Night Swimming Read online

  What do I say? ‘With Iris. In the river. Swimming,’ I say, like it’s a guess I’m making in Cluedo: Professor Plum, in the library, with the rope.

  ‘With Iris?’ Clancy echoes. ‘Swimming. In the river.’ Like he’s Yoda or something. Like it’ll make more sense if he rearranges the words. ‘Why was I not invited?’

  He sounds a little bit like a petulant child.

  Iris is treading water, arms lazily pushing back and forth. Who is it? she mouths.

  ‘We just ran into each other at the bakery,’ I say to Clancy. ‘I assumed you’d be studying.’

  I can imagine he is frowning, and maybe imagining I can hear it in his voice. I can tell he’s upset at not being included. I don’t know whether I should feel bad or not; I don’t, not really.

  ‘Well,’ he says slowly, ‘see if she wants to come over to my house. I do take breaks from studying occasionally. We can plan this musical, the three of us.’

  There is something wonderful about the unique pleasure of walking in the sunshine after a swim on a warm day. Even though I’m sure I look a mess, I feel lovely, like my skin is glimmering from being in the river, like there’s this layer between me and the world. I am untouchable.

  Iris winds her hair up into a bun, which is better, because when it’s out I can’t stop thinking about touching it. From her enormous bag she produces an enormous sun hat and a folding bamboo fan. When she catches me watching her, she grins so hard dimples form in her cheeks. She is a curious combination of glamorous and childlike.

  ‘So, tell me about your childhood,’ she says, in a Transylvanian accent.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She laughs. ‘Sorry. I was pretending to be Freud. Father of psychology. Austrian. There’s no mother of psychology, which seems strange.’ She shakes her head. ‘I haven’t made a new friend in so long I don’t know where to start. So I resorted to a dodgy impression. You probably think I’m weird.’ She says it through a smile so I don’t know whether she’s serious or not. I certainly don’t think she’s weird. I think she’s wonderful. I can’t quite summon the guts to say this aloud.

  ‘Do you actually want to hear about my childhood?’ I ask. ‘It’s incredibly unexciting.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘It’s only unexciting to you because you lived it. It’s unfamiliar to me, so it’s interesting.’

  ‘Right. I went to the school at the top of the hill. The one you can see when you look up Main Street. It’s small enough that there were only really two classes. It was pretty great. I live with my mum and my grandad and now my cousin Nathan. We have goats and manufacture soaps with the milk and then ship them to Sydney where they get sold in health food shops at a ridiculous mark-up.’

  ‘Could you say he raised the baa for goat’s milk soap?’ asks Iris.

  I laugh. ‘You could.’

  ‘Do you like goats?’

  I consider. ‘Generally. I like some better than others. My pet goat, Stanley, has the biggest and best personality. I think he can understand human speech. I’m sorry. I’m going off on a tangent. What about your family? How’d you end up here?’

  ‘I love a tangent,’ she says. ‘Well, my parents are both accountants, got sick of it, wanted to get out of the city. Dad loves to cook, always wanted his own restaurant. Mum likes talking to people and organising things, so front of house suits her. They came through here on a road trip years ago and decided to come back.’ She doesn’t say anything about her childhood, or where they lived before. I decide not to push it.

  ‘Do you like it here?’ I ask.

  She smiles at me again. No one smiling at me has ever made me forget to breathe. I am unaccustomed to the thrill of it, of being smiled at by someone so beautiful. I feel like I’m a Jane Austen character, swooning like the silly girl in Northanger Abbey who is obsessed with novels.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  Clancy seems annoyed when we get to his house. ‘We’ll convene the amateur youth theatre troupe meeting in the living area. Just through here, Iris. Kirby, please help me prepare refreshments.’

  I am railroaded into the kitchen. I catch my reflection in the window and immediately wish I hadn’t. I’d felt amazing on the walk back, like a shimmering water goddess, after swimming with Iris and the sheer pleasure of having her attention focused on me. In reality I look more like a drowned rat.

  ‘You didn’t even ask her what she wanted,’ I say, as I’m getting tea, coffee and Milo out of the cupboard. Clancy’s house is like my second home. I yell, ‘Tea, coffee or Milo, Iris?’

