I hate being in the backseats of cars. It feels so stale back there, especially when it’s your stuffy folks riding shotgun. I get carsick real bad too, and everyone knows it’s worse when you’re stuck in the back, the hot leather front seat sticking to your knees, the air all musty and foul. I always hated that stupid unwritten rule about older people never having to sit in the back. I mean, my Dad’s not that old, for Christ’s sake—it wouldn’t kill him to take the backseat for once. He’s not a goddamn cripple.
I looked out the window at the sea, a sombre mix of grey, swamp green and private school navy. When the sea gets murky like that, it makes me think of old shipwrecks, of the ocean swallowing up everything. It was drizzly outside, still a little balmy, but cold for a summer’s day. I pulled my hood up, adjusted my Ray-Bans and crossed my arms, trying to sleep. It was early.
‘Oh, look, Ez, the roller-skating rink!’ my mother enthused from the front seat. I ignored her.
‘Ez, look!’
I stirred in annoyance. ‘What?’
‘Come on, you and Sammy never wanted to go anywhere else once upon a time.’
I looked up in time to see a black brick building with illustrations of guys in neon t-shirts, pink headbands and skates.
‘You remember that phase, John?’ Mum said.
‘Yes, I do,’ Dad responded from behind the crossword. ‘Three-letter word for fixed or established course of life, usually dull or unpromising. Anybody?’
‘You can’t have forgotten, Ez!’
‘I remember,’ I said, leaning against the window.
‘Maybe you could get a job there.’
‘No.’
‘It would be fun!’
‘Rut.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Three-letter word for fixed or established course of life, usually dull or unpromising.’
Dad turned around from the passenger seat, his reading glasses sliding to the end of his nose. He held up the newspaper, considering.
‘Yes, rut!’ he said, scribbling happily. ‘Very clever, Ezra.’
We fell into silence again. The drizzle turned to rain.
After a while, we reached the township of Robin Bay, where there were a lot of tanned kids walking around in bathers and denim shorts. The fact that it was raining didn’t seem to have occurred to them. I put on my headphones, cranked Sonic Youth, and tried not to think about the fact that these sorts of people were going to be my new friends. Fluoro-tank-top-wearing, teeny-bopping, beach people. I supposed I could always seek out the other stereotypes around—Emos and goths—but that didn’t really float my boat either. I could see groups of them skulking outside McDonalds and skate parks we drove by—bad skin, an overdose of piercings, hair dyed black or peroxide blonde.
I felt a tap on my leg. It was Mum. I rested my headphones around my neck. She looked pissed.
‘God, Ezra, do you want that music any louder?’
‘Sure, but it won’t go any.’
‘Well, can you turn it down, please? I’ve been yelling at you for five minutes.’
‘Sorry I missed it.’
‘Don’t be a smartarse, Ezra. I just wanted to know if you’d like to stop for lunch before we get to Gran’s?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Oh, stop it.’
‘What?’
She turned to me angrily. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘Like what?’ I groaned. ‘Can you look at the road, please?’
‘I am looking at the road!’
‘I wasn’t being like—anything.’
‘Yes you were. You were being negative, Ezra. You’re always so negative.’
‘I’m not negative. I just don’t care whether we stop for lunch or not.’
‘Well, it would be good if you did care, Ezra, once in a while!’ Her dead-straight chestnut hair swung to and fro edgily.
‘He’s all right, darling, we’ll eat later on,’ Dad interjected.
‘He’s not all right, he’s an empty bloody shell!’ Mum snapped, her left hand flailing. ‘And take off those sunglasses, Ezra, it’s raining outside for Christ’s sake.’
I ripped off my sunglasses and leaned forward so that my face was next to Mum’s. She was gripping the steering wheel, her knuckles white.
‘You know what?’ I breathed, pointing at her face. ‘I never agreed to this so-called plan of yours to palm me off to the grandparents, so don’t freak the fuck out if I’m not making daisy chains about it.’
‘Language, Ezra!’ Dad said sternly as Mum roared, ‘THAT’S IT!’ and pulled over.
