The postman’s motorcycle had cut a bald strip in the dry grass leading up to Caleb’s front gate. It veered in towards the letterbox and out again, as though it couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.
Heat-frazzled grass crunched underfoot as I stepped off the footpath, pushed through the squawking gate, and made my way down the cobbled path to the front door.
The bright, spangled afternoon sun had stripped away last night’s illusions, revealing the candle-lit corridor into the house as nothing more magical than cheap tea-light candles, protected from the breeze in brown paper lunch bags weighed down with handfuls of sand.
Pools of congealed wax at the front door were the only evidence of the giant candelabra that had stood sentry the night before. Today the front door was shut up tight, an ornate brass knocker hanging like a lion’s paw at eye level. I hefted it and rapped sharply, twice for luck, and stepped back.
The latch snicked open and the door swung inwards.
Caleb flinched at the bright day. ‘I’ll need sunglasses,’ he muttered. ‘You better come in.’
I followed him into the cool dark living area, the scent of candle wax still heavy in the air.
‘It still hot outside? Of course it is. It’s Brisbane and February. I’ll need a hat and sunblock.’ He waved a hand at a plate of food on a corner of the dining room table. ‘Eat something – Manny said you’d be hungry – now where is that blessed hat...?’
‘Thanks.’ I helped myself to a couple of Tim Tams and a banana, which was the easiest fruit to manage with my braces. ‘I’ve got some sunblock. You can borrow mine, if you want.’
‘Blasted move, I can’t find anything.’ He was fussing and crotchety, like the old ladies that Mum usually sucked in as my emergency contacts. Out of their comfort zone looking after a half-grown boy. Irritated that they might miss their afternoon soaps, or the tennis on TV, when pressed into service. I usually settled them down with a cup of tea and joined them on the couch, but today that wasn’t an option.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to stuff up your day.’
Caleb’s guilty start meant that I’d guessed right. I didn’t blame him; it was hard to say no to my mum. What she lacked in height, she more than made up for in determination; she was a right little terrier when it came to getting her own way.
‘I know Mum bullied you into this. Don’t worry, it won’t take long–’
He waved the rest of the sentence away. ‘No, no, it’s OK. I’m not irritated at you. I’m irritated at me.’ He interlinked his fingers and twisted them in frustration. ‘I’ve gotten to a point in my manuscript where the plot is so damn knotted, it’s going to take a miracle to unsnarl it. And instead of working on it, I’ve been messing around unpacking, cleaning up, wasting time – Ah, the elusive fedora.’
He pounced on a broad-brimmed black hat that was hiding in a dark corner of the lounge and pulled it down low on his forehead. His mirrored glasses were back in place, obscuring his eyes. Despite the heat, he wore long black cargo pants, Doc Martens and a long-sleeved black shirt buttoned to the neck and wrists.
He caught me staring. ‘Is there a problem, Henry?’
I hesitated. ‘It’s pretty hot out there and we’re going to a pool ... You know, you could have a swim if you want–’
‘Swim? Me?’ A look of horror rippled across his face. ‘Henry, look at me. I am the antithesis of athleticism. My last swimming trunks wore out in primary school. I have skin that belongs in colder climes; I burn sitting too close to a window. I am a writer of darkfiction, for heaven’s sake; sunlight disempowers my muse–’
He caught himself and took a breath. ‘Not that I mind taking youto the pool, of course,’ he added hastily. ‘I’m sure immersing oneself in a chemical soup designed to kill all manner of germs is a perfectly enjoyable activity–’
He correctly read the look on my face. ‘OK, I’ll stop now.’ He slapped at his pockets for keys. ‘We should go.’
I followed him out a side door to where an old black Ford sheltered in the shade of the vine-covered carport.
‘We’re driving?’ I asked. ‘It’s just up the road–’
‘Which part of the “antithesis of athleticism” didn’t you understand, Henry?’ He pulled open the passenger door. ‘Hop in. We are driving.’
Ma Mallory cast a leery eye over the pair of us.
‘These times are used to qualify for the District Comp that leads on to the State and National titles.’ She slapped the time sheet, rattling the stopwatch beside it. ‘No fudging.’
She pushed the paper and stopwatch towards Caleb and buried her head back in the learn-to-swim lesson planner that she had been filling in when we arrived.
Caleb raised his eyebrows and grabbed the stuff off the counter. He took a couple of steps, peering down the length of his arm at the form, holding the stopwatch like a compass, as though it might help him find his bearings in an unfamiliar environment.
I grabbed his sleeve. ‘C’mon. I’ll find you a shady spot. Just hit the timer when I dive in, and make sure you don’t miss the touch at the end.’
I parked him under an umbrella near the end of Lane One and pulled up a chair next to him. While he jotted down notes in a black notebook, I filled in my details on the form.
I printed my name in block capitals against fifty metres of each stroke and the hundred freestyle, then paused, pen poised above the paper.
Caleb looked up from the notebook in which he’d been jotting down notes. ‘What now, brown cow?’
I tapped the paper with the wrong end of the pen. ‘This is all Mr Paulson needs for the school carnival, but Ma Mallory says these times can be used to qualify for the District Swimming Championships.’
‘So?’
‘So, Districts is awesome. It’s like forty innercity schools, all the big colleges and everything. All the kids that go on to States and Nationals have to swim there first. If I get in, I could be swimming against the next Eamon Sullivan or Jayden Hadler–’
I stopped at the blank look on his face. ‘Come on, Caleb, they’re famous. Everybody’s heard of them.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘That would make them the natatorial equivalents of a young Dean Koontz or Stephen King?’