  ‘Milo would be nice,’ she calls. ‘I can help.’

  ‘It’s fine!’ yells Clancy. ‘Stay there!’

  ‘Hot or cold?’ I yell.

  Clancy hisses at me. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Cold,’ she yells back. ‘Thank you!’

  ‘What?’ I ask Clancy, as I load up three glasses with more Milo than milk.

  ‘You guys are suddenly buddies,’ he whispers. ‘Without me. It’s three musketeers, Kirby. Not two musketeers and an awkward third wheel.’

  ‘You haven’t missed anything.’ I sort of feel like he has missed everything, like Iris and I are now friends, and not just because we’re the same age in a small town. But maybe that’s all in my head.

  He bites his lip, watching me. ‘Did she say anything about me?’ he asks.

  ‘That you’re an interesting character.’

  He brightens. ‘That’s good, right? That means she wants to get to know me. I’m intriguing. I’ve got depth. Layers.’

  ‘A man of mystery,’ I add.

  ‘Exactly!’ he says. ‘You can’t tell her I like her. We have to get to know each other first. The timing must be right. There needs to be unresolved sexual tension and whatnot.’

  ‘I won’t say a word.’ Have I already said too much?

  He disappears down the hallway. I take the drinks to the living room, where Iris is sitting on the edge of the couch, looking around. Given how rarely we meet new people, I forget what it’s like for a place to be unfamiliar. I hand her the Milo.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiles at me again. I want to bottle that. I mean actually find a way that allows me to preserve it. A photograph wouldn’t be enough.

  Clancy returns, carrying a huge plastic tub of props, which he places in the middle of the room with as much flourish as is possible when setting down a huge plastic tub.

  He produces a script for each of us, different sections highlighted. ‘I’ve already done the casting.’ He doesn’t even bother to smile at me, all of his attention focused on Iris.

  ‘I thought I was painting sets?’ says Iris, sipping her Milo.

  ‘Look,’ says Clancy, and I can tell he’s practised this, but I’m not sure Iris can. ‘There’s only the three of us, and we can’t fit a complicated set in the pub. The actors are what make a piece come alive, not the sets. Why don’t we do a read-through, and take it from there?’

  ‘He’s got a directorial vision,’ I say, only a little bit sarcastic. Iris suppresses a laugh. He looks daggers at me. I give him an apologetic look. I actually don’t mean to undermine his authority, as much as I would like to make Iris laugh, despite the fact that I am not particularly funny.

  ‘Let’s do a read-through,’ she agrees.

  It is a truly ridiculous play, about a nerdy guy who acquires a plant from outer space and ends up murdering people to feed it. It’s a demanding plant. I guess it’s about an alien invasion. Clancy sings all his parts. We laugh, a lot. Iris laughs at (with?) Clancy much more than she does at me, but that’s okay. Just hearing her laugh is enough. She sings magnificently, once Clancy convinces her to. When his dad comes by on his way out to the restaurant, he claps and bravos and we bow and curtsey. It’s hysterical. I can’t imagine putting it on at the pub, but Clancy is convinced it’s going to happen, especially now Iris has agreed to take a role.

  ‘I better head home,’ says Iris. ‘My parents need me to help with the evening shift. They’re hoping
people will start showing up.’

  Clancy sighs dramatically. Clancy does everything dramatically. ‘We still need to raise three hundred dollars to hire out the pub.’ He says this like we’re going to have to dig up skeletons and sell them to medical schools, or go on a cross-country crime spree in order to find that amount of money.

  Iris is nonplussed. ‘A hundred each? I’ll busk.’

  He seems disappointed. ‘I thought we might get up to some hijinks to acquire the cash. Don’t mind me. Finding the money through legal means is perfectly acceptable.’

  ‘Speaking of hijinks,’ I say. ‘I forgot to mention that Judy reckons you’re responsible for the crop circles, Clance.’

  ‘It does seem like something I would do,’ he concedes. ‘But between schoolwork, work work and this play, of which I am both star and director… Plenty of people believe it’s actual aliens.’

  ‘Just thought I’d let you know. We’re going to have to put on auditions, too. Apparently there’s interest. Judy hinted.’

