Ro knew it was the right car as soon as she saw it, a Kombi, perfect for long trips and camping holidays. It had obviously done good service in the seventies. A faded peace symbol and several large daisies adorned the sides and a previous owner had lovingly installed cupboards behind the driver’s seat. The drawers stuck, but soap on the runners would help. And once she’d replaced the musty old foam mattress, she’d have a mobile love nest. She spent all her spare time for a week painting it bright blue, the blue of Gerry’s toilet door, and showed it off proudly to her housemates.
‘Has anyone checked the engine?’ Petra asked.
‘I’m sure it’s okay,’ Ro said. ‘The guys I bought it from have had it for five years and never had any trouble. Minor oil leaks, that’s all.’
She could see the scepticism in Petra’s face.
‘Kombis run forever, don’t they? Everyone says that.’
Petra snorted. ‘Bring it to the garage and we’ll go over it.’
This was a dampening experience, as it turned out. The oil leaks were not minor. Money would have to be spent. Fortunately for Ro there were a couple of VW fanatics in the mechanics group who were happy to work on the Kombi for reduced rates and a carton of beer. It took another three weeks, but eventually Petra brought it home with a reasonable guarantee that it would make it to Victoria. Mikki and Sue contributed blue curtains, and on a boiling morning Ro set off with two weeks’ leave ahead of her.
She had never had her own car before and the freedom was entrancing. She had two days to get to Gerry’s. She could do whatever she liked, arrive early and surprise Gerry, or take her time and revel in the power and independence.
After Tailem Bend she acted on whim and turned right toward Mt Gambier. At last she would see the Blue Lake, famous in primary school geography. She was no longer a city slicker. She was now interested in volcanoes, lakes and whatever else made up the Country. She would find out everything.
She reached Mt Gambier with her bum sore from the unforgiving seat of the Kombi. She needed a hamburger and a milkshake. After that she found an op-shop and bought a cushion and a corduroy shirt.
The lake was certainly spectacular and presumably bottomless, as promised. Its sheer sides did not invite swimming. Ro shivered. The depth had a dwarfing effect. She imagined falling. A tiny stick figure plunging downwards, breaking the surface, turning over and over in the cold depths. Spiralling down in slow motion toward the centre of the Earth.
She turned and walked briskly down from the rim of the crater to the car park. It wouldn’t be that way anyhow. Wasn’t the centre of the Earth hot? Molten.
She crossed the border as the afternoon was drawing in. There was a turnoff for the Glenelg River and she remembered Gerry talking about canoeing. She would stay there for the night. There must be a caravan park.
But there wasn’t, nothing at all but a clearing beside the river and a small landing stage. Well, she was a tough dyke. She would stay here.
She dragged out the Trangia that Mikki had lent her and boiled enough water to make packet soup. After that she finished off the shortbread creams and had an apple for health. The shadows were long on the water and there were mosquitoes about. She crawled into the back of the Kombi, wrapped herself in a sheet and propped her torch on the pillow beside her so that she could read.
After an hour or so she surfaced from Rubyfruit Jungle needing a piss.
As soon as she stepped out of the Kombi she was surrounded by black night, the darkness made more extreme by the small beam of her torch. She was suddenly self-conscious, on stage, observed from all sides but unable to see. She put the torch on the ground in front of her, pointing out into the night, so that when she squatted to piss she would be invisible from the front. But she was very conscious of her bare bum, exposed to whatever was behind.
She dragged her jeans up and crashed back to the Kombi, throwing herself in and slamming the door shut. She flicked the torch off and sat peering out the window until her breath slowed and she could make out the dim outlines of the clearing. There was no one there. No axe murderers. No rapists, monsters, ghosts or ghoulies. But as she told herself this she wondered about the trees beyond the clearing. What might be skulking there?
She crawled forward between the seats, keeping her head down, pulled the keys out of the ignition and locked the doors on both sides. Now no one could jump in and hijack the Kombi. The sliding door, unfortunately, did not lock. But she managed to wedge a tea towel under the handle, which would at least slow anyone down. She draped a blanket across the back window. So nothing could watch her from behind. But she would leave the side window clear. Better to see what was coming.
She lay rigid, listening to a mournful owl and the rustle of anonymous creatures. She thought of Gerry with renewed amazement. Gerry lived in the middle of the bush completely on her own. None of the doors had locks, and she didn’t close them anyway. Perhaps she went through this fear every night? But Ro dismissed the idea before it was formed. Gerry, who was uneasy in a crowd, nervous in the city, and sometimes diffident to the point of paralysis, was not afraid of being on her own in the total darkness of a country night. Whereas she, Ro, fearless adventurer and debonair conqueror of myriad hearts and minds, was reduced to a shivering wreck by the hoot of an owl.
Up until now Ro had not stopped to picture Gerry’s everyday life, other than as it affected her, Ro. She thought about the loneliness, the possibility of wild weather. The things that Gerry coped with and didn’t think to mention: storms, mechanical break downs, floods, trees across the track.
The night was hot and windless and Ro was forced by the pinging mosquitoes to pull the sheet right over her head. She slept restlessly, sweating and tossing.
In the morning light, the clearing was completely normal and benign. The sluggish summer river was serene. All lurking threats had vanished. Ro stretched with pleasure, the sun already hot on her face.
For a wash she plunged briskly into the muddy water. She ate another apple, and drove away feeling extraordinarily pleased with herself. She had survived. She always would.
Gerry lay spooned against a sleeping Ro in the cramped bunk and thought how much she loved being in a boat at night, the murmur of water against the hull, the soft clank of the rigging. Windbird.
