Candelo by Georgia Blain Page A

now?
and he looked at each of us, wanting our opinion.
    We could hear her typewriter. She had only just started again. It was not a good time to interrupt her.
    Better to wait
, Simon said.
    Just for a while
, I told him.
    He drummed the tabletop with his fingertips. He picked up a glass. He put it down.
About an hour, you reckon?
    About an hour
, we told him. In unison.
    Outside it was hot. Midday heat that burnt the grass white, flat and colourless.
    With his back on the concrete, Mitchell lay on top of the low wall that bordered the verandah, his shirt off, letting the sun soak into the smooth brown of his chest. With his arms behind his head, I could see the curls of underarm hair, golden in the light.
    Ever had a girlfriend?
he asked Simon, and I saw Simon shake his head.
    Me neither, not a proper one
, and I watched as Mitchell swung himself up, as he leant against the verandah post, his body outlined by the bright blue of the sky.
    But jeez, I’d like one
, and I watched him stretch; I watched his back as he stared out across the garden.
Not just someone to, you know
, and as he turned, as he looked at me, I saw Simon look down, tearing a strip of rubber off his thong, staring at his feet.
    What about you?
and it was me he was asking this time, and I was good at the bravado, good at the game.
    A girlfriend?
and I raised my eyebrows as Mitchell looked at me.
Boyfriends
. . . and I shrugged my shoulders to signify the countless thousands I’d had.
    But Mitchell had turned away, away from both of us.
    I’d like to be in love
, he said, but not to us. To no one in particular.
    And I picked a cobweb, sticky and fine, off my leg and rolled it into a tight ball between my fingers.
    I’d like to have kids
, he said.
You know. Kids and a wife
.
    Simon pulled himself up slowly from where he had beensitting. He did not look at me and he did not look at Mitchell.
    Don’t know when it’ll happen, but
, and Mitchell turned slowly to where we both were, there behind him, to me watching him and to Simon looking down at the ground, one hand on the doorhandle, one foot inside, one still outside.
    He had been about to go back inside. To disappear, without a word. But as Mitchell had turned, he had stopped.
    I could hear a fly buzzing near my ear, but I did not move, and in the silence that had descended, I thought I could also hear it again, the low rush of the wind coming down from off the mountains, sweeping across the paddocks.
    Mitchell’s voice broke the quiet.
So, you reckon an hour’s up?
    Simon looked at his watch.
No
, he said.
    Let’s ask her anyway
, and Mitchell pointed out towards the horizon, towards where he imagined the beach was.
Let’s go. Take your board
, and with his arms outstretched, he pretended to surf, the excitement sparking in his eyes.
Reckon she’ll say yes?
    With one hand still on the doorhandle, Simon looked at Mitchell. They smiled at each other in a moment that I later knew excluded me.
    Maybe
, he said.
    And as the door slammed shut behind him, as he went to ask Vi for the keys, Mitchell started humming surf tunes. Badly.

nineteen

    Because he has been a bus driver for such a long time, Simon can get whatever shifts he wants. Although you earn more on nights or weekends, he usually gives up his highly valued hours to anyone who asks him, the needs of others always taking precedence over his own.
    Sometimes I catch one of his buses home. I sit on the seat behind him and we talk awkwardly in between stops. The buses he drives are always crowded. He cannot bear to close the door on passengers, to drive past people, despite the fact that he is now prohibited by government regulation from having more than a certain number standing.
    You can’t fit any more on
, I sometimes say to him.
    He does not listen, and as the doors shut, everyone seems to have miraculously found a space.
    I do not know what Simon thinks of his job. I can only guess. He simply takes