touching my hair.’

‘I know. You’ve been like that since you were born. You wouldn’t let any of us touch your head at all. Mum let you run around like a scrappy-looking puppy until you finally started brushing it yourself. You were a sight to behold.’

‘I know. There are photos.’

‘Yeah, I took them, silly.’

Once I’d got the knots out, Sophie went right under the water and shook her head from side to side. Her eyes were squeezed shut, small bubbles of air hanging about her nostrils. I wanted to see if her spirals would stay curled under water, but it was hard to tell. Watching her through the screen of the water was like peering into another realm. She resurfaced and lay there a minute, resting her head on the bath rim. I had always watched Sophie like a hawk, but I wouldn’t like it if she examined me that way. When you’re the youngest in a big family, you can get away with being unseen. It was what I liked best about being Baby-girl. Luckily, Sophie never seemed to mind me staring at her.

Mum burst in then, the baby on her hip and a wooden spoon in her other hand.

‘Rory’s helping me cook,’ she said, pushing her hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘You’ll need to take bubs.’

I reached out and she handed me the baby. Lila was the baby’s name, but none of us called her that. She wasn’t really a person yet, I guess, and the name just sounded odd. She was wriggly on my lap, and I knew she’d start bellowing soon.

‘Shall we put her in the bath? She’s a bit sticky.’

I leaned down and sniffed her head. Little babies have that smell. It builds up fast. A kind of cheesy, clammy smell, especially in summer.

‘Yeah, strip her off and hand her over.’

I untangled Lila from her clothes and pulled her nappy off. The closer to naked she got, the stiffer her body—like the clothes had given her something to relax into. I was used to the way babies worked, after Rory. I wasn’t worried I would hurt her. Even though Lila was delicate, she didn’t seem otherworldly. She seemed hardy, like an animal, I guess.

Sophie sat up and I passed Lila over. Instantly the baby snuffled around for Sophie’s breast, making little grunting sounds. Sophie squeezed her nipple between her fingers, guiding it towards the baby’s mouth. When Lila finally got it, the sound of her gulping milk echoed around the bathroom.

‘You’d think she was starving,’ Sophie said. ‘Funny little gutso.’

‘Yeah, Rory was a more refined eater at that age, remember?’ It was true. Rory had breastfed quietly, like it was a dainty, private matter.

‘I know and look at him now.’

She was quiet a minute, then she looked up at me. ‘Poor little buggers, Mema. Like the rest of us. No dad.’

Sophie had never spoken much about her fella. Before or after he left. Like it was a terrain not fit for words.

‘It’s not so bad. We’re alright, aren’t we?’

‘Speak for yourself.’

The baby was pointing her little toes and then flexing them again. Sophie held them together lightly between her legs, and then it looked like the baby was nudging to get back in. Nudging with her toes to go back where she came from.

‘I still can’t believe she came out of there,’ I said.

‘You always say that.’

‘Well, it’s not self-explanatory.’

Yesterday I’d watched Bessie’s calf being born, but the whole thing still seemed like a mystery.

‘Mema, ever since you were little you’ve wanted to know everything about babies. You’re never going to know if you never have sex.’

It had become a bit of a joke in my family that I’d never get around to doing it. ‘So you keep saying.’

‘You should give Billy a go.’

Billy was a young bloke in town who’d asked me out once a couple of months back. An old friend of Sunny’s. He did odd jobs and maintenance stuff for the council and he was often working on the road. We’d always known each other, just from living in the same place, but I’d never paid him much heed. Then I happened upon him on one of my walks and he called out to me—‘Hey, Mema!’ He was working on someone’s land, chopping down a tree, all sweaty and covered in wood dust. ‘What’s three foot long and fucks a chook?’ This question startled me. It came out of nowhere. I just looked at him and shrugged.