A long the river run, p.6
A Long the River Run, page 6
As she drove along the road, past the site of the demolished steelworks and the huge coal loader with its lines of freight trains snaking in and out, bringing back the ground of the valley that had once been rich farmland and now was nothing more than a disconnected series of huge quarries like, she thought, the disconnected stagnant ponds of what had once been proud flowing rivers, she made the last minute decision to turn off the main road and drive into Tighes Hill so she could go past the house where Andy lived so many years ago.
She was struck by the trees. Huge Australian native trees lined the street and towered high, their spreading branches green with leaves and giving the street a dappled shady quality that must have cooled down the houses and then she remembered that they had all been planted by Andy’s friend Patrick, the man who owned the house that Andy lived in and their other flatmate, Georgia who had kindly put Angela up for some months in her little flat in South Kensington when Angela was looking for Mick in England and looking for her soul in Scotland before going to New Mexico to look for her heart. She hadn’t known Georgia all that well in those days other than as one of the many characters who inhabited the university bar and by time Angela was coming to the house to visit Andy, Georgia was already out working for the Education Department, travelling all over country NSW teaching teenagers about the dangers of drugs and alcohol and unprotected sex and all the other things that teenagers in the country thought of as being the only entertainment that they could easily get hold of.
The other thing that struck Angela was how quiet it was in the street compared to what it had been like thirty years before, which was probably the last time she had been in the street and, back then, the steelworks was in full production and the house being a few hundred yards from the main gate to the steelworks meant that you could hear every sound from the huge industrial monster that, to Angela, sometimes seemed like a living breathing thing, spitting out fire and smoke and dust and noise and light and all things that are transformative, changing, harbingers of all sorts of evil.
Angela tried to remember the last time that she had actually been in that house in the shadow of the steelworks. She thought that it might have been not long before she graduated with her honours degree and that it might have been a party, but it wouldn’t have been to celebrate Andy’s graduation because he had dropped out of uni for the second or third time and this time it had something to do with Sophie, the Professor’s daughter. Angela remembered that Andy had tried to chat her up at the party and looked all hurt and sulky when she rebuffed his advances which is something she wouldn’t have done before he had his thing with Sophie. Angela also remembered that she had an argument with Lucy about something or other but couldn’t recall the details but then again, Lucy was always playing mindgames with people and trying to manipulate them so it could have almost been about anything. Everyone at some time or another had a falling out with Lucy, Angela remembered. She had a vague recollection of Lucy making some disparaging remarks about Angela being offered a job tutoring at the uni while she did her Masters and Lucy suggested that Angela was the sort of person who would never grow up and who would find safety behind the walls of the academy and, as she remembered this, she remembered it was Lucy, that night, who had been the person who had first called her a bluestocking as a form of insult and that Andy had joined in the teasing and she hated him for that and it was Andy who, a few years later, bumped into her at a big poetry prize announcement in the Regional Art Gallery, that Angela thought, he had expected to win, without having the smarts to know that the organisers always tell the winners beforehand that they have won so they’ll turn up and have an acceptance speech ready, who had said that he always knew that she ‘would end up as bluestocking’.
‘And I always knew that you’d end up a dilettante’ Angela had said to him as she turned her back and found a group of young post-grads from the English Department who seemed to enjoy drinking and partying and always invited her to their shindigs, and that always made her feel years younger and now she could no longer remember, or even imagine, what it might have been like to be thirty years younger, a girl, just a girl in her mid-twenties looking out at the world and all it had to offer, all its promises and all of its dreams that were yet to be dreamed.
