finished a shout you can still hear it going away, yet it’s not an echo.’
‘You know how cold it’ll be up there, though.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Windy too.’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Please.’
So we walked to the car and drove around the bays towards the airport. Rachel in the front seat beside me, was a reminder of our loss, of Viv in that seat and Rachel behind, and the three-way conversation over years, with Viv’s face tilted often so that she could see her daughter. When three’s a family it’s never a crowd.
‘I’m worried about the school thing,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you unhappy there the way Mrs Bridges says.’
‘I’ll be okay, you’ll see. It’s just I’ve been quieter and people aren’t used to that. I’m okay, really.’
‘Do you dream about your mother?’ I asked, without knowing quite why I said it.
‘Yes, sometimes. They’re almost always about rows we had.’
‘You didn’t argue much though.’
‘No, but that’s mostly what the dreams are about,’ said Rachel, ‘but I don’t really want to talk about it. Most dreams are stupid.’
‘Funny, but I don’t dream about her. Lots of memories, though, lots of stuff that’s very clear. Lots of really happy stuff actually.’
‘Like what?’ asked Rachel, without pausing in the scrutiny of her nails.
‘Like coming down a sloping street and seeing her for the first time walking ahead under birch trees. Like the time the three of us went to Greytown and then had lunch at a winery with outside tables and a boules area. And you cried because a goose snatched cake from your hand.’
‘I was just a kid,’ said Rachel.
So she was: just a kid, and Viv and I just her mum and dad and all three of us just a family out for the day. What could be more ordinary then, and more memorable, more painfully special, now. Viv reading from the wine label for me, the debris of the meal on the wooden table, the movement of other people about us who were excluded from our complacent existence as a family. Just the high tumble of a cloud in the blue overhead, the paddocks with grass not grapes, the touch of open air on our faces. Just Viv and me and Rachel, and the white goose breaking in on our togetherness to steal food and make one of us cry. It could be one of those dreams I don’t have, instead it’s a scene that floats always behind the present view — with that of Viv falling on the street, ascending into the sky with Jay, catching her hand on the rough timber of the Rawene mangrove boardwalk, smiling from the maternity bed as I go out into an Egyptian summer night of whirling beetles, and all the other tableaux from a time when happiness was to be expected from life.
I parked in the rough, off-road loop, and we walked up the winding track through gorse and broom. We stopped talking because we had to walk single file and the wind buffeted words away. Up there, at the crest, is the memorial to the First World War and Gallipoli. I watched Rachel walking up the slope ahead of me, her body so slender that she was able to wrap her coat one and a half times around it, and her thin, denim-clad legs like scissor blades. I felt my face tighten in the cold rush of air, and saw the white scud of wave tops in the strait. A strong wind breaks the complacent unity of a view; makes the elements of it contestable; levers uncomfortably at junctions and unfastened ends.
Rachel climbed onto a ledge of the monument, faced into the wind. The force of it seemed an exhilaration. She spread her arms to feel the lift, as a gull does. ‘We’re above just about everything, aren’t we,’ she said, without looking back at me. She took my hand to climb down, and we put the wind to our backs and went down to the car. ‘Jesus, it’s got so cold, hasn’t it,’ she said.
‘Freezing.’
‘Let’s not talk about any school crap today,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with that, okay?’
‘Are you sure? You’ll say if you need
‘You know how cold it’ll be up there, though.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘Windy too.’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Please.’
So we walked to the car and drove around the bays towards the airport. Rachel in the front seat beside me, was a reminder of our loss, of Viv in that seat and Rachel behind, and the three-way conversation over years, with Viv’s face tilted often so that she could see her daughter. When three’s a family it’s never a crowd.
‘I’m worried about the school thing,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you unhappy there the way Mrs Bridges says.’
‘I’ll be okay, you’ll see. It’s just I’ve been quieter and people aren’t used to that. I’m okay, really.’
‘Do you dream about your mother?’ I asked, without knowing quite why I said it.
‘Yes, sometimes. They’re almost always about rows we had.’
‘You didn’t argue much though.’
‘No, but that’s mostly what the dreams are about,’ said Rachel, ‘but I don’t really want to talk about it. Most dreams are stupid.’
‘Funny, but I don’t dream about her. Lots of memories, though, lots of stuff that’s very clear. Lots of really happy stuff actually.’
‘Like what?’ asked Rachel, without pausing in the scrutiny of her nails.
‘Like coming down a sloping street and seeing her for the first time walking ahead under birch trees. Like the time the three of us went to Greytown and then had lunch at a winery with outside tables and a boules area. And you cried because a goose snatched cake from your hand.’
‘I was just a kid,’ said Rachel.
So she was: just a kid, and Viv and I just her mum and dad and all three of us just a family out for the day. What could be more ordinary then, and more memorable, more painfully special, now. Viv reading from the wine label for me, the debris of the meal on the wooden table, the movement of other people about us who were excluded from our complacent existence as a family. Just the high tumble of a cloud in the blue overhead, the paddocks with grass not grapes, the touch of open air on our faces. Just Viv and me and Rachel, and the white goose breaking in on our togetherness to steal food and make one of us cry. It could be one of those dreams I don’t have, instead it’s a scene that floats always behind the present view — with that of Viv falling on the street, ascending into the sky with Jay, catching her hand on the rough timber of the Rawene mangrove boardwalk, smiling from the maternity bed as I go out into an Egyptian summer night of whirling beetles, and all the other tableaux from a time when happiness was to be expected from life.
I parked in the rough, off-road loop, and we walked up the winding track through gorse and broom. We stopped talking because we had to walk single file and the wind buffeted words away. Up there, at the crest, is the memorial to the First World War and Gallipoli. I watched Rachel walking up the slope ahead of me, her body so slender that she was able to wrap her coat one and a half times around it, and her thin, denim-clad legs like scissor blades. I felt my face tighten in the cold rush of air, and saw the white scud of wave tops in the strait. A strong wind breaks the complacent unity of a view; makes the elements of it contestable; levers uncomfortably at junctions and unfastened ends.
Rachel climbed onto a ledge of the monument, faced into the wind. The force of it seemed an exhilaration. She spread her arms to feel the lift, as a gull does. ‘We’re above just about everything, aren’t we,’ she said, without looking back at me. She took my hand to climb down, and we put the wind to our backs and went down to the car. ‘Jesus, it’s got so cold, hasn’t it,’ she said.
‘Freezing.’
‘Let’s not talk about any school crap today,’ she said. ‘I’ll deal with that, okay?’
‘Are you sure? You’ll say if you need
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