Exeter drives Franky, Foley and me to the Moroki airport. We wait in the lounge. The plane sits on the tarmac. I want to be in it, on the move, at the end of the runway, in the air, up, away, home, with The Beatles in my ear.
Merkel not coming? says Exeter.
He’s busy, I say. We said goodbye yesterday.
We shake hands. I hold Foley’s a little longer, wanting to wrap my arms around him. I turn away as I feel a sob rise. I turn back with a smile. They smile. I look back at them as I near the last door. No Kanluna. No Margaret. No May. I am leaving again but this time there is no final kiss. The three men wave through the glass as I walk across the tarmac. The hostess greets me at the top of the stairs. She’s white. I don’t smile. I have a window seat. I don’t look out. I can see my brother Thomas at the other end, in Perth. He will pick me up and drive me to his flat. The next day I will catch the train to Bunbury where Mum and Dad will meet me. Mum will cry without knowing why. Dad will guess things and shake his head. I won’t say much. When I get home I will walk in the bush behind the back paddock, among the jarrahs, marris and banksias. I might break a few branches and lie down on the shiny eucalyptus leaves.
I remember saying once that I’d have to be dead before I’d take a job in the family business, but that’s what I’ll do when I get home to Genoralup. It’s time to let Dad have a crack at my life. He can’t do any worse than me. I’ll do anything he says, except join the Rotary club.