The Complete Stories

  I considered again the nest of coppery hair he sported in the scoop of his underlip.

  When it first appeared I had taken it, in a worrying way, as a dandified affectation, out of character with the Stuart I knew. I was less ready now with my glib assumptions. What did I know of Stuart McGowan's “character” as I called it? Of what might or might not belong to it?

  After a moment he opened his eyes, caught me watching, and in an appeal perhaps to some old complicity between us that for a good time now had been under threat, but which the shock of his near miss had re-established, he winked. Only when I failed to respond did it strike him that he might have miscalculated.

  He struggled to one elbow, his head tilted, his brow in a furrow, and grinned, but sheepishly, as if I had caught him out in something furtive, unmanly. “So how's tricks, Angus? How's it goin'?” he enquired. “You okay?”

  This time I did not turn my back on him, but I did walk away, even while I stood watching. Jem and Glen had come up with their makeshift stretcher, and Matt Riley and his father, with Henry Denkler directing, rolled him onto it, all of them quieting his sharp intakes of breath with ritual assurances, most of them wordless. For some reason, what I remember most clearly is the three-day grime on the back of Glen McGowan's neck as he bent to settle Stuart. And through it all, deep in myself, I was walking away fast into a freshening distance in which my own grime was being miraculously washed away.

  Walking lightly. The long grass swishing round my boots as the sparse brush drew me on. Into the vastness of small sounds that was a continent. To lose myself among its flutings and flutterings, the glow of its moist air and sun-charged chemical green, its traffic of unnumbered slow ingenious agencies.

  An hour later we had loaded up and were on our way home: Stuart well wrapped in an old quilt, laid out in the tray of the McGowans’ ute with his father to tend him, Glen driving, and Henry Denkler, who seemed troubled and out of sorts, in the cabin beside him. Braden and I, seated high up on a pile of bedrolls and packs, rode in the back of Matt Riley's beaten-up ute with the guns, a mess of dogs, and all our gear.

  I sat, my back to the side of the truck, with Tilly between my knees, leaning forward occasionally to hug her to me, and receiving in return a soulful, brown-eyed look of pure affection. How straightforward animals are, I thought. As compared to people, with their left-handed unhappy agendas, their sore places hidden even from themselves.

  I thought uneasily of Stuart, bumping about now in the other ute as it wallowed through waist-high grass down the unmarked track; still believing, perhaps, that Katie would be impressed by the badge of a near fatality he would be wearing when we got back.

  Would she be? I didn't think so, but I could no longer be sure. She kept eluding my grasp. As Stuart had. And Braden.

  I glanced across at him. He had pushed his hat off, though the cord was still tight under his chin, and his eyes were narrowed, his cheeks taut as he grasped the side of the ute with one hand to steady himself against its rolling and stared into space. After a moment, aware of my scrutiny, he turned, and for the first time in a while he smiled his old wry smile, which meant he had returned, more or less, to being relaxed again. Inside his own head. But not in a way that excluded my being in tune with him. I sat back, giving myself up to the air that came streaming over the cabin top as the ute emerged at last on to bitumen, turned north, and put on speed.

  We were less than thirty miles from home now. The land was growing uneven. Soon there would be canefields on either side of the steeply dipping road, dairy farms smelling of silage, and little smooth-crowned hills that had once been wooded and dark with aerial roots and vines, till the loggers and land-clearers moved in and opened all this country to the sky, letting the light in; creating a landscape lush and green, with only, in the gully breaks between, a remnant of the old darkness and mystery, a cathedral gloom where a smell of damp-rot lingered that was older than the scent of cane flowers or the ammoniac stench of wet cow flop, and where creatures still moved about the forest floor, or hung in rows as in a wardrobe high up in the branches, or glided noiselessly from bough to bough.

  I must have nodded off. When I looked up, we were already speeding through settlements I recognised and knew the names of: wooden houses, some of them no more than shacks, set far back and low among isolated forest trees, the open spaces on either side of the bitumen strip narrowing so quickly that what there was of a township—a service station, a Greek milk bar and caf—was gone again before you could catch the name on a signpost or register the slightly different smell on the air that signified settled life and neighbourliness.

