Below Deck Page 2

  ‘I’m coming back up here on Wednesday to sail the Sea Rose back down to the CYC. Maggie’s coming with me. How about you join us?’

  I think of our sail into Pittwater this morning, how hard I’d laughed. I grin. ‘Yeah, sure. I’d love to.’

  ‘But no drinking Tuesday night, okay, kid?’

  ‘Never again,’ I say, my cheeks hot.

  ‘Ha! Heard that before.’ He helps himself to the last of my chips. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  We’re strolling across the car park, the sun falling through a hole in the clouds, when Mac excuses himself, tells me he’ll be just a minute, and heads over to the shipyard. He walks up to the Sea Rose, touches his palm to the bottom of the boat. It is full and round, white with tendrils of brown algae. Mac whispers something as he smooths the fibreglass, kisses it softly. And I find myself feeling awkward suddenly, shifting my weight from one leg to another, like I’m spying on lovers, witnessing a moment reserved for someone else.

  In the car, Mac turns on the radio.

  I feel it coursing through me in a stream of soft reds. ‘I love this song,’ I say. ‘It feels very pink.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I said, it feels very pink.’ Then, considering how odd that must sound, I laugh sheepishly. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have.’

  Mac shakes his head. He’s smiling. ‘I can’t wait for you to meet Maggie.’

  sea lavender

  When I can’t find my keys, I empty my handbag on Pa’s doormat. welcome to paradise.

  On my knees, I sift through the mess. ‘Shit,’ I mutter, standing to knock on the door. There’s nothing Pa hates more.

  I remember when I arrived here four years ago, jet-lagged and clammy with sweat, my entire life slung around my shoulders. How there’d been no answer to my knock at the door, though I could hear the TV blaring. How I’d called out, ‘Hello?’

  ‘WHAT?!’

  His shout had been a shock of lime green.

  Once there’d have been Nan, soft like a peach, opening the door, petals unfurling. Once there’d have been tea brewing and a tray of biscuits in the oven. Once there’d have been Pa’s loving embrace, picking me up, swirling me around. Nan’s smiling eyes and cheerful banter. Pa’s wild stories and raucous laugh.

  How jarring it was, that WHAT.

  ‘It’s Olivia,’ I called.

  ‘WHO?’ he yelled over the blasting TV.

  I thumped the door with my fist. ‘Olivia!’

  There were clumsy footsteps, and then the door cracked open. ‘I’m not interested. Piss off.’

  I grabbed hold of the door before he had a chance to close it. ‘Pa, stop. It’s me—it’s Olivia.’

  And then the door opened, and a man with skin more grey than the last time I’d seen it looked me up and down. He was wearing a cricket cap, an ironed white shirt, beige trousers and leather shoes. ‘I thought you weren’t coming till this afternoon,’ he said.

  I looked at my watch. ‘It’s three o’clock.’

  Pa shrugged and stepped back, allowing me in. ‘Looks heavy,’ he said, gesturing to my rucksack. ‘I’d help you but my back is screwed.’ He rubbed his hip.

  ‘No worries,’ I said, following him in. He moved painfully slowly.

  ‘Here’s the lounge room,’ he said, as if I’d never been here before. ‘Kitchen.’ Pointing to the cramped kitchen with lino floors, an empty fruit bowl. ‘The balcony is best in the morning.’ I looked out to the balcony where a succulent sat shrivelled in a terracotta pot. ‘I thought the point of owning a succulent was that it won’t die,’ I said.

  Pa laughed, but the sound was shallow water. ‘Everything dies.’ He tapped a closed door. ‘That’s my room. When I’m in there, I’m not to be disturbed. Got it?’

  I nodded.

  Then he showed me the bathroom and the room that would be mine—instructing me not to touch the boxes under the desk or the box in the bottom of the cupboard—then excused himself to get back to the cricket.

  I unpacked then returned to the living room, was ignored when I asked him if he wanted a cup of tea.

  It wasn’t till an ad came on the TV that Pa turned to me. ‘Sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport. I’ve been busy.’

