Profound thought upon waking on New Year’s Eve: The thing that frightens me most is the next time I take off my clothes for someone.
I had returned to Bruny. I’m not a crowd kind of person. I don’t want to think about the past year. I don’t make resolutions for the next one. I’m happy to hear the sound of revelry from afar, but I don’t have any desire to be amidst it.
I was sitting on the edge of my deck, taking in the sky beginning to do its evening spectacle of red, crimson, orange, vermillion. The channel was darkening and soon night would be seeping through the gum trees. I listened to the birds chaperoning the sun to bed. The bushfires had been contained for the moment, the sky had cleared, but there was still no rain. It had been thirty-one degrees again today, a record-breaking streak of hot weather. Clouds had rolled in from the west, huge and black, but the promised thunderstorm had not arrived. The air was charged with heat and the prickly sense of unreleased energy.
I had been thinking about my kids back in New York, and my friends, and how I was almost halfway through this job, when Dan walked across the paddock, startling the wallabies grazing on any green shoot they could find in the parched grass. He was carrying two beers dewy with cold.
‘Had a feeling you might be hiding out up here,’ he said.
‘Party of one,’ I said.
He eased himself down beside me and, pulling the top off, handed me a beer.
‘Nice night,’ he said.
Dan was in a pair of long, faded navy shorts and a worn white t-shirt, which showed off his tan and a Celtic sleeve tattooed down one arm.
‘You’re my first visitor,’ I said.
‘Cheers to that,’ he said, and we clinked our bottles together. ‘It’s a good view.’
‘It is a good view,’ I said. The mountain was silhouetted to the north. Two yachts—a ketch and a sloop—were sailing down the channel. Birds were carolling in the trees. It all went well with the coolness of the beer.
‘How was Christmas for you?’ I asked.
‘I thought it might be my turn to ask the questions,’ he said.
‘Did you?’
‘You’re very good at it, don’t get me wrong, but every time I walk away from you, I realise that I’m the one that’s got almost no information. I reckon you need to give me ten questions.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That makes me nervous.’
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘So can I start?’
‘Can I choose not to answer?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘But I’d like you to sweat a little.’
‘I’m already sweating.’
‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘So, single, relationship, married?’
‘Divorced.’
‘How long ago?’
‘We broke up three years ago.’
‘Married for how long?’
‘Twenty-five years.’
He nodded. ‘Kids?’
‘Two. Paul—he’s twenty-seven now, and Tavvy—Octavia—is twenty-four. Both in New York.’
‘Favourite food?’
‘You planning on a career as a quiz show host when the bridge is done?’
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘Grilled cheese on toast. Cheese soufflé. Cheese omelette. Cheese anything. I love Thai and Japanese too. And Mexican. But if things are going badly, it’s grilled cheese all the way.’
‘Favourite cheese?’
‘Something soft and smelly. A ripe Taleggio. Roquefort. There’s a soft sheep cheese I get at the local deli back home with jalapenos …’
‘Favourite book?’ he asked.
I looked at him. The title of every book I had ever read went out of my brain. He had really good arms. He had good legs as well, with just the right amount of body hair. The beer was obviously relaxing me. It was actually my third for the evening. And his eyes were unsettling me. So ridiculously blue. But none of this was getting me to a book, so I said, ‘That’s too hard.’
‘C’mon, you’re going to a desert island. You can take one book.’
‘The dictionary.’
‘Is that cheating?’
‘Nelson Mandela’s Long Walk?’
‘No, no, you only get one. You get the dictionary. All right, favourite movie.’
‘Casablanca. That’s not exactly true, because I love so many, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.’
He looked at me. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’
I grinned. What was he doing here? It felt like he was flirting. Was he really flirting?
‘Favourite parent? Although I think I know this.’
‘My dad,’ I said.
He nodded again. ‘Best night of your life?’
I took a breath. ‘Other than the night Paul was born, my fiftieth. We had it on the roof of a hotel in New York. It was a beautiful night. It was cold and everyone was rugged up and there were braziers burning. We had this jazz band and we danced. The kids made a film. It took them months and all these photos came out of nowhere from old friends and places I’d been posted. My dad came with Maxine. JC and Stephanie were there with the girls. I was happy. I was so happy.’
Stop talking, I told myself. Stop talking right now. But my mouth went on. ‘It started snowing. And we all stood out there between the fire and the snow, and I just loved New York. I loved my husband. I loved my children and my friends and everything hard in the world fell away.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, life went on … and here I am,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘You want to go for a walk?’
‘Is that included in the questionnaire?’ I asked.
‘It’s optional,’ he said. ‘I can leave you to your quiet night.’
