The girl looks up at me again.
‘And the Woman’s Day?’ she asks.
I look down at the magazine in my hands and feel my cheeks burn. ‘Ah, no … not today, thanks.’
It only takes a minute to ring things up. When it’s all done and paid for, Mick and I take a bag each. I follow him and stop for a moment at the door. I turn around but the girl has gone.
FOUR
It’s a ten-minute drive to Mick’s place. I grind my window down as we rattle along a winding dirt road, and although I can’t actually see the water I know it’s there beyond the trees. I can feel it. I can feel its shifting presence, and I can taste the muddy cool of it in my mouth. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs with it.
All of a sudden Mick pulls down on the steering wheel and we head left down a smaller dirt road.
The pick-up seems too big for the new road. I hold on to the dash as we crash through branches and bounce over potholes and ruts. It’s rough going for a few minutes, but soon enough I spot an opening up ahead.
Mick keeps the pick-up straight and when we burst into a clearing I see a mass of water stretched out in front of me. I’m not sure where to focus at first. I start at the wooden jetty and run my eyes across the sparkling water to the bank on the other side.
I don’t even notice the wooden shack to our right. I only become aware of it when I see movement in the purple bougainvillea that runs the length of its verandah. An ugly white dog with a black patch around one eye leaps through the foliage. It barrels towards us, all head and chest.
‘What the hell is that?’ I say.
‘That’s Barry,’ says Mick.
‘Barry?’
‘After Barry Gibb,’ explains Mick. ‘The only surviving Bee Gee.’
I don’t need to look at Mick to know he’s serious.
‘It’s a dog, right?’ I say.
Mick doesn’t answer. After stopping the pick-up, he opens his door and leaps out. Barry jumps up and starts snorting with excitement.
I’m a little nervous getting out myself so I crack open the passenger-side door and ease myself quietly down. Unfortunately Barry hears me close the door. He pricks his ears then charges around the pick-up. He sniffs my leg for a bit, then gazes up at me with that face. It looks as if he’s got a thing for running into brick walls.
‘You know what they say about owners and their dogs,’ I say.
Strangely enough, Mick seems pleased with that. He looks proudly at Barry and smiles.
‘What’s with his eyes?’ I say. ‘Are they always like that?’
‘Like what?’ asks Mick.
‘They’re all red. Is he sick, or something?’
‘No,’ says Mick. ‘He’s a bull terrier. The white ones tend to have red eyes.’
‘Right.’
Barry looks like an alien. Reluctantly, I reach my hand down and let him sniff my fingers.
‘They used to breed ’em for bull fights in Europe,’ says Mick, making his way over to my side of the pick-up. ‘They’ve got jaws like a vice. Once they lock onto something, they don’t let go.’
I’m tempted to pull back after the history lesson, but Barry starts to lick my fingers and his tongue feels rough, like sandpaper against my skin.
‘That’s odd,’ says Mick.
I glance up.
‘What do you mean?’
‘He likes you.’
‘You seem surprised.’
‘I am. Barry’s an excellent judge of character, as it happens. Never known him to get someone wrong. Still, there’s always a first time.’
I head for the rear of the pick-up and grab my backpack and a shopping bag from the tray. I follow Mick towards the house, but I can’t take my eyes off the water, off the two fibro buildings and the white boat tied to the jetty.
It’s spooky. In Croxley, when it was cold and things got too much, I’d put my head down to sleep and I’d imagine myself lying on a jetty in the sun, my back all sticky with salt. I’d peer down between the wooden boards and listen to the slish-slosh sound the water made against the pylons. Lying in my cell in the dark, I’d wait patiently for the gentle puffs of wind that shot up through the gaps in the wood and brushed against my face. I’d see schools of tiny fish, darting left and right in formation and speckled toadfish cruising through reedy river plants.
I’d imagined it over and over, but it never once occurred to me that those things were memories. It never occurred to me that the place I’d dreamt about was real.
I hear Mick’s voice. I must have stopped walking.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Dump your stuff inside. You can go for a wander while I start on dinner.’
After seeing the run-down exterior, I’m surprised when I step inside the house. It’s small and basic and simply furnished, but at the same time there’s an easy kind of warmth to it.
I walk to the fridge to put the chicken away. On the door is a purple card sprinkled with silver glitter. It’s trapped under a large pineapple fridge magnet and says, LET’S GET READY TO RHUMBA. Next to it is a strip of three photos, like the ones that come out of those novelty photo booths they used to have at shopping centres. It’s Mick and a woman with dark hair. They’re hamming it up with zany wigs and big plastic glasses. They look like they’re at a party and they’re happy, ridiculously happy.
I take a step back. It never said anything about family on the custody forms I signed at Croxley. The idea that Mick might have a wife or partner, even kids, never actually crossed my mind.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. They’re clearly not here now and I’m not ready to ask so I off-load the shopping bag and dump my backpack onto the couch. After a quick toilet stop, I take off my shoes and socks, then push through the flywire door with Barry at my heels.
He takes the lead and I follow him down the gently sloping path towards the river.
The grass tickles my toes and when we get to the jetty Barry walks me through some things of interest as if it’s his job to show me around. A pile of oyster shells is his first stop. He trots over to the silver-coloured shells, then cocks his leg and sprays. He gives me a few moments then stares up at me with those eyes. For some reason, I feel compelled to respond.
‘I’m good thanks, Barry. I pissed inside.’
He moves to the boathouse next and barges in through the half-open door. Everything inside has seen better days.
At the rear of the boathouse, against the patchy wall to the left, is an old white-framed bed with a worn-out mattress and pillow. Up in the ceiling, the cobwebbed rafters store a canoe, a dinged-up paddle board and paddles. Life vests, fishing rods and other gear hangs from metal hooks on the wall opposite the bed.
Barry’s looking at me again.
‘It needs a good clean, Barry,’ I say.
Next stop on the tour is a shed-type building, a workshop about three times bigger than the boathouse. Barry trots over and stands patiently in front of the double doors. I head over, slide one open, and when I peer inside I can hardly believe my eyes. In the middle of the shed, propped up on a series of padded supports is a work in progress, a half-done wooden boat hull.
Long sections of golden-coloured wood, just under a metre wide, curve over a frame and run from one end to the other like the rib cage of some magnificent beast.