  I loved all this. But Katie was right. I too would leave. As she would, as Braden would.

  He met my eye now and then, as the ute swung out to pass a slower vehicle and we had to reach for the side and hang on to steady ourselves, but I was less certain now that I could read his looks. He had already begun to move away.

  The difference was, I thought, that he, like Katie, would not come back. But for me there could be no final leaving. This greenish light, full and luminous, always with a heaviness in it that was a reminder of the underlying dark—like the persistent memory, under even the most open of cleared land, of the dankness of rainforests—was for me the light by which all moments of expectation and high feeling would in my mind for ever be touched. This was the country I would go on dreaming in, wherever I lay my head.

  We were bounding along now. Sixty miles an hour. From the cabin of the truck, Jem Riley's voice, raw and a little tuneless, came streaming past my ear. “Goodnight, Irene,” was what he was singing, "I'll see you in my dreams.”

  Braden took it up and grinned at me. I followed. A doleful tune, almost a dirge, full of old hurt, that people were drawn to sing in chorus, as if it were the sad but consoling anthem of some loose republic of the heart, spontaneously established, sustained a moment, then easily let go. Before we were done with the last of it the quick-falling tropical night had come. A blueness that for the last quarter of an hour had been gathering imperceptibly round fence posts and in the depths of trees had swiftly overtaken us, with its ancient smell of the land and its unfolding silence that was never silence. “Goodnight,” we sang at full pelt, foolishly grinning, "goodnight, goodnight, I'll see you in my dreams.”

  Every Move You Make

  When Jo first came to Sydney, the name she heard in every house she went into was Mitchell Maze. “This is a Mitchell Maze house,” someone would announce, "can't you just tell?” and everyone would laugh. After a while she knew what the joke was and did not have to be told. “Don't tell me,” she'd say, taking in the raw uprights and bare window frames, "Mitchell Maze,” and her hostess would reply, "Oh, do you know Mitch? Isn't he the limit?”

  They were beach houses, even when they were tucked away in a cul-de-sac behind the Paddington Post Office or into a gully below an escarpment at Castlecrag. The group they appealed to, looking back affectionately to the hidey-holes and treehouses of their childhood, made up a kind of clan. Of artists mostly, painters, session musicians, filmmakers, writers for the National Times and the Fin Review, who paid provisional tax and had kids at the International Grammar School, or they were lawyers at Freehills or Allen, Allen & Hemsley, or investment bankers with smooth manners and bold ties who still played touch rugby at the weekends or belonged to a surf club. Their partners—they were sometimes married, mostly not—worked as arts administrators, or were in local government. A Mitchell Maze house was a sign that you had arrived but were not quite settled.

  Airy improvisations, or—according to how you saw it—calculated and beautiful wrecks, a lot of their timber was driftwood blanched and polished by the tide, or had been scrounged from building sites or picked up cheap at demolitions. It had knotholes, the size sometimes of a twenty-cent piece, and was so carelessly stripped that layers of old paint were visible in the grain that you could pick out with a fingernail, in half-forgotten colours from another era: apple green, ox-blood, b
aby blue. A Mitchell Maze house was a reference back to a more relaxed and open-ended decade, an assurance (a reassurance in some cases) that your involvement with the Boom, and all that went with it, was opportunistic, uncommitted, tongue-in-cheek. You had maintained the rage, still had a Che or Hendrix poster tacked to a wall of the garage, and kept a fridge full of tinnies, though you had moved on from the flagon red. As for Mitch himself, he came with the house. “Only not often enough,” as one of his clients quipped.

  He might turn up one morning just at breakfast time with a claw hammer and rule at the back of his shorts and a load of timber on his shoulder. One of the kids would already have sighted his ute.