I sat back in my seat. Here we go, I thought as Mum’s eyes, two ugly brown cows’ eyes, bore into mine.
‘Don’t you even go there,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Don’t you go playing the victim, here, Ezra. After the hell you put me through last week, you have no right to even a whisper of complaint.’
‘What rights do I have?’ I muttered.
‘Oh fuck, Ezra!’
‘Language, darling!’ Dad cut in.
‘DON’T YOU LANGUAGE ME, I’LL USE WHATEVER FUCKING LANGUAGE I WANT!’ Mum was going off the rails. I would have laughed if the situation wasn’t so tense. She turned back to me.
‘Now,’ she began again in that same quiet voice. ‘We are going to get to my mother’s house, I’m going to drop you off, and you are not to say another word about it. Got it?’
I put my Ray-Bans back on.
‘Got it, Ezra?’
I smiled at her sweetly. ‘Got it, Mum!’
***
It had cleared up a bit by the time we got to Cape Lawrence, a seaside village on the Hamilton Peninsula where I would be caged all summer long. We rolled up the dirt driveway to Gran and Pa’s, and as I jumped out, I could hear a gravelly radio playing some old jazz tune.
‘Hello?’ Mum called, stepping out of the car.
There were flowers and shrubs everywhere, and a big lemon tree by the front gate. A dog started barking and a big black Labrador galloped up to me.
‘Hey Sooty!’ I laughed as her paws hit my chest. I threw her off and scratched her head. ‘Guess you remember me, huh? Don’t ya! Don’t ya!’
‘That was Peggy Lee with Is That All There Is?, a hit cover recorded in 1969, originally written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller. Has to be my all-time favourite rendition of—’
‘Mum?’ Mum called again. ‘We’re here!’
I let go of Sooty, grabbed my duffel bag out of the trunk, and had a look around. The garden seemed a lot smaller than the last time I was here. I was small and shy back then, convinced Gran and Pa’s front yard was an African or Amazonian jungle—exotic, deadly.
The familiar news jingle resonated from the radio.
‘Cape Lawrence search and rescue officials say they fear the three young men who have been missing at sea for nine days have drowned. Their couta boat was today found capsized on the beach at Shelly’s Point.’
‘Jeez,’ I said, to no one in particular. ‘Guess I won’t be going for a nice ol’ sail anytime soon.’
‘You’ll get dragged under by sea monsters if you do!’
I jumped. Pa had emerged out of the agapanthus and was standing right behind me. He was holding up a rusty pair of pruners and waving them at me forebodingly.
‘There you are!’ Mum said, walking over. She gave Pa a kiss on the cheek.
‘Here I am!’ He waved the pruners at me again. I edged back. ‘Just tidying up the garden a bit.’ He stared at me. ‘Don’t tell me this is my grandson!’
I forced a smile.
‘This is your grandson!’ Dad called from the car. He came over and shook Pa’s hand. Pa squinted at me.
‘But you’re so tall!’ he said. ‘How old are you again?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Seventeen!’ he yelled, his whiskers twitching. ‘What am I s’posed to do with a seventeen year old? I thought the kid was fourteen!’
Mum laughed awkwardly and steered me up towards the house. Was he even joking? I couldn’t tell.
Though I hadn’t been back for years, my memory of Gran and Pa’s place trickled back to me fast, as if I were a bucket collecting drops from a leak in the roof. Their house could have coined the term “old and rickety”. It was timber, two stories tall, and though it was supposed to be white, it looked kind of grey because it was weatherworn and the paint was chipping. If you looked up at the place from a certain angle, it really seemed as if it might fall over.
Before we reached the door, Gran came running out in a red and white checked shirt. I was surprised at her energy—she was pretty old and all.
‘You’re here!’ she cried, smothering us both. She smelled musky and somewhat floral, a bit like perfumed toilet paper—Lavender Fresh. My bag dropped to the ground as she grabbed my shoulders.
‘Now,’ she said, in her crackly, lukewarm-milk voice. ‘Let me look at you.’
