Slice

  Tim and Braith howl with laughter.

  Tim says, ‘Yeah, in the babies pool, Walker.’

  He does a theatrical imitation of me and Noah flailing around.

  Even Shakespeare would be impressed.

  A moment away

  The class lazes around on the beach, eating lunch, basking in the afternoon sun, fondly recalling the look of horror on my face as we capsized.

  I lie back on my towel and close my eyes, remembering last Saturday, on the back verandah with Dad polishing his football boots. Anything is better than reliving the past hour.

  Dad holds a boot up to the light.

  ‘Do ya reckon polishing makes you play better,

  Dad?’

  ‘I thought it would when I was a kid.’

  ‘Did it?’

  ‘I believed. That was enough.’

  ‘Just believing?’

  Dad puts the boot down.

  ‘Saturday morning meant everything to me. Playing with my mates, chasing a ball. The beauty of one diagonal pass.’

  He has a faraway look on his face.

  ‘You make it sound religious.’

  ‘It was! It is!’

  Dad picks up the brush and starts on the other boot. ‘I read somewhere that dentists and accountants have the highest proportion of suicides. And the highest number of evangelical conversions. How’s that for a dubious distinction? It’s as if we have to believe in something, or else the nothing is too much to bear.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Well, I don’t believe in either of those things. Certainly not topping yourself!’

  ‘And God?’

  ‘Too much myth and pretending.’

  Dad makes the sign of the cross with his football boot. ‘Give me the purity of one perfect shot, one moment of harmony between me and the ball. That’s enough.’

  He scoffs at his own sincerity.

  ‘Better to believe in something than nothing at all.’

  The backyard, scene of Dad’s failed attempts years ago to turn me into a football champion, is covered in morning dew.

  ‘Why didn’t football work with me?’

  He frowns. ‘My fault entirely. Too heavy-handed. I should have been more subtle.’

  Dad follows my eyes to the backyard. ‘Sons are destined to do the opposite of what their fathers want. I reckon that’s a good thing.’

  ‘What did Grandpa want you to do?’

  Dad laughs. ‘He used to say the same thing, over and over until I got sick of hearing it. A simple philosophy – do the right thing.’

  ‘What the hell...’

  Dad shakes his head, quickly.

  ‘Think about it, Darcy. Four words.’

  ‘But, how do you know when...’

  ‘We know. We just kid ourselves we don’t.’

  It’s too simple, too pat. It’s something a parent would say.

  ‘And you live by that?’

  Dad scoffs, ‘Of course not! I just wish I could.’

  A vision of Grandpa sitting in his house, surrounded by memories.

  ‘Do you reckon he liked living alone?’

  Dad sighs. ‘No. I asked him to come here many times. The stubborn bast– He thought he’d be a burden.’

  Dad leans in close. ‘I’m not sure how your mum and him would have survived together. They had moments.’

  ‘Why didn’t you make him move?’

  ‘Just because he was frail and old, doesn’t mean I could do what I wanted.’ His voice quivers. ‘I argued with him enough.’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘His independence, that’s all he had left. I couldn’t take that away.’

  We sit quietly for a long time. I notice an old soccer ball, covered in mildew, under the plum tree beside the fence. It’s been there, slowly deflating, for ages.

  Reaching for Dad’s other boot, I hold it out to him,

  ‘You missed a spot. On the toe.’

  Dad spits on the boot and polishes intently.

  ‘If you’re going to do something, do it right.’

  Scroggin

  Audrey hands me the plastic bag full of nuts and raisins. She tilts her head back and pops some into her mouth, chewing and speaking at the same time.

  ‘Jacko calls this stuff scroggin.’

  ‘It sounds like something birds do in the undergrowth.’

  We both giggle.

  She nods toward Noah, sitting on a rock by the river.

  ‘He looks like he’s carrying a great weight.’

  ‘It’s called a brain.’

  ‘What’s your excuse then?’

  ‘Me? I’m still trying to be a man, remember. And failing.’

  Audrey leans close.

  Apple fragrance overload.