  Clancy delivers another dramatic sigh. ‘If we must.’

  Mrs Hunter grudgingly allows auditions to be held in the beer garden of the pub as long as we buy a jug of lemon squash for every half hour we’re there. I also purchase some chips, not because I want to compensate Mrs Hunter, but because I like chips. Clancy sits between Iris and me, and they converse at length about the musicals Iris has seen live in Sydney and the recordings Clancy has watched online, as well as his plans for his theatrical career. I eat my chips and try not to feel jealous while I wait for someone to arrive for an audition.

  The turnout is not amazing.

  Mr Worthington, having imbibed several alcoholic beverages, wanders through on his way to the toilet, and, on his return trip, treats us to an enthusiastic rendition of ‘Danny Boy’. Clancy decides he is perfect for the role of the florist, who is an unpleasant elderly gentleman. Mr Worthington, taking this to be an indictment of his own character, abuses Clancy and returns to his drinking. Fortunately, Mr Jameson walks through, also inebriated, and sings us ‘Auld Lang Syne’. Clancy casts him as the florist instead.

  Judy auditions with a tap routine. She fancies herself as a triple threat, singer-dancer-actor, but we have no major characters left. Clancy gives her as many minor characters as she can play without having scenes where she speaks to herself. She regards this as unacceptable, so Clancy makes her assistant director and chief choreographer, as well.

  Nick visits to offer technical assistance with the play. We can’t convince him to sing. He says he’ll do AV instead. In the pub, this will pretty much involve turning the light at the end of the bar on and off. But we do need someone to flick the switch.

  Mrs Kingston comes down to the pub because she heard Clancy needed a wig, and she has quite a selection. We coerce her into being a back-up singer-dancer and cast her as the remaining minor character, because we now need someone to appear in scenes with Judy and it doesn’t look as if anyone else will show up. She agrees. We call it a day. Mrs Hunter shakes her head at us as we leave, and Clancy holds up his piece of paper with the four names on it, and shouts, ‘It’s a real play! It’s got adults in it! I am igniting the amateur theatre scene of Alberton! This will be a cultural mecca!’

  It is not the first time I am embarrassed to be seen with him.

  Clancy enjoys his power. He schedules rehearsals at least three times a week. I have two songs, and appear in a total of only three scenes, for which I am grateful. Clancy and Iris are entertaining: Clancy is the better dancer, but Iris is the better singer. In the musical, the two of them fall in love, though Clancy has cast himself as the ditzy blonde girl and Iris as the awkward nerdy boy. It even works, though he looks absurd in the wig Mrs Kingston lends him. Mrs Kingston knits in the breaks. And while performing. I’m certain she will knit during the actual play.

  It’s easy to picture Clancy and Iris as a couple, singing their duets. I’m sure Clancy thinks so, too. It’s harder to get a read on what Iris is thinking. When we’re talking in the breaks, Clancy makes references to random details from musicals, and Iris laughs. I don’t understand half of them, and being on the outside of in-jokes isn’t something I’m used to. I talk to Iris, too, but I second-guess everything I say, convinced she will think I’m a fool.

  Stanley and I practise my netball skills while they rehearse. I have not played netball since primary school. Judy brings leftover pastries from the bakery, which I very much enjoy.

  I have to keep stopping Stanley from attempting to chew through the extension cord of the speakers; none of us has the cash—or inclination—to invest in a portable set, which would be far less of a Stanley-hazard.

  When she’s not around, I think about Iris a lot. More than is strictly healthy. When I’m lying in bed I imagine her next to me, talking into the darkness. I make jokes and she laughs and tells me how beautiful I am and holds me and brushes my hair back from my face and kisses me tenderly.

  I’ve been kissed before but not by someone I like and who likes me, and that’s important, I think—the liking. When I was thirteen, Aiden Kingston kissed me, lips pursed, on a dare. I understood, then, why they call it a peck; it was distinctly like being assaulted by a chicken. When I was fifteen, Rowan Jameson practically licked my face after footy one Saturday. I got mud all over my shirt because he held me in place so I couldn’t duck away. I don’t exactly have a grand history of romance. Being fancied would be even nicer than being kissed.

