Page 20 of Summer, in Between
It’s not in gear.
‘Very funny, Dad.’I bang it into gear and take off.A car blasts its horn and I slam on the brakes, throwing us forward.An old wreck of a station wagon passes by, veering sharply around our front end, missing us by centimetres.A hand protrudes from a window, middle finger saluting.I stare in shock, hands glued to the wheel and my heart thrumming, the staccato snare to the still ticking indicator drum.
‘Head check!’Dad yells.‘Fuckwit, driving like that.Did you see his rego?’
I turn off the engine and burst into tears.
‘You’re fine,’ says Dad.‘Get back on the horse, it’s not your fault.That goose was driving a hundred miles an hour.But see what I’m talking about?Always, always,alwayscheck each way.How many times do I need to tell you?’
‘Stop yelling at me!’
‘Come on, Cat.’Dad pats my knee.‘We’re fine.Do your head checks and let’s go.’
‘Are you sure?’I say, doing the shaky-voiced sniffly thing I do when I’m crying.I rub my sweaty hands on my pants and wipe the back of my arm across my face.There’s a fine film of snot glistening off my sleeve.‘Okay.’
I’m still trembling when I turn the ignition and the car rumbles back to life.I take a deep breath and check each way, check again, and then check again.I grab hold of the gear stick, push it into first, then slowly take my foot off the clutch.The car hops along the gravel.Dad and I lurch, then I hit my stride.My nerves calm as the car settles into a smooth roll, the only shudders from the potholes and not my gear changes.We pass dozens of beach houses, holiday makers standing forlornly on balconies.The road takes us out of town, along Back Road, a boundary of sorts between the town and the nearby farms, little more than a goat track built to access Dad’s fishing beach.We drive to a clearing smaller than a standard house block.We’re the only car, thank goodness, so I pull up next to the log barrier that marks the walking track to the beach.
‘You know what, Dad, I really don’t like driving.’My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel in the perfect ten to two position.‘I don’t think I’ll worry too much about getting my license.Next year, I’ll just take public transport in the city.’I turn off the ignition and toss the keys across to Dad.‘You’re driving home.I’m done.’
‘Spoken like someone who has never had to take public transport in their life,’ says Dad.
‘What?I take the bus to school every day!’
‘That’s not public transport, Cat.Not even close.Anyway, how do you plan to get home on weekends or your holidays?Are your mother and I supposed to drive you backwards and forwards?’
‘Could you?That would be fantastic.Thanks Dad, you’re the best!’
‘Hang on, Cat,’ he says as I take off my seatbelt.‘Before you get out, about last night...’
‘Ugh, here we go.’I roll my eyes.‘I know, I know, I shouldn’t have walked home alone, blah, blah, blah.’
‘Don’t be a smartarse.You have an incredible brain; we all know that.But you don’t have a lot of street smarts, and walking home alone last night proved it.’
‘Quick question, Dad.Would Matty have to sit through this or is the safety chat just for me because I’m a delicate, vulnerable girl who can’t take care of herself?’
He holds my eyes as he continues, concern heavy in his face.‘Why’d you leave the party?Did something happen that I should know about?’
‘I told you, I was over it.Like I won’t be seeing the King of the Neanderthals enough?’
‘Bella, you need to lose the attitude about Paul.Everyone’s dealing with their own crap.Remember that and don’t add to it.Yeah?’Dad only calls me Bella when he is in full protective father mode and the nickname cleaves through my stubborn annoyance.
‘Yeah, all right, Dad.I get it.It was stupid, and I’m sorry, okay?Are we doing this?’I really don’t want to think about Paul GD Lightwood and what’s looking like my undeniably bad call sneaking off last night.He’s occupied far too much of my brain space this morning as it is, the way my hand felt in his.Enough!I get out of the car and zip my puffy jacket right up to my chin.I pull the hood over my face so only my nose is poking out.Matty always says the jacket makes me look like a burnt marshmallow, but I love it.Even today, it’s so cold that I can see Dad’s breath as he takes his fishing rod from the car, yet I’m already covered in a fine sheen of sweat.It’s like walking around in a doona.
I take Dad’s tackle box and walk ahead of him down the path.Once away from the carpark, the trees absorb the light, turning the morning into a strange twilight.A pile of poo, hopefully canine, is crawling with flies, the buzzing an assault, yet somehow thankfully assuaging the smell.The path twists and turns through the bush, then gently ascends.Eventually, sand wins over soil, the trees recede, and the path crosses a dune that leaves my calves burning as I reach the crest.The ocean is a calming sight, spread before me like a galaxy of blues and I am greeted by its salty kisses.
I yank the hood off my face and unzip my coat to my belly button, the cold air delicious on my skin.I wait for Dad at the top of the dune.When he emerges from the trees, he uses his rod to point right.
I run down the dune to Dad’s fishing hole.It’s a rocky outcrop just behind the shore break, an area of water the size of one of the tennis courts at school.The water barely ripples despite being surrounded by an ocean of supreme grumpiness.
Since we were kids, we’ve had it drilled into us that we are never to swim where the waves don’t break.The smooth sea seems enticing when the waves are violent, and the shore break alone looks too big to navigate without being pummelled.
Every summer at one of the local surf beaches someone always gets swept out by the rip.There’s rescue after rescue when it’s hot.If people are lucky, they get caught when the surf is pumping, because they drift into the surfing lineup who begrudgingly drag them onto their boards and paddle them back to shore, abusing them relentlessly, calling them every name under the sun and accusing them of ruining the chance of catching the best wave of their life.By the time they get the poor, bedraggled, terrified person back to standing height, the surf lifesavers are barely up to their knees in the water.
No wonder the lifeys hate surfers, and vice versa.The surfers see themselves as martyrs giving up their fun time to do the lifeys’ jobs for them while they parade up and down the beach with their wedgies.The lifeys see them as the interlopers who step in and get all the hugs and gratitude and glory for saving lives, while they get stuck rinsing sand out of kids’ eyes and treating sunburn.
I place Dad’s tackle box on a flat rock shelf high above the point of any rogue waves.There’s a line of foam high on the beach and the tide is making its way out.Away from the dune’s protection, the wind tears into me.I zip myself back into my coat, wave to Dad and start walking along the beach.
The sand is soft beneath my feet but too wet for the wind to flick into my face.I find a gorgeous piece of driftwood, thick, narrow and gnarled.Attach some straw to the end and it would be a perfect witch’s broomstick.I use it as a walking stick, my footprints left with a deep, round indent beside them.When we were kids, Dad’s favourite beach trick was for all of us to walk with stretched, exaggerated steps in the sand so the next people at the beach who came across our footprints would think they were following the trail of a family of giants.
