Raw Blue (12 page)

19

friday’s bubble

On Friday morning I drag myself out of bed for an early, thinking I’d rather face the pre-work crew than run into Shane or Ryan. I arrive back home full of good intentions, thinking I’ll tidy up. I have crap strewn everywhere: newspapers, wetsuits, dirty towels, my board cover, the pile of clean washing that has been drip-feeding me clothes, my laptop, notepads, pens, glasses.

I’m truly puzzled by the way I make mess. Every now and then I go into a cleaning frenzy and become insanely pedantic about getting everything just perfect. But this morning is not one of those times. After ten minutes I go outside and lie in a puddle of sunlight on the deck, overwhelmed by it all.

I keep getting up to look at the ocean, framed by trees and bamboo. Today it’s so blue it makes my eyes ache. Every time I walk out here my head snaps around to see it, like the east has some magnetic effect on me.

Footsteps. Coming down the side of the house. I get up quietly, thinking I’ll creep inside, slide my glass door closed and pretend I’m not home. I don’t know who it is but I feel hunted. Maybe it’s Jean, my landlady, but she normally rings before she comes over.

‘Cookie? Are you there?’

Hannah appears. Her hair is mussed up and she’s wearing her black dress, holding her boots in one hand, with a newspaper wrapped in plastic tucked under her arm.

‘Hey. Where have you been?’ I ask, surprised.

She leans against the side of the house, giving me a glassy smile. ‘I went to my club last night. Joost rang and he was horrible to me. He makes me feel so guilty, you know? So I thought, too bad, mate, I am going to party.’

‘With Victor?’

A frown crosses her face like shadow from a cloud, taking the smile with it. ‘I went there to see him. But Victor was not enshooshiashtic when he saw me.’

‘So …?’

‘So I danced with another man.’

‘Is that a euphemism?’

Her eyes widen in appreciation of the word. ‘A euphemism, yes. I stayed the night with him, at his house.’

‘Who was he?’ I sit back down in the sunlight.

Hannah sits down beside me, her legs straight out in front of her. ‘His name was Paul. An Aussie guy.’

‘And …?’

‘Pah!’

‘Oh.’

‘But I brought you this, Cookie.’ She holds up the newspaper. ‘I stole it from his driveway while I was waiting for my taxi.’

‘Thank you very much. Hey, shouldn’t you be at work? It’s nine-thirty.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’m not going. I’m throwing a sickie. Like an Aussie.’

‘Good for you.’

‘I think you mean, go
vaginas
. But you’re not surfing?’

‘Already been.’

‘Then you’ll read the paper now, won’t you?’

‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘I might read it too. Down here with you. I’ll make us some tea.’

While Hannah goes upstairs to get the tea ready – all my cups are dirty, and anyway, I don’t have a teapot, tea, sugar or milk – I find the Metro section. Turns out Bernard has swung fast and loose and reviewed folk, which I can never remember him doing before. But it’s actually Bruce Springsteen doing folk music, which isn’t quite the same as straight folk. He describes Springsteen as being
gruff of voice
, which I like. He talks of drinking beers and stomping around a dance floor. He makes me feel like everybody else in the world knows how to have a good time except me.

I wish I wasn’t so uptight. Then I look over at Hannah and realise I’m not alone like I usually am. And it feels good to have some company.

She’s sitting cross-legged with the business section of the paper spreadeagled over her lap. She frowns at what she’s reading and her forehead stays creased while she checks my cup and hers and pours us more tea and milk, precisely measuring sugar into mine.

‘Hey, Hannah?’

She looks at me and I shake my head, smiling. ‘Nothing. Doesn’t matter.’

She nods and goes back to her paper.

We’re still sitting there when my mobile starts ringing an hour later. I decide to leave it, thinking it must be Emilio.

‘But Cookie, your phone is ringing.’

So I get up and run inside – leaving a phone ringing is the sort of thing that messes with Hannah’s mind.

The phone dies as I pick it up and I check the menu for missed calls. It wasn’t Emilio who called, it was Ryan.

I wait to see if the message icon comes up, but it doesn’t.

What to do? Maybe my board’s ready. Maybe he wants Hard Cut back. Maybe curiosity is killing me.

He answers on the first ring, which sort of jolts me.

‘Ryan?’

‘Carly, how’re you going, mate? Mark’s rung to say the boards are done.’

‘Oh, okay. Thanks.’

There’s a pause long enough to be filled in with static.

‘Been getting out much?’ he asks.

I clear my throat. ‘Yeah, a bit.’