‘Let’s go for a walk,’ I said.
Beyond the lights of the houses, the night was velvet and warm. At his gate, he went inside and retrieved two more beers.
‘It’s New Year. Figure we should live it up a little,’ he said.
It felt good to walk beside him.
‘Strange seeing it quiet,’ I said, looking over at the bridge, dark but for the navigation lights. Tonight, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day: they were the only days the men had off. Every other day, the bridge continued.
‘What happens for you after this?’ I asked.
‘Ah, there’s a whole lot in the pipeline, but I’m thinking I might take off. Go find some breaks.’
‘You’re a surfer?’
‘Put me in the sea and I’m happy. You?’
‘I love the sea too. And it’s so easy here.’
‘That’s the word for it. Easy.’
‘I swim most every morning,’ I said. ‘Either at Sandy Bay beach or down here.’
‘I go down to Cloudy Bay,’ he said. ‘As far from that thing as possible.’ Cloudy Bay at the far end of South Bruny, where I’d gone the day the Chinese worker died. Fifty kilometres from the bridge.
We crossed the road and went down onto the sand. It was such a warm evening. Rich, velvety heat and the air was almost crackling with static. There was a deep rumble from the clouds in the west. We waited. It felt like any moment there would be lightning. But none came.
We continued to the far end of the beach, past the shacks along the inner edge of the dunes and the boatsheds. Some of the houses were dark, others were occupied by New Year revellers. Music of different varieties accompanied us, snippets of conversation, laughter and barbecue smells. We reached the low sandstone cliffs that fringed the shore. It was very quiet here but for the odd burst of laughter caught on the air, and the beat from a distant sound system up on the hill. From here on it was rocks all the way to a distant point that took the shoreline south.
‘I used to play down here as a kid,’ I said. ‘Me and Max used to make jewellery for the mermaids. Shells and seaweed …’
‘I like your sister. She has really good calf muscles for a woman her age.’
‘You know that’s an entirely inappropriate thing to say,’ I said.
‘Oh, are we going to do appropriate? Damn, I hoped we wouldn’t.’
‘Have you met her?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he said. ‘A distant admirer.’
I laughed. ‘I’ll tell her.’
‘No, don’t!’ he said. ‘But it’s your brother who’s your twin, yeah?’
I nodded.
‘So you’re closer to him?’
I said. ‘Not really. Maybe, yes. It’s hard to explain.’
‘Pretty complicated—that’s how it looks to me.’
An almost-full moon had skirted the north of the island and was shedding tinsel on the water.
Dan flipped the lids on the two beers and handed one to me.
‘Happy New Year, Ace,’ he said, clinking bottles.
‘Happy New Year, Mac.’
He was staring out to sea. I remember Tavvy telling me when she was about fourteen that what mattered in a man was a good jawline. Dan had a good jawline.
‘So do I get ten questions?’
‘Why didn’t I see that coming?’ he said.
‘Favourite parent?’
He reached for a hand-sized rock and placed it in front of him. And another.
‘My mum,’ he said. ‘Olive. Makes a mean lamb roast. Country girl. Kindest person I know.’
‘Dumbest thing you ever did?’
‘Yikes,’ he said. ‘There must be a ledger somewhere. I reckon my old man could list a hundred.’
‘But …’
‘Maybe leaving the army for love.’
I nodded. So that was part of it too, not just that our paratroopers had been reassigned. There’d been a relationship.
‘It didn’t work out?’
‘Nah.’
I already knew he didn’t have kids. I wanted to ask him why, but I didn’t.
‘What’s the one thing you would change in the world if you could?’
He placed another rock.
‘You’re not going to like this,’ he said. ‘But maybe we could slow down the human population. Make it an opt in, not an opt out. With rules.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, at one end, we ought to be able to die whenever we’re ready. At the other, one kid each. Enough to replace ourselves. There’s way too many of us already.’
‘So you’re a Farris supporter?’ I hadn’t taken him for that. ‘Is that why you never had kids?’
‘I just wasn’t sure. About me, really. Not about anything else. And then, well, she was sure. So that wasn’t a fit. Now she’s got two kids and she’s happy.’
‘Any regrets?’
‘Haven’t been to Antarctica.’
‘Favourite film?’
‘Dr Strangelove.’
I nodded. Kubrick. I loved that film.
‘Least favourite thing in life?’
‘Swearing.’
‘Swearing?’
‘I know, but I just find it ugly. I know I do it all the time. But I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel right. I think it’s … well, most of it’s unnecessary.’
‘You are quite an old-fashioned guy,’ I said. I worried suddenly that he might be a Christian.
