Tigers on the Beach Page 10

  I shrink when Adam says juveniles.

  ‘I’m probably quite mature for someone who’s thirteen years, ten months, four weeks and one hour old,’ I say.

  ‘Mature boys don’t run around in their underpants waving towels.’

  This disturbs me. Has Nathan been peeping into windows?

  ‘Xander told me,’ Nathan says. ‘He also told me you have a girlfriend with red hair who has seen your posterior.’

  ‘Xander’s an idiot. And I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m definitely in love with her, but she hasn’t worked out if she’s in love with me.’

  ‘I crave for Marika to be my girlfriend,’ says Nathan. ‘I wish I were better looking.’

  ‘You’re not so bad, Nathan.’

  ‘Have a closer look,’ he says.

  Nathan’s hair is dark blond, thinning, wavy and far too long. He has a small goatee. He wears the same checked shirt all the time, as well as khaki shorts that are hitched too high. It’s not a good look.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think,’ I say. ‘I’m not Marika. She might reckon you’re Christmas on a stick.’

  Nathan throws down the little tower. Possum architecture no longer interests him.

  ‘I shouldn’t be doing this for a living,’ he complains. ‘I have three university degrees. I probably know more about monotremes than anyone on the planet. I shouldn’t be wasting my life here.’

  ‘But my parents depend on you,’ I say. ‘They need you.’

  ‘They don’t appreciate me.’

  ‘They do.’

  Nathan shakes his head. ‘I should go to Indonesia to study the orangutans. Have you seen them? They have intelligent eyes and orange-brown coats and they live in the rainforests. They are the most beautiful of the great apes. Not as beautiful as Marika, of course. Nothing is as beautiful as Marika.’

  ‘Then tell her,’ I say. ‘Only don’t mention orangutans. Just tell her you like how she looks.’

  ‘She’d laugh in my face. I’ll have to find another woman, someone who’s not out of my league.’

  ‘Marika isn’t out of your league.’

  ‘She’s the goddess Aphrodite.’

  ‘That’s better. Tell Marika she’s Aphrodite. Don’t mention monkeys or horses or any other animals. Tell her she’s a Greek goddess, not a monkey.’

  ‘What do you think she’ll say?’

  ‘Well, she’ll probably say that she has an eye infection. But you never know. She might think that you’re a Greek god.’

  Nathan gives a snort of contempt.

  ‘Or maybe not,’ I say. ‘Greek gods are mainly buff and like hanging around in the nude, and you’re not like that. But maybe Marika doesn’t want a boyfriend who’s buff and nude. Maybe she wants you.’

  Mum steps out of the office to tell me it’s time to get ready for today’s ceremony. I need to have a shower and put on a suit and tie.

  ‘We’re spreading Grandpa’s ashes today,’ I tell Nathan.

  ‘Your father told me. I hope everything goes well.’

  Nathan says this as if he believes it is unlikely.

  After I’ve showered, I make a special effort with my boring brown hair. While it’s still wet, I slick it back behind my ears.

  ‘You look like Dracula,’ says Xander.

  ‘You look like Riff Raff,’ I say.

  ‘Who’s Riff Raff?’

  ‘The freak in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Dad showed me the DVD. Riff Raff has long yellow hair just like yours.’

  ‘What’s The Rocky Horror Picture Show about?’

  ‘Transvestites from outer space.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Seriously. It’s got this incredible song in it called “The Time Warp”.’

  Unwisely, I sing and do the steps from ‘The Time Warp’, as if this will somehow prove to Xander that the film exists. I am wearing nothing but a towel, which nearly drops off when I do the pelvic thrust that is supposed to drive you insa-a-a-a-ane.

  ‘That is the gayest thing you have ever done,’ says Xander.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I say.

  ‘No wonder Sam won’t be your girlfriend.’

  I feel the blood rush to my face. ‘Don’t make jokes about Sam. You can make jokes about any other subject, but not Sam. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Xander is cowed. And he doesn’t cow easily.

  Xander is in the shower, singing loudly and doing The Time Warp. I curse his photographic memory and close the bathroom door. I am trying to do up my tie when my phone rings. It’s a ring tone I downloaded for when Sam calls me. It’s Bach’s ‘Coffee Cantata’. (Bach was clearly an expert at giving rotten names to his tunes.) I throw the tie away and lunge for the phone.

  ‘Hi,’ says Sam.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she says. ‘A lot.’

  Sam’s tone is more serious than ever. I figure I’m about to be dumped, so I brace myself.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ says Sam. ‘I think we should go around together.’

  I nearly drop the phone. ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re good and you’re not sleazy and you might be a bit juvenile but we can work on that,’ says Sam.

  ‘And I’ve thought about it too,’ I say. ‘And I agree with you one hundred per cent. You’re smart and beautiful and you’re a bit serious, but we can work on that as well. We should definitely go around together.’