  I looked around, taking in the half-completed crossword on the coffee table, the cricket resuming on the screen, the three empty beer bottles. ‘All good,’ I said. ‘I like your hat.’ But his attention was back on the cricket. He reached under the coffee table, grabbed a pack of cigarettes and lit one. That was new.

  I stood in the kitchen, watching him suck on it, the embers burning. He exhaled, and a cloud filled the room. He cleared phlegm in his throat. His hands shook. I looked at his fingers, thin and knobbly, his nails yellowing, his wedding band loose. Even then I could see he was starving without her. Time eroding his body. But not fast enough.

  The kettle on the stove began to whistle. I poured water over my tea, watched the water change colour, change shape. On the kitchen bench was a bouquet of lavender, brown stalks, the flowers limp and furry. I could only guess how long they’d been there.

  When I visited as a child, Nan would hide lavender in my drawers, so that I’d carry the scent of her wherever I went. How magic it had seemed. But these were flowers dying as slowly as he was.

  I joined Pa in the living room, and looked out and up the hill to where the lights on St Patrick’s Seminary were coming on. ‘Do you remember how you used to tell me there were fairies living in St Pat’s, and that’s why it lights up at night?’ I asked, standing over him.

  Pa shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine why I would have said something like that.’

  I took the seat beside him. And so began four years of Pa’s body tensing every time I sat in Nan’s chair.

  Now, the TV is blaring behind the door as usual, only I can hear there’s a soap opera on. Pa never watches soap operas. He must be in a mood.

  I brace myself, and knock.

  There’s no answer.

  I knock louder.

  Still nothing.

  I call out. Knock again. Shout through the door.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ I mutter. It’s the third time I’ve locked myself out this month. He’s ignoring me on purpose, I’m sure of it.

  The door on the opposite side of the landing opens and Will sticks his head out. ‘Locked out?’ he says.

  ‘Unfortunately yes.’

  ‘You need a lanyard.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘Does your mum still have the spare key?’

  ‘Unfortunately yes.’

  ‘Very funny,’ I say. He ducks back inside and returns a moment later with the key, chucks it to me.

  ‘Nice catch.’

  ‘Nice throw.’

  He winks, says, ‘See ya,’ and goes back inside his apartment.

  I let myself in. ‘Hey,’ I say as I pass Pa, who’s sitting in his chair in the living room.

  He ignores me.

  In my room, I dump my bag on my bed, kick off my boots, shake off my jacket, walk back out and put the kettle on.

  ‘Sorry I didn’t come home last night, but you won’t believe what happened to me.’

  Silence. Not even a grunt to feign interest.

  ‘Pa?’ I say.

  The kettle starts to whistle.

  He must be really mad. Though I’ve stayed at Adam’s before without telling him, so I’m not sure what the big deal is.

  ‘Pa?’ I say again, reaching for the kettle. I pull it off the stove, start to pour, though I’m not looking at the cup; I’m looking at my grandfather, slouched in front of the TV.

  Boiling water dribbles over the bench, splashes my feet through my socks. I jump back. ‘Ow, shit!’

  He doesn’t tell me off for swearing.

  ‘Pa?’ I whisper, rounding the bench. That strange slouch … I shiver and edge forwards.

  His head is cocked oddly to one side, his neck folded.

  I take another step.

&nbsp
; And then I see them, his eyes, glazed, half open, milky. I reach forwards, my hand shaking, touch my fingertip to his cheek. It’s warm. That means he’s still alive, doesn’t it?

  ‘Pa!’ I shout.

  Will opens his door, laughing. ‘How have you locked yourself—’ He pauses, frowns. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘N-no,’ I stutter. ‘There’s something wrong with my pa.’

  ‘Mum!’ Will calls over his shoulder.

  ‘What?’ she sings out from the other room.

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘What is it? I’m busy!’

  ‘MUM!’ shouts Will.

  Annie emerges a moment later.

  ‘I think my pa’s having a stroke,’ I tell her.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Annie says, rushing past me. ‘Will, call an ambulance.’

  I follow her into my grandfather’s apartment. She touches him. Shudders.