‘Haven’t seen you down there for a while.’

‘Um, I’ve been going different times. Because of work. Different shifts and stuff.’

‘Yeah? What do you do?’

‘I’m a chef. Sort of.’

‘Like a cook?’

‘Yep.’

‘Right.’

Another long pause. The air feels heavy.

I make myself say it. ‘I’m sorry for being rude to you the other day.’

‘No biggie, mate.’

‘And thanks for getting me a board to use.’

‘How is it, all right?’

‘Yeah. Bit harder to duck dive though, and turn.’

‘Don’t tell Mark that. He fancies himself as a gun shaper.’

I laugh.

‘So anyway, when you’re ready to pick it up they’re down in Harbord Road,’ he says, sounding like he wants to wind this up. ‘You know it? I’ve forgotten what number, but just drive along slow and you can’t miss it.’

‘I can find it.’

‘Big Hard Cut sign out the front. I’ve told Mark if you try and give him money not to take it. He did it as a favour.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah, no worries. All right then, catch you later.’

I put the mobile down and rub my face. I feel like my stomach’s dropping away. And that’s that, then, I think, walking towards the deck. Before I get there my mobile rings again.

‘So, it’s me again – Ryan.’ His voice is different this time, not as brisk.

‘Hi.’

‘So, ah, there’s supposed to be a big swell building for the weekend, from the south. They reckon it’s going to hit Sydney on Sunday. Biggest swell in twenty years or something. Hear about it?’

‘Um, yeah.’ Coastalwatch has been going on about nothing else all week, sounding like the voice of doom:
If you want to live, do not venture out on Sunday
.

‘So I’ll be down at the break, ’bout eight or so. They’ll be towing in for sure. And probably off the Long Reef Bombie, too. Be worth a look if you’re interested.’

He stops talking as though he’s waiting for something. I’m quiet because I’m not sure if he means I should go with him. I’m not sure what he means at all.

‘That’s if you wanted to – ah shit, this is hard.’ He blows out some air. ‘I’ve been thinking about you, Carly. If you want to come down, come down. And if you don’t want to come down, don’t come down. It’s up to you.’

‘Okay.’ I would like to ask for some clarification, but I don’t have the guts.

‘So – yeah. I’ll leave it there. All right?’

‘Okay.’

‘Might see you Sunday.’

He hangs up before I can say okay again.

Hannah doesn’t look up when I come back outside, and she doesn’t ask me who called either. But when I’m sitting down, flexing my feet and pointing them, eyes shut and face raised up to the sun, she says, ‘But you’re happy, eh?’

I blink at her, surprised. She’s right.

My happiness is crunchy. Snapping, crackling and popping in the sun.

That afternoon, I join the traffic streaming over the bridge into Narrabeen and look up at the pelicans hunkered down on top of the street lights there. There are three of them. I wonder why they like to sit there in particular, on top of a thing made of metal with the angry buzz of traffic rising up around them. The lagoon looks still and glossy today, the colour of liquorice. I flick my indicator and get over in the right lane, then turn off into Mactier Street. I drive down towards the lagoon and pull into a courtyard surrounded by a grey three-storey unit block. A series of garage doors lines the bottom level, grinning at me like teeth.

When I buzz number seven, Danny’s tinny voice asks me if I can come up.

‘Why? Aren’t you ready?’

‘Yeah, I just – just come up.’

There is an electronic whirring noise and the door unlocks. On the third floor, the top level, I come out on the landing and see Danny waiting, holding his front door open. I hang back for a second, worried he’s going to start wincing and carrying on, telling me that I’m evil.

He looks worried, but not by me. ‘I don’t have a white shirt. I thought I did but when I looked I couldn’t find one.’

‘How come you’re telling me this now?’

‘
Shh,
Mum’s in the kitchen, she’ll go nuts. I didn’t look until ten minutes ago.’

I frown at him. He’s got the black trousers and he’s wearing what I presume are his black school shoes, so he’s fine in both those departments, but the blue Billabong T-shirt won’t meet franchise dress regulations.

‘Mum’s going to go psycho. I told her I’d checked.’

A woman’s voice floats up the hallway, drawing closer. ‘Is that you, Carly, love?’

‘What’s your mum’s name again?’ I hiss at Danny. I’ve drawn a complete blank, which is bad because I spent a good forty minutes talking to her on the phone last weekend after I saw Danny in the surf. She asked me a few questions about the café, which took maybe three minutes, and then she just talked at me about Danny, her job as a regional trainer for the Education Department and petrol prices. Not that it was bad, but she’s one of those women who download everything in their head when they’ve got someone to talk to.