Angela remembered the night that she had gone to Harry’s Bar at the university one evening when she was still an undergraduate with some of the people who had been in her English tute group. There was Brendan, who thought himself a bit of a lady’s man and who Angela had been on a couple of dates, but nothing came of it and mainly because Brendan had one big passion in his life, one big interest, one big project and that was Brendan. When Angela had started going out with Brendan, Lucy started to take an interest in him as well and that was the first time that Angela really had anything to do with Lucy and she suspected that Brendan and Lucy traded pot for sex and that Brendan had a mate with a good sized plantation up in the New England where Brendan’s father was a magistrate and everyone in the town’s establishment turned a blind eye to the doings of the favoured sons, the golden haired boys of the town and that’s why Brendan was, in many ways, a spoiled and conceited prick. Angela and Brendan had also been joined briefly by Louis, another of their fellow students and Angela remembered how she had been disappointed that Louis was gay and had not the slightest interest in women in that sense and yet, he was absolutely charming, incredibly handsome with a wonderful cultivated voice and very much at ease in his own skin and who liked to sit in the bar downing gin and tonics and telling outrageous stories about which members of the academic staff had, what he called, ‘closets with revolving doors’. And then there was Andy, sometimes the life of the party and sometimes the sullen and morose one with his big afro hair do and his old ripped jeans and combat boots, Andy who had dreams of being a poet and living a bohemian lifestyle and who, Angela suspected, had a crush on her, but was too nervous or uncertain around women to do anything about it and she thought that if he didn’t make a move on her, she might have to take matters into her own hands and make the move herself and show some assertiveness.
As Angela remembered it, they were all sitting in the bar on some lounges that were arranged in a square around a large low table when this blonde-haired girl that Angela had seen around the campus came and sat with them and Angela could tell that Andy was instantly smitten. She wasn’t particularly offended at the way in which Andy showed so much interest in Sophie and the way he paid her undivided attention, but she was miffed by the way he physically half-turned in his chair to face Sophie so that he turned his back towards Angela. She stayed talking to Louis and Brendan for a while and then left to catch the bus, which is something she would normally have done with Andy but she didn’t even bother saying goodbye and when he didn’t arrive at the bus stop in time for the last bus back into town, she had assumed that he had gone off with Sophie and that perhaps that she had a car of her own.
Angela was lost in time, sitting in the street in the shade of native trees that Patrick had planted all those years ago, remembering what it was like to be young and to think that all of those little heartaches actually mattered, actually meant something and wondering to herself if any of them at that time were ever really happy. Andy thought he was happy in those first few months that he was seeing Sophie to the point that Angela couldn’t stand his company, the very few times she actually bumped into him, because all he could talk about was Sophie this and Sophie that, as if there was nothing else in the world that mattered and he never once asked her how she was doing, what was happening in her life of whether she had met anyone, which she hadn’t but would have made something up rather than give Andy the satisfaction of thinking that he was the only one that was happy, or at least pretending to be. Angela didn’t know what happened in the end but eventually Sophie and Andy split up and six months or so later Andy left town. Sophie hung around and Angela didn’t bump into her until a couple of years later when she decided to be sociable and go to the English Department Christmas Drinks in one of the pubs in town. Sophie walked into the pub arm in arm with one of Sophie’s colleagues, a brilliant young man who was beavering away on his first novel and who had not long returned after doing his PhD at Princeton. Brad Shaw had started uni the same time as Angela but had managed to complete his honours degree in four years and get a first and then went off to the USA to grad school. Angela walked up to say hello to Brad when the Professor also rushed up and turned to Angela and asked her if she knew Sophie and that, Sophie was his daughter and, as he did so, the Professor put a proprietorial arm around Angela’s shoulders and Angela turned a red brighter than her hair and thought that they would all be able to tell that for the last month or two she had been carrying on a torrid affair with the Professor who was old enough to be her father, even, perhaps older.
A couple of people had come out of their houses in Tighes Hill, probably wondering why this young woman with the car laden with bags and boxes was just sitting in the street with the engine idling and Angela thought that if she was one of the neighbours, she might suspect that she was up to no good, casing the place and she also realised that she had phoned Ingrid when she was leaving Maitland and that if she didn’t turn up soon, Ingrid might start to worry. She thought about waving to the people watching her but decided in the end that it was probably a little cheeky and so she just pulled into the street and drove away from the house in the shadow of the steelworks and hoped that her presence hadn’t unleashed any ghosts from the past who were still, in their endless loop of ghostime, unable to resolve the years of unfinished business.
It was one quick diversion to the big shopping centre in town that had a reasonable range of cheese in the supermarket and a well-stocked bottle shop to pick up provisions and then, in what seemed like no time at all since he had left her own house, Angela was fishing for the swipe card to open the door to the basement garage in Ingrid’s building.