  ‘Saturday night, my backyard. I’ll teach you how to meditate. It might help with your ... issues.’

  ‘Is that a date?’

  Audrey smiles. ‘Think of it as a meditation class, for free.’

  Mr Jackson claps his hands and walks to the river’s edge.

  ‘Back to the oars, everybody. Only five kilometres to go. You can sleep on the bus trip home.’

  Tim and Braith jump up and run to their boat.

  Braith drags it out into the shallows and Tim holds it steady while they both get in. Tim turns to everyone on the beach,

  ‘Hey, Walker, watch and learn. Watch and learn.’

  It’s pretty tame, even for Tim.

  I raise my middle finger but he’s already paddling away. Mr Jackson frowns at me.

  ‘It’s an old sailor’s salute, sir.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Walker.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I mean, no sir.’

  Audrey picks up her life jacket, brushes the sand from it and puts it on. ‘When you’ve mastered meditation, Tim will simply disappear.’

  She walks into the shallows, holding the kayak for Claire to climb aboard.

  Noah is still sitting on the rock, looking at his reflection in the water. I’m not sure if he’s thinking of the boat capsizing or of his father, unshaven, in hospital. I try to picture my dad, unable to move, aimlessly staring across the lounge room, reliving his football games, knowing he’ll never play again.

  I shiver as I drag the boat into the water, holding it stable.

  Noah stands and steps into the stream, grabbing the stern.

  ‘You first, Darcy.’

  I have a vision of me stepping in and the boat tipping over again.

  ‘Nah. You jump in, Noah.’

  He shakes his head, ‘You first, buddy.’

  ‘No chance! I’ll hold it steady, Noah.’

  ‘Jump in, Darcy. You’re closer.’

  ‘Get in the bloody boat, Noah!’

  So much for sensitivity.

  Noah carefully hops in and says, ‘Kayak, not boat.’

  We look at each other and grin.

  ‘More like a bathtub than a kayak, don’t ya reckon?’

  Inside the tortured mind of young Darcy

  The wind picks up and pushes us along. We stroke evenly and slowly, letting the current do the rest. Occasionally a fish leaps from the river and twirls sunlight silver in mid-air. Cows wander along the bank wondering when someone will stop the war in Afghanistan and whether the Global Financial Crisis will affect the price of milk. They lift their tails and urinate in huge arching torrents, then drop their heads and return to lunch.

  Everyone is quiet, hoping the next bend is the last. Miranda and Stacey complain about sore shoulders and blisters on their hands. Tim and Braith are nowhere to be seen. Mr Jackson and Ms Pine try to encourage the group to join in a sing-a-long.

  Why are teachers always so optimistic?

  Ms Pine has a lovely soft voice. Mr Jackson is mono tone. No-one joins in.

  Here is a list of my river thoughts, in no particular order.

  Audrey.

  Yes, I know. Predictable.

  I close my eyes and remember every conversation we’ve had. Then I recall everything she’s said in English
class. Next, I try meditating.

  All I can think of is Audrey in various states of undress.

  That’s lechery, not mysticism. I feel vaguely obscene and juvenile.

  I am obscene and juvenile.

  I consciously picture Audrey fully dressed. This is much easier.

  Audrey in her school uniform.

  Audrey in jeans and white top.

  In tracksuit pants and baggy sweater.

  In a long black evening gown with a red belt.

  Audrey wearing Dunlop Volleys.

  In knee-high boots.

  In shiny black school shoes.

  Audrey in football uniform.

  Hang on, where did that come from?

  No matter what I do, I can’t escape the vision of Audrey wearing Dad’s football jersey and shorts. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, dig my paddle into the water quickly and repetitively, trying to wipe this image.

  Audrey is chasing the football now, three burly blokes closing in. The goalkeeper runs towards her to block the shot. The big blokes wear scowls, baggy pants and black shirts. The keeper lunges. Audrey effortlessly chips the ball over his head. All the men collide, the sound of crunching bones and expanded air. Audrey spins away from the mayhem and runs triumphant behind the goal. She sees me by the corner flag and wheels towards me, her arms wide in celebration.