There was a pause. I sincerely hoped she knew I was seventeen.
‘Aren’t you pretty for a teenage boy!’ she boomed, picking at my clothes. ‘No longer that pint-sized ragamuffin that used to run down the front beach in the nuddy! Still haven’t cut your hair, I see.’
I didn’t know whether this was a compliment or not, so I just sort of stood there. Gran looked from me, to Mum, then back to me again.
‘He doesn’t talk much, does he?’
‘It isn’t one of his strong points,’ Mum said shortly. Guess she was still angry about the “whatever” thing.
‘Suits me just fine!’ Gran said, ushering me in.
‘So, we’ve got to head off now, I’m afraid,’ Mum said from the doorway.
‘Head off?’ Gran repeated. ‘Head off where? You’re not even going to stay for a cuppa?’
‘Paul’s got a meeting in the afternoon.’
‘Oh, Paul’s got a meeting.’
‘Don’t, Mum. You know we’d stay if we could.’
Gran’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, because I see you so often, as it is.’
Mum sighed. Dad appeared behind her.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked—then, noticing Gran— ‘Oh, hello there, Faye.’
‘Hello,’ she said acidly. ‘Well, I suppose if you’re all racing off, we should at least help the boy with the rest of his things.’
‘All good, Gran,’ I said, holding up my duffel bag.
‘All good?’
‘This is all I’ve got.’
‘What?’ she snapped. ‘That small thing is two months worth of clothes?’
I nodded.
‘Good Lord,’ she said, heaving a sigh. ‘Ah, well. Doesn’t seem like you’re going to be as hard work as your mother has made you out to be.’
‘He better not,’ Mum said, giving me a stiff hug. ‘Bye, honey.’
Dad clapped me on the back, grinning. ‘Don’t get into any trouble, eh, Ez?’
‘’Course not,’ I deadpanned.
After they left, Gran led me into the guest room. The walls were pink and it was bare except for a dark wooden closet in one corner and a bunk bed and Spiderman lamp in the other. I dropped my bag and crouched by the Spiderman lamp. Gran and Pa got it for me and Sam when we were ten. We were both kind of disappointed that we didn’t get one each, but it was still the coolest thing ever. I stood up and threw my bag onto the top bunk. Sam had always shotgunned it, and I’d never get a go. Gran walked over to the closet, opened it, and took out some fresh sheets.
‘So,’ she said nonchalantly, handing them to me. ‘You burned down your house, eh?’
I nearly fell over the Spiderman lamp.
‘Um,’ I faltered. ‘Not the—whole house.’
‘But a good chunk of it?’
I cleared my throat. ‘I suppose you could say that, depending on what your idea of a good chunk is … it’s a bit—subjective, really.’
‘Must’ve been a good chunk if your mother sent you here.’
‘Mm.’ I dug my hands into my pockets. ‘Well, I mean—I didn’t, like—torch the place or anything. I’m not going to burn down your house too, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m not a pyro.’
‘No,’ Gran agreed. ‘No, I’m aware it was a cigarette that caused the fire.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Your cigarette.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That you were irresponsibly smoking in bed.’
‘Yeah …’
‘When you shouldn’t have been smoking in the first place.’
‘Mm.’
Gran was staring straight at me, and I was determinedly gazing at the Spiderman lamp.
‘You won’t be smoking here.’
Yes I would. ‘No, I won’t,’ I said.
Gran seemed satisfied. ‘Good. Now come and have a cup of tea.’
We walked into the kitchen—also pink—and something occurred to me. When Sam and I stayed here as kids, we hated the fact that there was no television. Gran always said it was because the television companies were trying to brainwash us, but surely—surely after five years, in this age of technology, she would have caved.
‘Hey Gran,’ I said, as she held the kettle under the tap. ‘Where’s the TV?’
‘No TV here.’
‘No TV?’ I looked around. ‘Are you sure?’
I walked through the kitchen into Gran and Pa’s bedroom, puzzled.