‘Come in, come in’ Ingrid said, hugging Angela at the front door of the unit.
‘How safe is it down there?’ Angela asked, meaning the garage, ‘I’ve got just about everything that I treasure in my car and don’t want it nicked.’
Angela suggested that they should at least bring the most valuable things up to the apartment and the rest can be stored in a heavy metal locker like a small garden shed that each of the residents had in the basement garage.
After they had lugged a couple of boxes and bags up into the spare room, Angela waved the unopened bottle of Pinot Grigio in Ingrid’s direction and Ingrid said that she thought that Angela would never ask.
‘I can only have a glass or two’, Ingrid said, ‘in case I get called in to work.’
‘Has there been anything on the news about the fires?’ Angela asked, pointing to the television hanging on the wall in the living room and Ingrid picked up the remote control and turned it on and flicked between the local commercial television program and the national news network. Angela sat down with her glass of wine and Ingrid sat next to her and laid her hand on the back of Angel’s forearm.
‘Was it bad up there?’ Ingrid asked and Angela looked at her and nodded. The television news seemed to be mainly focussing on Cheltenham and Angela wasn’t sure if this was because it was at more risk than Allynsdale or whether it was more newsworthy because it was a much bigger town. After showing scenes of people at the evacuation centre who were clearly in distress, the report then crossed to another journalist and Angela recognised straight away that he was outside the Allynsdale hotel.
‘Emergency services can confirm that a number of houses were lost in the Allynsdale area, but containment lines and the use of water bombers appeared to have saved the bulk of the town including the small businesses on the main street’ the reporter announced. ‘Emergency services are gravely concerned about the local firefighting unit who have not been heard of for some hours after they headed to fight the fire in the ridges north of the village. Police said that is still too dangerous to attempt to enter the area by road and thick smoke is making it difficult for aircrew to see what is on the ground. Police are also concerned for a number of residents from the north of Allynsdale who are yet to be accounted for.’
‘Did you tell anyone you were leaving?’ Ingrid asked.
‘Of course, I did, there was Killer and Tony and Alyssa and Kevin Cutler’, Angela said and then quickly covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh shit, Killer and Alyssa and Tony might not have got out, they were going to defend their properties and Kevin is the captain of the missing fire crew.’ She turned to look at Ingrid with eyes that were wide with fear.
‘O.K.’, Ingrid said, reaching for her mobile phone, ‘there’s an information line for people to report that they have loved ones missing or to report that they’re alright and I’m just going to call it and say that you’re fine and that you’re here with me and that way the police won’t risk themselves going to look for you.’
Angela nodded agreement and took her wine glass and walked out onto the balcony that had views all the way up the harbour and out to sea, and the sinking sun was casting a bright red line tinged with gold across the top of the green water like a finger pointing its way to the sea and Angela had hoped to be able to smell the sea in all its saltiness that sometimes made her think of blood and sometimes of tears, but all she could smell was the acrid bitter taste of the smoke that was being pushed down the valley, following the course of the river, by the running wind. It would be night soon and the streets below the unit will be filled with cars and pedestrians heading to the restaurants and bars that lined the harbour where the old wharf sheds and warehouses used to be when Angela was a little girl and her dad would drive up the street that was so close to where the cargo ships were tied to the wharves that it almost seemed to Angela that if she leaned far enough out of the car’s window, she would be able to touch the sides of the ships and put her finger on the Plimsoll Line that her father had told her was how they knew not to overload the ship and if the water line was above the Plimsoll Line then the ship could founder and sink and lives would be lost.
‘What are you thinking about?’, Ingrid asked, walking out on to the balcony to join Angela.
‘Do you remember the Stockton ferry?’ Angela asked.
‘I sometimes catch it on a Sunday with a couple of girls from work and we go and have lunch and a few beers at the Washtub.’
‘No, not the passenger ferry, the car ferry, the punt, well there were two of them I think, and they criss-crossed the harbour before the bridge opened.’
‘Not really. When did the bridge open?’ Ingrid asked.
‘1970, I think or somewhere around then, I’m pretty sure that I was in Kindergarten at the time’ Angela said, turning to smile at Ingrid.