  Outside, the lights on St Pat’s come on, gold against dusk.

  Annie takes his wrist, checks for a pulse. She exhales into the blue space where he doesn’t.

  ‘Honey, I’m so, so sorry,’ she says.

  ‘But he’s warm. I felt him.’

  Will comes in behind me. ‘The ambulance is on its way.’

  Annie shakes her head.

  And suddenly, I feel myself touch the ground. Like I’ve spent my whole life floating around in outer space, and I’m just now feeling gravity for the first time. It’s a shock, this force on my body.

  The weight of it is crushing.

  sea blossom

  I sleep on Will’s sofa, though it’s not really sleeping. It’s more of a waiting. Waiting for what? The hours grate against my skin. I’m not sad, though; at least, I don’t think I am. I haven’t cried.

  Will told me I could. While we were brushing our teeth, he said, ‘You can cry, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, toothpaste frothing at the corners of my mouth. But I didn’t.

  All I feel is the density of my bones, the incredible weight of them.

  Lying on the sofa, I watch the night turn into white. Annie gets up early for a swim. I close my eyes and listen to her sneak past me, treading lightly.

  By the time she gets back, I’ve watched pink uncurl into blue.

  ‘How’d you sleep?’ she asks.

  ‘Okay,’ I lie.

  ‘Have you heard back from your parents?’

  ‘Got an email from my dad. They’ve booked flights. They’ll be here on Tuesday.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘No, next Tuesday.’

  Annie stares at me blankly, uncomprehending.

  ‘My dad has a big conference this weekend,’ I explain.

  ‘I thought your mum would want to come sooner. He was her dad, wasn’t he?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Dad’s dad. Mum’s parents both died before I was born.’

  ‘I see … Still, I would have thought she’d want to come out sooner.’

  ‘Dad would want her to fly with him,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ she says, but she looks troubled. Then she promises she’ll help me in any way she can, tells me I’m welcome to sleep on their sofa for as long as I want.

  I walk into the apartment and find it’s not the sunken impression of Pa in his armchair that makes my skin crawl; it’s the silence, the awful green of it, all muddy and murky.

  I turn the TV on, turn it up loud, and let the sound of a woman chatting about a vacuum cleaner colour the room apricot. Outside, the sky is stretching blue. I walk into my bedroom and gaze out the window, across the pines that line the beach, beyond them, to the sea. It’s spread like pleated fabric; swells lined one after another all the way to the horizon. That’s what I missed most about Australia: the way the sky rests so evenly on the sea. An endless expanse of sky brought to a close. No smog, no pink grey. Just a fine, perfect line.

  Hearing a cough behind me, I jump.

  ‘Oh shit, sorry,’ Will says. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  He’s standing in the doorway in track pants and a t-shirt.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be at school?’ I ask.

  ‘Mum said I could have the day off.’

  ‘What? Because you saw a dead person?’

  Will looks away from me. He shrugs.

  ‘That’s nice of her.’

  ‘I thought we could hang out.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Only if you want to. But if you want to be alone …’

  ‘No, no. It’s fine. It’d be nice to have company …’ I say. ‘Wanna look through some dead person stuff?’

  Will’s eyes widen. ‘That’s messed up,’ he says. ‘But okay. Think I’ll fit his clothes?’

  ‘That’s even worse!’ I say.

  We stare at each other a moment, then both burst into laughter. The hurt of it feels good; a cracking open of the chest that lets the heat out and the cold in. Like the bite of winter, the way it wakes you up.

  Will comes into my room and flops down on my bed, watching me as I finally open the boxes under the desk and in the bottom of the cupboard. I’ve spent four years wondering what was inside them, but figured that while I lived in his house, I should respect Pa’s wishes. In a way, it was better not to know what was in them—it was more fun to guess. I’ve always found a thrill in the darkness of the unknown.

  It turns out my fantasies of gemstones and black pearls are wide of the mark. The boxes under the desk contain cookbooks and tablecloths. I fare better with the box at the bottom of the cupboard; to my delight, it’s full of Nan’s make-up. There are tubes of lipstick in every shade, bottles of perfume with yellowed labels, powder compacts, and nail polish in varying shades of red. I rummage through the lipsticks, eventually settling on a deep cherry. I smooth it across my lips, blow Will a kiss.