  “Oh great,” the woman at the kitchen bench would say, keeping her voice low-keyed but not entirely free of irony. “Does this mean we're going to get that wall? Hey, kids, here's Mitch. Here's our wall.”

  “Hi,” the kids yelled, crowding round him. “Hi, Mitch. Is it true? Is that why you're here? Are you goin’ t’ give us a wall?”

  They liked Mitch, they loved him. So did their mother. But she also liked the idea of a wall.

  He would accept a mug of coffee, but when invited to sit and have breakfast with them would demur. “No, no thanks,” he'd tell them. “Gotta get started. I'll just drink this while I work.”

  He would be around then for a day or two, hammering away till it was dusk and the rosellas were tearing at the trees beyond the deck and dinner was ready; staying on for a plate of pasta and some good late-night talk then bedding down after midnight in a bunk in the kids’ room, "to get an early start,” or, if they were easy about such things, crawling in with a few murmured apologies beside his hosts. Then in the morning he would be gone again, and no amount of calling, no number of messages left at this place or that, would get him back.

  Visitors observing an open wall would say humourously, "Ah, Mitch went off to get a packet of nails, I see.”

  Sensitive fellows, quick to catch the sharpening of their partner's voice as it approached the subject of a stack of timber on the living-room floor, or a bathroom window that after eleven months was still without glass, would spring to the alert.

  As often as not, the first indication that some provisional but to this point enduring arrangement was about to be renegotiated would be a flanking attack on the house.

  “Right, mate,“ was the message, "let's get serious here. What about that wall?”

  Those who were present to hear it, living as they did in structures no less flimsy than the one that was beginning to break up all around them, would feel a chill wind at their ear.

  All this Jo had observed, with amusement and a growing curiosity, for several months before she found herself face to face with the master builder himself.

  JO WAS THIRTY-FOUR and from the country, though no one would have called her a country girl. Before that she was from Hungary. Very animated and passionately involved in everything she did, very intolerant of those who did not, as she saw it, demand enough of life, she was a publisher's editor, ambitious or pushy according to how you took these things, and successful enough to have detractors. She herself wanted it all—everything. And more.

  “You want too much,” her friends told her. “You can't have it, you just can't. Nobody can.”

  “You just watch me,” Jo told them in reply.

  She had had two serious affairs since coming to Sydney, both briefer than she would have wished. She was too intense, that's what her friends told her. The average bloke, the average Australian bloke—oh, here it comes, that again, she thought—was uncomfortable with dramatics. Intimidated. Put off.

  “I don't want someone who's average,” she insisted. “Even an average Australian.”

  She wanted a love that would be overwhelming, that would make a wind-blown leaf of her, a runaway wheel. She was quite prepared to suffer, if that was to be part of it. She would walk barefoot through the streets and howl if that's what love brought her to.

  Her friends wrinkled their brows at these stagy extravagances. “Honestly! Jo!” Behind her back they patronised and pitied her.

  In fact they too, some of them, had felt like this at one time or another. At the beginning. But had learned to hide their disappointment behind a show of hard-boiled mateyness. They knew the rules. Jo had not been around long enough for that. She had no sense of proportion. Did she even know that there were rules?

  They met at last.At a party at Palm Beach, the usual informal Sunday-afternoon affair. She knew as soon as he walked in who it must be.

  He was wearing khaki shorts, work boots, nothing fancy. An open-necked unironed shirt.

  Drifting easily from group to group, noisily greeted with cries and little affectionate pecks on the cheek by the women, and with equally affectionate gestures from the men—a clasp of the shoulder, a hand laid for a moment on his arm—he unsettled the room, that's what she thought, re-focused its energies, though she accepted later that the unsettlement may only have been in herself. Through it all he struck her as being remote, untouchable, self-enclosed, though not at all self-regarding. Was it simply that he was shy? When he found her at last she had the advantage of knowing more about him, from the tales she had been regaled with, the houses she had been in, than he could have guessed.