She wondered at herself. She had put all that energy into building the boat, and then given it away. At the time she had thought that a new life at the farm, and a new horse, would consume all her energy. She hadn’t let herself miss this.
She stared at the woodwork above her head. Even by moonlight she recognised every inch, all the angles where the side panels met the hull. Every join was a different angle, a different challenge. She knew every spot where she had bodged it and covered the result with paint. That was the trouble. Landlubber friends were impressed, awed, that she could make a boat that was not only sea-worthy but also beautiful. But for her it would never be perfect. She knew what was under the paint.
They had crossed the bay in two stages, puttering around Geelong Outer Harbour on the first day while Ro learned some basics, and tying up to the jetty at Port Arlington for the night. Gerry had thought they might have to stick to the western side of the bay, but when they woke in the morning everything looked good for a more ambitious plan. They swooped across to Mt Martha with the wind in their sails, in glorious defiance of shipping lanes, trusting that the fickle Port Phillip Bay weather would not change. The risk was worth it when Gerry saw Ro laughing for joy at the spray and the sun and the speed of the boat. Whatever her private concerns, Gerry was a calm skipper and a patient teacher, always ready to explain what she meant by a sheet or a cleat. And Ro did what she was told with cheerful alacrity.
The third day was less straightforward. The sky was overcast and the wind fitful. Hour after hour they tacked down the coast. They were both tired and said little. Ro sat huddled, waiting for Gerry’s order to come about at the end of each reach. She was itchy with salt and wished that there was a deep warm bath waiting at the end of the day. When she glanced at Gerry’s determined face she doubted it.
In fact Gerry was wondering whether they should do the sensible thing and stay at the Rosebud caravan park. But she hated giving in and she wanted to show Ro the peninsula beyond Portsea, walk across to the wild ocean beaches on the southern side. Finally they passed Port Franklin and came to the deserted stretch that marked the prohibited area of the quarantine station.
‘Keep an eye out when we land,’ Gerry said, ‘and don’t wander inland. It’s an army base and goodness knows what besides.’
Ro wasn’t sure that she could straighten any of her limbs enough to wander anywhere. She was relieved when Gerry took over the work of landing, slipping overboard into the shallow water and digging in the sand anchor high up the beach in the shelter of a small bluff.
Neither of them wanted the bother of cooking. They squeezed together in the bunk and shared the end of a block of chocolate. Ro was asleep in five minutes.
Gerry stretched cautiously and considered Ro’s back. A few stray curls lay in the vulnerable nape of her neck. Gerry smiled. Ro refused to admit that her hair was curly, and usually had it well under control. But the days of wind, sun and salt had defeated her.
Gerry considered their situation. There was a change coming, no doubt of that. She didn’t trust this sultry air. Possibly she was being irresponsible and shouldn’t have let her own stubborn streak carry them this far. They were a long way from home on the wrong side of the bay and Ro was not an experienced sailor. Gerry was very aware, as Ro wasn’t, of the rip, a few kilometres away. Gerry had seen the ferocity of the water as it flowed in and out of the narrow opening of the bay. She didn’t want to waste radio batteries but she’d better double check tide times in the morning.
Anyway, they couldn’t stroll off and leave the boat on a sand anchor, especially if the wind was going to change. They’d double back to Portsea, she decided, using the outboard if necessary. They could tie up at the pier and walk over to Back Beach. She didn’t think Ro would object. She had an idea that Ro might appreciate a shower.
There was nothing sultry about Back Beach. They ran with the wind in their faces, shrieking and laughing, chasing seagulls. The surf was massive, crashing onto the sand with a constant deafening roar.
They found a hollow in the sand hills and fucked wildly, then ran into the water naked. The strength of it was terrifying. Even in the shallows they were knocked off their feet and tumbled about. They dragged themselves out, pulled on sandy clothes and raced each other back along the beach.
Windbird was a remarkably quiet refuge after the wild noise of the ocean. By nightfall the wind had dropped and rain pattered gently on the roof of the cabin.
Next day the rain stopped. Their luck with the weather was holding. They tacked back up the bay to Frankston and stayed overnight. Sunrise next morning was obscured by clouds and Gerry was worried, but they made it across the Bay to Port Arlington in record time, racing the storm, and went straight on to Geelong.
By the time they’d cleaned the boat and locked the cabin, rain was sheeting down. The drive back to the Otways was a slow crawl with the windscreen wipers working overtime. They didn’t try and unpack the ute, but ran inside shaking themselves like puppies. Ro lit the stove while Gerry dashed out again to Dot and Maria’s. She came back with Hester leaping beside her and a basket of eggs and bread.
They dragged the mattress in from the bedroom and ate toast and scrambled eggs in front of the stove. Their love-making was slow, their bodies, for once, in complete accord, a swelling point and counterpoint. Gerry cried out, wonder in her voice, and that was enough to send Ro over the edge as well. They lay quiet as the waves receded, faces soft and wide open, full of each other, fingertips touching.
Gerry was asleep before Ro. Ro lay curled around her, watching the flicker behind the little arched windows in the firebox door, every possible shade of red, orange and yellow. The room was rocking slightly, a pale ghost of the boat’s rocking, but the sensation wasn’t unpleasant.
All the tight fibres of her body were unwound, content. But she was filled also with the sadness that comes after sex. She didn’t want to leave, go back to Adelaide. She would miss Gerry, Hester, the fire, the dripping forest, the night silence. But it was more than that. There was a slight trembling in her belly, a foreboding.
She believed utterly that all of this would remain here for her. She had never felt such uncomplicated faith in another person. It was herself she didn’t trust.