‘’Course I’m sure,’ Gran responded from the kitchen. The whoosh of the kettle sounded and there was a clinking of china cups.
I re-entered the kitchen. Gran was pouring boiling water from the kettle into two cups detailing how to tie knots: anchor hitch, bowline, figure eight, reef knot. Could Gran and Pa be anymore obvious that they lived by the beach?
But there must be a television somewhere, I thought. I passed through the kitchen again, crossed the living room and found a study. It contained a small wooden desk, a glass cabinet, some paintings of sailboats and seashells, and a computer that looked suspiciously like the one Dad brought us home in 1993.
I could hear Gran murmuring in the kitchen, and more china clinking. I strode over to the cabinet and opened it up—nothing but old plates and some knives and forks.
‘Ezra?’ Gran yelled.
‘What?’ I yelled back, crouching by the cabinet and looking glumly at the cutlery and lack of television.
‘I said, how many sugars?’ Gran was now standing in the doorway, a brown ceramic sugar pot in her hand. I closed the cabinet door and hastily stood up, dusting my hands off on my jeans. She was squinting at me suspiciously.
‘What on earth are you going through the good crockery cabinet for?’
‘Uh—’
‘Planning a tea party, are you?’
‘I was just—’
‘Treasure hunting, perhaps?’
‘Treasure hunting?’
Gran took a couple of steps towards me and shook the sugar pot threateningly in my face. ‘Are you hiding drugs?’
‘What! No, I—’
‘Because if you are planning on hiding drugs or liquor or cigarettes in my house, I’ll find them…’
‘I promise you, I’m not hiding anyth—’
‘Mark my words, I’ll sniff ‘em out like a dog!’
The flywire door banged from the kitchen.
‘Faye?’ said a voice that tinkled like keys in a pocket.
Gran’s squint softened, and she turned. A girl around my age popped her head inside the study.
‘Hello dear,’ Gran said fondly, taking her hands. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, I’m good,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘Dad asked me to drop off some chutney.’
She reached into the bag slung over her shoulder and handed a jar to Gran.
‘Dad made it. Green tomato chutney, straight out of the garden!’
‘Isn’t that nice of your Dad?’ Gran put the sugar pot on the desk and took the jar, looking altogether like Christmas had come. ‘This looks delicious!’
She gestured for the girl to follow her and they went off towards the kitchen. I didn’t think it looked very delicious at all. It looked like puréed peas. Puréed peas mashed into a jar.
I was glad Gran had been distracted, but I was also irked that I was standing there completely ignored, so I picked up the sugar pot and wandered cautiously towards the kitchen. I idled by the fridge as Gran and the girl chatted at the kitchen table. Gran had apparently given her my cup of tea, and she was nursing it in her small, pale hands. I felt kind of stupid standing there with the sugar pot, but I couldn’t stop staring at the girl. There was something vulnerable about her—she looked so small, sitting there. Her tie-dyed blue dress drooped at the back like a thirsty violet. Her back was bony, athletic, bare. I wanted to reach out and touch it.
‘Could I have a bit of a sugar?’ she asked Gran politely, as if she was asking the teacher for another pencil at school.
‘Of course you can,’ Gran said, standing up. She crinkled her eyes and looked around. ‘Now, if I could just remember where I put the—’ Her eyes fell on me.
‘Ezra, what are you doing now? Give that here.’ Gran snatched the sugar pot from me. ‘Now, why don’t you sit down and talk to us civilly rather than creeping around and hiding drugs.’
‘Gran, I’m not hiding dr—’
‘Ezra’s trying to hide drugs,’ Gran said to the girl as she spooned some sugar into her cup.
‘Oh.’ The girl widened her eyes, playing along. ‘I see.’
She turned and looked at me for the first time, a smile twitching about her lips. Her blonde ponytail swung like a pendulum.
‘Yes, okay, yes, I’m hiding drugs,’ I said resignedly, and slumped into a chair at the table. ‘You caught me, Gran.’
‘Of course I caught you,’ Gran said. ‘Just don’t do it again.’
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