  I realise how me-centric my fantasies are. If in some alternate reality Iris and I were a couple, I would not be so self-centred. I rationalise that it’s okay for my fantasies to be about me because I’m the only one who knows about them; I’m sure Iris wouldn’t mind if the fictional relationship we have in my head is one-sided.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ says Grandad. He’s standing in the lounge with his straw hat on and his walking stick in his hand. ‘Would you lace up my shoes?’

  ‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ I say. Mum doesn’t like Grandad walking on his own. I kneel to tie the laces of his worn orthopaedic shoes, and stare at the odd curve of his ankle. Double knot. He misses a lot of things, but he’ll notice if I don’t do his laces right.

  ‘I can walk on my own.’ Grandad is annoyed; he hates feeling like he’s being babysat. He doesn’t understand that we’re not worried about him, but about other people mowing him down on the road because they don’t understand his policy that pedestrians have priority. They’ll wait, he says to me, when we’re crossing the road at a glacial pace and Mrs Jameson is hooning towards us in her Honda, They have to wait.

  ‘I just wanted to walk Stanley, that’s all. Might as well walk with you.’

  He gives me a hard stare. I know he’s making sure I’m not being condescending. Mum always says Grandad suffers no fools. Neither does she. Sometimes I feel like I’m the fool they won’t suffer. He turns and starts heading out the front door, which I take as permission to go with him.

  In the driveway, he says, ‘I’ll have to give the car a run.’ He looks at Mum’s four-wheel drive; he seems confused his own car isn’t there. It hasn’t been there for three years. ‘Car needs a run,’ he says.

  I don’t know what to say. In the pamphlets Mum brought back from the specialist, it all seems so clear. On paper, it’s easy. In reality, it’s not just a dementia-sufferer, it’s my grandad. I keep hoping that everything will click back in place for him, and he’ll stop forgetting things. It seems so obvious: he should remember major events in his life.

  Do I go along with what he says or do I remind him? What if it upsets him? Is it better to lie to him, obfuscate the truth, or spell out the same events over and over again, disturbing him each time? The answer seems clear, but I still always get that urge to tell the truth.

  ‘Your car’s in the shop,’ I say. ‘Remember?’ It’s not much of a lie but I still feel bad.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Grandad. ‘That’s right.’ He starts walking again, his hat on a jaun
ty angle, his mind off the car and its mysterious absence.

  The weather is crisp. It’s the start of May. Grandad walks slowly with his bad knee and his walking stick, which means we stroll at a pace that allows me to take everything in.

  Every part of town holds memories for me, for Grandad even more. He points his walking stick at every property we go past, and tells me who lived there when he first arrived. When I tell him who lives there now, he just nods, but not like he’s agreeing with me. He’s not really listening.

  ‘Mario and his wife lived down that way,’ he says, once we reach the corner of our road. He’s right, but Mario passed away a few years back. ‘Their Nick was born around the same time you were.’

  I shake my head. ‘Nick from the IGA is the same age as Mum, not me.’

  Grandad gives me a look, mouth turned up to one side. ‘I know that,’ he says.

  I realise I’ve stuffed up. I should just agree with him, not make him feel like he’s forgetting things.

  My phone bings in my pocket and I fish it out. It’s Clancy. Crop circles at Mr Gregson’s. These aliens love us. It’s the third lot since Mr Jameson’s at the start of April. I wouldn’t be surprised if it really was Clancy, trying to liven the place up a bit. It’s sort of working.

  Grandad and I examine various trees on our walk. Grandad remarks on the size of the sky. I look at the bushland and scrub and think of all the terrifying games of Murder in the Dark that we used to play here when we were kids. Stanley slows to a dawdle and chows down on the long grass; I’m paranoid it’s full of snakes, even though they’re not usually around in the winter.

  We stop at a tree full of some sort of fruit, maybe crabapples or plums. I like my food in convenient packets—chips and individually wrapped mini sponge cakes—so I’m not an expert on fruit trees. There are birds in the tree, and half-chewed fruit all over the ground beneath it.

  Grandad points at the tree with his walking stick, and looks at me, as if he wants me to pick the fruit.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s any good, Grandad,’ I say. ‘Birds have been eating them.’