I squinted at him, not sure if he was being purposefully obscure.
‘Whatever. Anyway, the point is, I missed out on Districts last year because I changed schools and I really, reallywant to go this year.’
Caleb nodded, looking furtively over at the canteen where Ma Mallory was taking entry fees. He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, I’m happy to help, but the Scary-McLary pool lady definitely said no fudging–’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ I shook my head, not sure if I should be offended that he thought I wanted to cheat.
‘Districts has heapsmore events than the school carnival. They have one-hundred-metre races in everystroke, not just freestyle, plus a two-hundred-metre medley. If I could get my times for the hundreds and the medley while we’re here, I might have a better chance of making it to Districts.’ I couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of my voice. ‘It’d take a bit longer, though, and I know you’re real busy...’
I tapered off, leaving it hanging.
Caleb stretched his long legs onto the chair opposite and gazed out across the lanes. ‘That zephyr coming off the water is creating a surprisingly pleasant ambiance.’
He locked his pale hands behind his neck and leaned back. ‘The extreme change of scenery seems to be stimulating my creative juices.’ His neat goatee pointed at the nearest lane. ‘Cavort for as long as you need, Henry. The creative juices need time to simmer.’
‘Thanks, Caleb–’ I took off before he changed his mind. ‘I’ll be real quick, I promise.’
He waved me off.
From the diving blocks at the far end of the pool, he looked ridiculously out of place, an exotic creature of the night, trapped in the unrelenting brightness of the day. But he held the stopwatch aloft to show that he was ready, and for that I was grateful.
The ageing goggles bit into the skin around my eyes. I bent low, grabbed the lip of the block and hurled myself into the blue.
Within half an hour I was back under the umbrella, gasping like a stranded fish. I hadn’t trained in weeks and eight hundred metres in sprints had really taken it out of me.
‘The dripping, Henry – it simply must stop.’ Caleb shook his hand free of droplets and flicked at the front of his shirt. ‘I cannot have bleached-out chlorine spots on my clothes. I’ll look like a Tasmanian Devil or a quoll.’
‘Sorry about that.’ I grabbed my towel and mopped at my hair, trying to scrutinise the time sheet without dripping on him some more. ‘Hey, check out my fifty-metre butterfly time; it’s the same as my freestyle.’
‘Is that good?’
I shrugged, towelling off the rest of me. ‘Midthirties is pretty good, I think. I couldn’t swim sub-forty in anything last year.’
‘I presume we are talking “seconds”. Not fathoms or some other obscure measurement?’
I nodded, slathering fresh handfuls of sunblock all over my pale body. It was nearly time for squad and the layer I’d put on after school wasn’t going to see me through the next two hours. ‘Thanks for doing this, Caleb. I really appreciate it.’
He unfurled his legs and stood, stretching out the kinks. ‘A surprisingly edifying experience. Not my milieu, obviously, but oddly stimulating nevertheless. I was able to jot down a couple of ideas, betwixt and between your natatorial exploits. I do believe those plot snarls are beginning to unfurl.’
‘Nata-what?’
‘ Natatorial– from the Latin, for swimming.’
‘Next time you should get in,’ I said, tilting my head one way then the other, trying to release the annoying bubble of water trapped in a bend of my convoluted ear canal. ‘Your creative juices would love it. All the noise disappears, everything slows down. All your worries just kind of float away.’
I could sense his eyes on me, behind the mirrored frames. Any other grown-up would have ruffled my hair and told me I was too young to have any worries. Instead he looked away.
‘If you’ve found what grounds you, Henry, you’re a lucky person. Never take it for granted.’
The sadness in his voice made me sit still. ‘Have you found what grounds you, Caleb?’ I asked.
He swung his mirrored gaze back my way. ‘Writing,’ he said simply. ‘It’s my escape. I was the cuckoo’s egg in my family, Henry. The changeling that didn’t belong. Writing set me free to imagine other existences where I wasn’t the one who was different.’
‘Yo, Henry!’ It was Hero, loping towards us, his eyes round and fixed on Caleb.
‘Looks like you have company.’ Caleb gathered together his notebook, the time sheet and stopwatch. ‘According to Lydia, you can walk home by yourself. I shall drop the crucial form in at your school on my way past. Apparently your headmaster is working back till five. A most dedicated soul.’
He doffed his hat and sauntered off as Hero trotted up.
His eyes were still glued to Caleb, so he didn’t see the swimming bag I’d left lying on the ground. His toe caught the strap, tripping him over a chair and nearly bringing the cyclone-rated umbrella crashing down over the top of my table.
‘You OK?’ I grabbed the teetering umbrella to steady it. ‘I wasn’t sure you were going to make it.’
‘I nearly didn’t,’ he said, rubbing at his shin. ‘You’re getting to be a dangerous fella to hang around with.’
I picked up my swimming bag and placed it out of harm’s way on the tabletop. ‘Teach you for rubbernecking.’
‘No, I meant for bringing himhere.’ He pointed at Caleb, exiting now through the pool gate. ‘Angelica’s already got the school half-spooked–’
‘So don’t tell her,’ I said, irritated that he had to bring Angelica into what had been, so far, a pretty good afternoon.
‘Tell her?’ His eyes widened. ‘ Amigo, I don’t have to tellher anything.’ He leaned in closer, eyes dark and round. ‘She’s already seen you with the Vampire-Man. She’s here, amigo –didn’t you know?’