‘Religion?’ I asked.
‘The sea,’ he said. ‘Actually, religion is the second thing I’d change. Abolish it. No organised religion.’
‘In my line of work,’ I said, ‘I find two things: the good people have faith and the bad people have faith.’
‘There you have it,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the human race.’
I suddenly realised he had done this deft thing and built a beautiful arc of stones there in the dark. A bridge. How had he made it balance so beautifully?
‘He builds things,’ I said.
‘I’m a pretty simple guy,’ he said.
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘I love my mum.’
‘I’m not sure I do,’ I said. ‘I want to, but it’s not easy.’
‘That must be tough,’ he said.
‘I’ve got used to it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Let’s not go there.’
‘Swim?’ he asked.
‘Now?’ I said.
‘Yes, now.’ He laughed. ‘It’s hot.’
‘It is,’ I said.
‘She’s a little bit shy,’ he said.
The thunder rumbled again. Closer this time. I looked at his rock creation.
‘It’s going to be a good bridge, Dan. I don’t know what it will do to Bruny, but it’s going to be a good bridge.’
‘Everything has a price. I’ve learned that.’
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘Come for a free swim,’ he said, offering me a hand up. ‘We might get zapped,’ he added, looking up.
‘I’m not worried about that,’ I said.
‘It’s not how I’m going to go.’
‘Good to know you’re certain about that,’ he said. ‘You can get undressed here. I’ll go over there.’
I didn’t let him within a metre of me. I floated on my back. He did too, and for a while we just drifted. The clouds parted and stars appeared. The moon came out. The water was soft and fine. It must have been forty years since I’d skinny-dipped.
You work together, the pesky inner voice said. Whatever this is, you can’t get physical. Okay? You got that?
Okay, I said to myself.
I realised I hadn’t asked Dan if he was seeing someone. Not enough to see them on New Year’s Eve, anyway. But men like him, tall, good-looking men, they weren’t usually single. Maybe there were … issues. Erectile dysfunction. Very small penis? I’d had a few friends on the dating circuit who’d told me stories. Whatever his story might be, I wasn’t finding out about it tonight. But swimming in that warm sea under a canopy of cosmic wonder, it was almost better than sex. The stars glistened. The water glistened. I saw phosphorescence. It danced as we moved. Dan started laughing. I could see his smile in the darkness. It made me laugh too. And for a while we swam about laughing recklessly, with crazy delight at the sparkling luminous water and the possibilities of fish and sharks and jellyfish against our naked skin.
Afterwards we dressed silently, a respectful distance from each other. We walked back along the beach with our feet in the water. Not something you can do in a lot of places. But here, the greatest danger probably came from a bold crab.
The electrical charge in the air seemed to have settled in my body. Despite my resolve, I thought that if he took my hand, I wouldn’t refuse it. Yes, I would, I thought.
He’s the bridge manager. You cannot have an affair with the bridge manager, said the inner voice.
But I’ll be gone again, I replied to the sensible Astrid. No-one needs to know.
Everyone will know, the other voice said. It’s visible in that invisible way, no matter how good you are at acting. You’ve probably already made it difficult for yourself, more than him, just doing this tonight. You know that, don’t you?
‘You run out of questions, Ms Coleman?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said.
‘I guess kissing you is out of the question?’
I stopped and looked at him in the darkness. He was less than a metre away.
‘It’s out of the question,’ I said.
‘Let me know if you change your mind,’ he said, and we resumed walking.
‘You’re younger than me,’ I said, keeping pace beside him. ‘You’re twelve years younger.’
‘That’s your resistance?’
‘And the work thing.’
‘You can resist on work grounds. You cannot resist on age.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘I am wildly attractive, though,’ he said. ‘You’ve seen me naked.’
I laughed. ‘It’s dark. I didn’t look.’
‘I did,’ he said. And I could feel him grinning beside me.
We walked up the hill and, at his house, he left me. We didn’t hug. We didn’t touch one another. He just said, ‘Thanks for the walk.’
‘You too,’ I said.
‘And, Ace?’ he said. ‘Have a great year.’
‘You too, Dan,’ I said.
When midnight came, I was out on my deck. No doubt he was out on his. I blew a kiss to the sky.
‘Happy New Year,’ I told the air.
As I was turning in, the rain came, big fat heavy summer rain that lulled me deep into sleep.
In the morning, the sky had cleared and the grass on the paddocks was looking relieved to have been watered. I walked the same way down to the sandstone cliffs. Mine were the first footprints on the shore. The tide had knocked his stone bridge down, and it was scattered about as if it had never been.