  A sports dream with a feminist subtext? An ideologically sound romance? Me and my conscience relax back into the kayak.

  A lone donkey stands on a rise overlooking the river. His ears point at odd angles as if he’s not sure which way to turn. His tail lazily swats flies. Beyond the next bend, I hear a deep voice making ‘hee-haw’ noises. Tim is no doubt rehearsing his ass jokes.

  ‘Hey, Noah, what do you want to be when you grow up?’

  Noah turns around and giggles. ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘No, seriously. Come on, it’ll pass the time until our arms drop off.’

  Noah stops paddling and looks up at the gum trees lining each bank.

  The sun is low in the sky, setting behind the distant ridge. We have enough light for another hour of paddling. Mr Jackson keeps glancing at his watch and looking behind him, as if the river monster is catching up.

  ‘I want to be famous.’

  ‘Famous!’

  ‘Sure, why not. I’ll start a legendary company.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘I’d like to design the world’s first chessboard you can use in space.’

  ‘You want to be an astronaut as well?’

  ‘No. I get sick on planes, but imagine the publicity. Astronauts floating around the cabin yet all the pieces stay in place. Everyone would want a set.’

  ‘For when they go into space?’

  Noah’s voice is droll. ‘No. Because they saw it on television.’

  Do we want what we see on TV? Of course, that’s why there are advertisements, stupid.

  ‘Noah, why did you throw that snake?’

  He doesn’t turn around, just paddles a little slower as he thinks.

  We men can’t do two things at once.

  I try to maintain a rhythm but he keeps leaving the paddle in the water and not stroking. The kayak threatens to go in a circle. It’s only the current that carries us downstream.

  ‘I wanted to scare Tim. To show he’s not so tough. Scared of a little plastic snake.’

  He turns and giggles, then looks ahead to the nearest kayak with Mr Jackson and Ms Pine. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

  ‘It sure did, Noah.’

  ‘Nerd’s revenge, Darcy. Noah the nerd’s revenge.’

  He giggles again.

  ‘Tim’s going to pay you back, you know.’

  Noah looks a little guilty and sheepish.

  ‘Then why does he keep picking on you?’

  He lowers his voice. ‘I reckon he thinks you did it, Darcy. Sorry.’

  We paddle in silence for a while, both thinking of Tim beating the plastic snake to death with a burning log.

  ‘Hey, Noah.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Your dad, he’ll pull through.’

  Noah doesn’t turn around. He grips the paddle a little tighter and pulls faster. We start catching up to Miranda and Stacey.

  Noah’s voice is quiet. ‘At least I’m doing something. Mum just sits at the kitchen table, not saying a word.’

  Miranda looks across at us and calls out, ‘Hey, you don’t have any gloves, do ya?’

  She raises her hands, palms outward to show how red and blistered they are.

  ‘Sure. I’ve got a pair of silk gloves, right here beside the outboard motor. That’ll be ten dollars?’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. Loser.’

  Noah and me paddle faster as Stacey and Miranda drift. Both have their feet outside the cockpit now, stretching their legs along the kayak. They mournfully look at their hands and pout.

  I call back, ‘Be not afraid of greatness, Miranda.’

  ‘Piss off, Shakespeare.’

  The sound of shouted voices comes from around the next bend.

  Noah and me paddle quickly, eager to finish.

  ‘This time, Noah. Let’s beach the boat before we get out, okay?’

  ‘Kayak, Darcy. It’s a kayak.’

  The kayaks are all lined along a thin stretch of sand up ahead. Everyone is standing on the beach looking towards the weir, where Tim and Braith balance on the concrete wall, the water metres below them.

  ‘Come down, please,’ Ms Pine pleads.

  ‘Now means now!’ Mr Jackson’s voice is firm.

  Tim and Braith both have their arms outstretched, like tightrope walkers, as they tentatively inch their way along the wall. Tim cups his hands over his mouth and yells–

  ‘No worries, sir. We just want to reach the other side.’