  What she was not prepared for was his extraordinary charm. Not his talk—there was hardly any of that. His charm was physical. It had to do with the sun-bleached, salt-bleached mess of his hair and the way he kept ploughing a rough hand through it; the grin that left deep lines in his cheeks; the intense presence, of which he himself seemed dismissive or unaware. He smelled of physical work, but also, she thought, of wood shavings—blond transparent curlings off the edge of a plane. Except that the special feature of his appeal was the rough rather than the smooth.

  They went home together. To his place, to what he “The Shack,” a house on stilts, floating high above a jungle of tree ferns, morning glory, and red-clawed coral trees in a cove at Balmoral. Stepping into it she felt she had been there already. Here at last was the original of all those open-ended unfinished structures she had been in and out of for the past eight months. When she opened the door to the loo, she laughed. There was no glass in the window. Only a warmish square of night filled with ecstatic insect cries.

  She was prepared for the raw, splintery side of him. The sun-cracked lips, the blonded hair that covered his forearms and the darker hair that came almost to his Adam's apple, the sandpapery hands with their scabs and festering nicks. What she could not have guessed at was the whiteness and almost feminine silkiness of his hidden parts. Or the old-fashioned delicacy with which he turned away every attempt on her part to pay tribute to them. It was so at odds with the libertarian mode she had got used to down here.

  He took what he needed in a frank, uncomplicated way; was forceful but considerate—all this in appreciation of her own attractions. She was flattered, moved, and in the end felt a small glow of triumph at having so much pleased him. For a moment he entirely yielded, and she felt, in his sudden cry, and in the completeness afterwards with which he sank into her arms, that she had been allowed into a place that in every other circumstance he kept guarded, closed off.

  She herself was dazzled. By a quality in him—beauty is what she said to herself—that took her breath away, a radiance that burned her lips, her fingertips, every point where their bodies made contact. But when she tried to express this—to touch him as he had touched her and reveal to him this vision she had of him—he resisted. What she felt in his almost angry shyness was a kind of distaste. She retreated, hurt, but was resentful too. It was unfair of him to exert so powerful an appeal and then turn maidenly when he got a response.

  She should have seen then what cross-purposes they would be at, and not only in this matter of intimacy. But he recognised her hurt, and in a way, she would discover, that was typical of him, tried out of embarrassment to make amends.

  He was sitting up with his back against the bedhead enjoying a smoke
. Their eyes met, he grinned; a kind of ease was re-established between them. She was moved by how knocked about he was, the hard use to which he had put his body, the scraps and scrapes he had been through. Her fingertips went to a scar, a deep nick in his cheekbone under the left eye. She did not ask. Her touch was itself a question.

  “Fight with an arc lamp,” he told her. His voice had a humorous edge. “I lost. Souvenir of my brief career as a movie star.”

  She looked at him. The grin he wore was light, self-deprecatory He was offering her one of the few facts about himself—from his childhood, his youth—that she would ever hear. She would learn only later how useless it was to question him on such matters. You got nowhere by asking. If he did let something drop it was to distract you, while some larger situation that he did not want to develop slipped quietly away. But that was not the case on this occasion. They barely knew one another. He wanted, in all innocence, to offer her something of himself.

  When he was thirteen—this is what he told her—he had been taken by his mother to an audition. More than a thousand kids had turned up. He didn't want the part, he thought it was silly, but he had got it anyway and for a minute back there, because of that one appearance, had been a household name, a star.

  She had removed her hand and was staring.

  “What?” he said, the grin fading. He gave her an uncomfortable look and leaned across to the night table to stub out his cigarette.

  “I can't believe it,” she was saying. “I can't believe this. I know who you are. You're Skip Daley!”

  “No I'm not,” he said, and laughed. “Don't be silly.”

  He was alarmed at the way she had taken it. He had offered it as a kind of joke. One of the least important things he could have told her.

  “But I saw that film! I saw it five times!”

  “Don't,” he said. “It was nothing. I shouldn't have let on.”

  But he could have no idea what it had meant to her. What he had meant to her.