‘Liz,’ Danny mouths.

She’s not what I expected: a petite Chinese woman who’d whisk me in the door and feed me dumplings and spring rolls. Liz is tall, on the plump side of fat and a redhead. So it’s Danny’s dad who must be Asian. She told me about him. He lives in Melbourne and Danny only sees him three times a year.

‘Hi Liz. How are you?’

‘Oh, can’t complain. Thanks for taking him, Carly, it’s appreciated. What time will you be home do you think?’ Liz sounds slightly out of breath. She sounded like that on the phone, too.

‘Ah, we’ll finish at twelve. So I should be back here at about twelve-thirty at the latest.’

‘I’ll wait up for you. See how my cootchin went.’ She pokes Danny in the ribs and he squirms. ‘Your first job, hey? Who would have thunk it? Now, have you got everything? What about a shirt? You can’t wear that.
Danny
, I told you to be prepared. How many times do I have to say it? Be prepared.’

I remember Kylie usually keeps a spare shirt in the office. It flaps around on her like she’s a scarecrow, but it’ll fit me fine. Danny can wear my whites.

‘Danny can borrow mine for tonight. I’ve got another one at work I can wear.’

Liz tuts at Danny and shoots me a pained look. ‘Are you sure, Carly? I told him to get organised, and does he?’ She pokes him in the ribs again. ‘Naughty cootchin.’

‘Mum.’

Danny suffers a kiss on the cheek and we head downstairs. Liz holds the door open and yells encouragement until we’re outside.

‘I like your mum.’

‘Easy for you to say.’

‘Is it, cootchin?’

‘Shut up.’

‘How long have you had your car?’ Danny asks on our way there.

‘Almost two years. I got it when I started uni.’

He’s got his seat pushed right back with his feet up on the dashboard, he’s reorganised my radio to suit his tastes, and every now and then he does a rollercoaster arm out his open window. I’ve never seen anybody get such value out of a car trip.

He wrinkles his nose up at me, looking fresh-faced and young. ‘
Uni
? Do you have to go to uni to be a chef?’

‘I’m not a real chef. I just work in a kitchen. To be qualified as a chef you’ve got to do a four-year apprenticeship. I did communications at uni. That was before I started working in kitchens.’

‘Communications? What’s that?’

‘Like writing annual reports. Press releases. Stock market reports.’

Danny giggles.

‘What’s so funny?’

His eyes are all squinted up. ‘
You
. Doing that.’

I grin. ‘Why not?’

He flops weakly back in his seat. ‘Did you like it?’

‘No, not much. I dropped out.’

‘So you could surf?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘Do you like what you’re doing now?’

‘Sometimes. I like being able to surf every day, that makes it all right.’

‘Huh. I’m gonna get a job where I can surf every day.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. Just something.’

We’re passing Long Reef now, and as we near the car-park turn-off we both crane our necks to check the surf. There’s only that small window of opportunity to see it because the scrubby vegetation blocks the view for the rest of the strip. It looks all right, a little chopped up from the wind, but there’s swell about.

‘
Eeeeurgh!
’ screeches Danny.

‘I can’t make that noise.’

‘Go on.’

‘No, seriously, I can’t.
Ooooooh!
’

‘That doesn’t sound very good.
Eeeeeurgh!
What’ll I have to do tonight?’

‘Emilio will probably put you on bussing.’

‘Bussing?’

‘You’ve got to go around cleaning up the tables and bringing the stuff into Roger.’

‘Roger?’

‘He’s the dish pig. He’s an alcoholic and he doesn’t talk much.’

‘Alcoholic?’

‘You repeat just about everything, do you know that?’

‘Everything?’

I laugh, feeling light. ‘Hey, want to go the back way into Manly and check the surf? What do you reckon?’

‘Eeeeurgh!’

We’re halfway down Kangaroo Lane when Danny remembers he didn’t lock his door, so I send him back to do it. The sun’s dropped behind the top of the rock face and even though there’s still plenty of light around, and the air’s warm, it feels like summer’s on the way out. I watch Danny jogging back to me, slightly pigeon-toed and scuffing his feet. He’s wearing my chef’s whites, but he hasn’t done the buttons up and the two sides are flapping out behind him like wings. I start walking backwards as he draws near and as I do I notice the cream Kingswood parked on my left. Marty’s car. I feel my heart lurch. Marty’s in the passenger seat, his head tilted back.