  He laughs. ‘What colour would suit me?’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘We need something to make your eyes pop.’ I find a hot pink. ‘Perfect.’

  Will puckers his lips.

  ‘Hold still,’ I say, as I colour them in. ‘Aw, pretty!’

  ‘I look gorge,’ he says, pouting at his reflection in the mirror on my desk.

  ‘We need outfits,’ I say.

  Pa’s room is smaller than I remember, barely wider than the bed. Stepping into the room, I realise I probably haven’t set foot in here since I was a kid climbing into bed between Nan and Pa on Christmas morning. How big the room had seemed then. How warm and wide the bed had felt. Pa might have died in his chair but, really, his life ended years ago. His life ended with hers.

  I open the cupboard, and we’re engulfed by the scent of stale tobacco.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Are you?’

  ‘It’s just kind of weird, isn’t it? How these were clothes that belonged to someone, and now they’re just, I dunno …’

  ‘Clothes.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I shrug.

  ‘Ooh, I like this,’ Will says, picking out a tweed coat. He wriggles his lanky limbs into it.

  ‘Suits you,’ I say. I pull out a navy blazer. ‘How about this for me?’

  He nods. ‘Strong vibes.’

  I complete my outfit with suit pants, bright red socks and a pair of Nan’s boots, which are embroidered with gold blossoms. Will wears a pair of emerald green cords, striped socks and suave leather shoes. He finishes off his outfit with a necklace of rose-pink pearls.

  ‘We look expensive.’

  Will laughs. ‘We are expensive.’

  ‘I should probably sort the rest out,’ I say, contemplating aloud.

  ‘Yeah, may as well. You’ll have to sooner or later.’

  ‘Can you please get me some garbage bags from the kitchen? They’re in the third drawer down.’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, disappearing for a moment, returning with a handful of bags. ‘Here.’ He passes me one.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say as I pull a jacket off its coathanger. ‘Keep anything you want … It’ll all be going to charity.
’

  Will offers me a quiet smile and begins to help.

  Once all the clothes have been sorted—save a few pieces for our own closets—we move on to the drawers in the bedside table.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Will exclaims. ‘Look at these!’ He pulls from the drawer a pack of playing cards, each with a photo of a different naked woman printed on the back. The pictures are highly saturated, giving the women brightly coloured nipples and shocks of pubic hair.

  ‘Dirty dog,’ Will says, shuffling through them. He looks up at me. ‘Have you had sex?’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That’s, like, completely inappropriate.’

  ‘Ha, sorry. Mum says I need a filter.’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘So have you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Had sex.’

  ‘What’s it to you?’ I say coldly, but I can feel heat blooming on my cheeks.

  Will shrugs. ‘I have.’

  ‘Me too. Kind of.’

  ‘How do you kind of have sex?’

  ‘Well, I mean, I’ve done it, but I haven’t, you know, orgasmed. At least I don’t think I have.’

  ‘I think you’d know it if you did.’

  ‘Okay then. I guess I haven’t.’

  ‘I never imagined Adam as a generous lover.’

  ‘Hey,’ I say, ‘you’re walking a very fine line.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, though he doesn’t look it. ‘Where is Adam, anyway?’

  I shrug.

  ‘I mean, why isn’t he here?’ Will persists.

  ‘I haven’t told him what happened yet.’

  Will frowns. ‘Why not?’

  ‘We had a fight the other night.’

  ‘So? You should still tell him.’

  ‘I know. I’m going to.’

  ‘Now?’

  The thought of speaking to Adam right now is making my pulse quicken, every beat painful, so I change the subject. ‘Right now I feel like getting out of here. How about we go drop these bags off?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Will. ‘But I still think you should call him.’

  ‘Later,’ I say. ‘Promise.’

  We wear our outfits down the hill into Manly, where we leave the bags of clothes at an op shop. On the way home, we pass a gelato stand. I pull on Will’s arm to stop him in front of it.