  Mr Jackson yells, ‘This is not being part of a team, Harris!’

  Tim and Braith turn to face the river. They raise their hands above their heads, preparing to dive.

  Submerged rocks.

  Splattered brains.

  Mr Jackson thunders, ‘DO NOT DIVE!’

  Tim and Braith shout together, something that sounds suspiciously like a Tarzan call. Not words, just a Neanderthal holler.

  They stretch their arms out wide in front of them, chests expanded like obsessive body-builders.

  Ms Pine screams, ‘No!’

  They dive majestically out from the wall. Halfway down, they break from their perfect arched-back head-down posture. Tim pulls his knees up to his chest, closes his eyes and yells ‘Cowabunga!’ His dive partner curls up into a Braith-size ball, head tucked tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees. They both hit the water with a thud, slabs of concrete dropped from a great height.

  Bubbles.

  Screams from the beach.

  Swearing from Mr Jackson.

  More bubbles.

  Noah and I paddle as fast as we can to where they landed. We reach the spot in a few seconds. Sludge and soupy water – and Tim’s ugly mug rising like a wrinkled turtle right beside my paddle.

  I could smack him once in the neck and he’d sink, quicker than a stone.

  Braith surfaces a few seconds later on the opposite side of the kayak. Both of them are spluttering water and laughing. They see the looks of concern on our faces and laugh even louder. The paddle feels like a scythe in my sweaty palms.

  Just one swipe.

  Mr Jackson calls from the bank, ‘You two, out of the water at once!’

  I assume he means the diving twins, but Noah and me paddle to the bank, just in case. All the girls crowd along the beach watching Tim and Braith stroke slowly and easily back to the bank.

  Noah and me flap behind in our boat.

  Sorry, kayak.

  The return of the sodden sailors

  On the beach opposite the weir, we pack our drenched gear into plastic bags and tip the kayaks upside down to drain. Mr Jackson utters the word ‘detention’ a record twenty-two times. Braith and Tim snick
er, basking in the adoration of Stacey and Miranda.

  The jungle-green duo arrive in their truck and begin loading the kayaks aboard. The hairy one seems unnaturally interested in talking to Audrey instead of doing his work. He has a tattoo of a snake coiled around a heart on his bicep. Audrey ignores him and sits on her daypack, waiting for the bus. She stares into the distance as snake-man flexes his muscles and lifts her kayak onto the trailer singlehandedly.

  ‘Good trip?’ he asks.

  Audrey nods and looks towards me, bless her.

  That’s all the invitation I need.

  Dragging my kayak across to the trailer, I drop it near snake-man. He looks at me and grins, ‘Hello, sailor. Didn’t fall in too often?’ He looks in my kayak. ‘Enough water in here to drown a rat.’

  He turns the kayak over, water splashes over his Adidas trainers. He skips out of the way a second too late.

  My voice is mock-friendly, ‘That’s not water, mate. It’s urine. My partner had an accident.’

  Snake man looks up quickly.

  ‘Very funny, Sonny.’

  He says the last word with a sneer.

  Then he calls across to his partner to help him with the kayak, just in case any more water should splash out.

  The bus rumbles down the bush track, Frank Sinatra blasting out.

  Audrey stands and shoulders her backpack.

  I smile at snake-man, ‘Thanks for letting us use your canoes.’

  ‘Kayaks, you prick.’

  And so ends the adventure down the Kangaroo River. We board the bus for home. Tim and Braith, the next Olympic diving champions, lounge across the back seat. Me and Noah and the chessboard are down the front and Audrey is alone a few seats behind. Noah opens the chess game and selects the white pawns.

  ‘That was fun, Darcy.’

  I reach for the black pieces.

  ‘As much fun as a hatful of assholes.’

  Noah giggles. ‘Where did you learn that one?’

  ‘My grandpa.’

  ‘Can I use it? It might get a response from Dad. He liked – likes – stupid sayings.’

  Noah frowns. ‘But not swear words.’

  ‘Asshole isn’t swearing. It’s an anatomical description.’