‘I was three that year, no wonder I don’t remember.’
‘We used to drive down the old road that was much closer to the water over there,’ Angela said pointing to where some new buildings were going up right on the edge of the harbour, ‘and for some strange reason I was remembering my dad pointing out the Plimsoll lines on the ships and I was wondering whether or night we might have our own Plimsoll lines, even if they’re invisible.’
‘I’m not sure I follow?’ Ingrid asked.
‘Is there some way that we can tell that we’re getting close to being overloaded, being overwhelmed, before it’s too late and we just founder, crushed under the waves and water, the oceans and seas of our lives and experiences, the tides of change, the winds of storms, the tempests of time?’
‘Enough with the weather analogies’ Ingrid laughed and Angela looked hurt for a second.
‘Could you actually hit you breaking point and not actually realise that you were even close until it is too late, until you’re over the edge and rapidly sinking?’ Angela asked, looking back over at the harbour as the reddish golden line in the water seemed to get longer until it reached the point where it rapidly faded to nothing as the sun fell below the western mountains at the edge of the city and it was truly night.
‘Maybe you should talk to someone’ Ingrid suggested, and Angela turned back to face her.
‘Isn’t that what I’m doing?’
‘You know what I mean, a professional, a counsellor.’
‘A shrink?’ Angela laughed just a touch too loud so, to Ingrid, it sounded forced and strained.
‘At work, we have professional supervision once a month and is just a chance to sit and talk to someone about whatever’s been on your mind or whatever has been causing you stress and anxiety and you’d be surprised how good it feels to get stuff off your chest, just to put it into words. I think you spend too much time sitting up there on your mountain and not talking to anyone and just stewing about a whole lot of unresolved stuff from the past.’
‘I talk to plenty of people and I had enough talking to shrinks years ago remember?’ Angela said and to Ingrid’s ears, it sounded more like a petulant child speaking than a mature, intelligent and articulate woman.
Angela knew what Ingrid meant but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to admit it, even to herself. It was true that sometimes she went days without speaking to anyone and even when she did speak to someone, it was usually Killer and, as nice as he was to her, they were hardly stimulating conversations and his topics were usually limited to the weather, what the neighbours were up to and then sometimes he would go into some diatribe about the ‘clowns in Sydney and Canberra’ and how ‘none of them were worth feeding’.
Angela sometimes wondered about Killer’s past and it seemed to her that he had been on top of the mountain in his little slab cottage forever. She knew that his family came from around Allynsdale and the surrounding hills and valleys, but she wondered if he had ever left, if he had some life somewhere else only to come back to the place where he had grown up. Angela had heard that’s what people sometimes do although, for her, there was nothing she could think of that would be worse than returning to the suburb where she spent her first seventeen years, but, then again, when she made escape, it was only to travel a few kilometres closer into the city into the first of many shared student houses in the old run down suburbs with the sight and sound and smell of the steelworks. She never made the big escape, the running away overseas like a lot of the people she had met in uni did and it seemed, for a while, in her late twenties and early thirties, that just about everyone she had ever known was living in London or some other part of the U.K. doing all sorts of menial jobs in bars and restaurants notwithstanding their uni degrees. She would get the occasional postcard or aerogram letter from the likes of Louis and Ned Kelly describing all the sights and sounds of London and she even got a letter from Linda, the cranky Trotskyite who liked to taunt the Professor in class and call him a class traitor because he lived in a big house high on the hill overlooking the town. She heard rumours on the grapevine that Andy had been in London or New York and had scored some good gig with some media organisation or other, but she never received a letter from him or a postcard or an invitation to come and stay in London or Manhattan. In fact, the only person from the old circle at uni who didn’t do the obligatory stint overseas or the move to Melbourne, and Angela often wondered why so many of the people she was at uni with went to Melbourne and not to Sydney and thought that it might have been a bigger statement to move that distance when Sydney was only two hours down the road, had been Lucy, and Lucy never even moved from the same suburb that she had lived in when they were students and as far as Angela knew, she might well live in the same house but she hadn’t seen her for years and since she had moved up to the mountain, Angela didn’t bump into anyone who knew Lucy.