  I overhear Mum and Dad getting ready in the room next door. They are arguing. I don’t know what it’s about, but it will be something minor, like whether it’s okay to wear football socks to an ash-scattering.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Sam asks. ‘Adam?’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m a little churned up.’

  ‘Have I caught you at a bad time?’

  ‘Things are a bit tense,’ I say. ‘Xander won’t stop doing The Time Warp, and we’re going to The Escarpment to scatter my grandfather’s ashes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At noon.’

  ‘Can I be there for you?’

  It never occurred to me that Sam might want to come to such an intimate family gathering.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say.

  But Sam genuinely wants to be there. And since my parents are worried that I’m keeping Sam away from them, I figure that maybe it’s not such a bad idea to involve her. I tell Sam that I’ll check with my family then ring her back. I also ask if she has any black tights to wear. She says she does. Bliss!

  ‘And I’ll try not to be too serious,’ she adds.

  ‘You’re allowed to be,’ I say.

  ‘Joke,’ says Sam.

  At midday we stand on The Escarpment, the impressive cliff top that visitors to Samsara feel compelled to photograph. We gaze out to sea. It’s a view that Grandpa always liked, only a few minutes’ walk from the big house that he and Grandma built all those years ago. The sky is cloudless and there isn’t a breath of wind. The sea is so flat it looks laminated. Sam looks incredible in black, all trim and sleek.

  Dad holds Xander by the hand. I hope that one day Xander will be able to go through life unaided. But for the moment, Dad knows that if he doesn’t hold Xander’s hand, he’s liable to walk off the cliff top, not realising that there is a drop of fifteen metres. Or perhaps Xander does realise, but doesn’t understand that if he walks off the edge, no force on earth will stop him from plummeting to the beach below.

  ‘This is a beautiful place,’ says Sam.

  We all nod and agree it is a beautiful place.

  ‘We don’t have anywhere like this in Port Argus,’ says Sam.

  ‘Port Argus is nice,’ Mum says.

  ‘Do they still sell crayfish on the pier?’ Grandma asks Sam.

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  Sam is wrong. She knows they stopped selling crayfish on the pier ages ago. But she isn’t going to ruin what seems a fond memory for Grandma. She is being kind.

  There is a full minute of sile
nce, broken only by the cries of seabirds. The noonday sun blazes. It seems far too glorious a day for solemn ceremony. We all wear sunglasses and a layer of sunscreen – its chemical smell filling the air. It’s proper sunscreen, so our hands won’t go orange.

  ‘I thought we could take turns,’ says Mum, bringing us back to the matter in hand. ‘We could each take the urn and shake out some of the ashes.’

  ‘ “Cremains”,’ says Dad. ‘I think they are referred to as “cremains”.’

  ‘That’s a silly word,’ says Mum.

  I pray that my parents will not argue.

  ‘I want to go first,’ says Xander.

  ‘No, Xander, Grandma should go first,’ says Mum.

  ‘Can I go second?’ he asks.

  ‘You can go last,’ says Dad, as though he is offering Xander a very special privilege. In reality, Dad knows that Xander is likely to empty out all the ashes. Anyone who comes after him won’t have anything to scatter, so he has to go last.

  ‘I can’t think of a better place to be scattered,’ says Sam.

  She is saying all the right things. I’m glad that Sam is with us. Grandma seems to approve of my choice of girlfriend, not that it should matter. Grandma has trouble taking the lid off the urn, so Mum helps. We are all weepy. Even Sam has a lump in her throat. Mum and Grandma walk to the edge of The Escarpment. Grandma holds out the urn and tips it slightly. Nothing comes out.

  ‘I don’t think this is right,’ Grandma says.

  ‘How do you mean?’ asks Mum.

  ‘This isn’t the right place.’

  ‘But Reg loved it here,’ says Dad.

  ‘It still doesn’t feel right. I don’t think it’s what he wants.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ says Mum. ‘We don’t have to do it here.’

  Dad groans softly, which I know means more arguments later on.

  ‘Give me the urn,’ says Mum. ‘I’ll put the lid back on.’

  Grandma hands the urn to Mum. But Grandma’s hand shakes. The urn tips. Mum rescues it before the contents empty out completely, but some of the ashes escape and are picked up by the wind, which has chosen this terrible moment to blow. The little ash cloud hits my father full in the face. He coughs and removes his glasses. The sunscreen has made the ashes stick hard to his skin, so that he now has a grey face with two pink circles around his eyes, in the shape of his sunglasses.

  ‘Blast!’ says Grandma.

  Mum leads her gently away from the cliff top.

  ‘Are you all right, Ken?’ Mum asks.

  ‘Of course I’m all right, Georgia.’ Keeping a hold of Xander’s hand, Dad takes out his handkerchief and attempts to wipe off the ashes.

  ‘What an awful thing to happen,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh, don’t make such a fuss,’ says Grandma.

  I can tell that Grandma is upset, even though she is trying to shrug off the horrible incident.

  ‘Here, Ken, let me help,’ says Mum.

  Mum wipes the grey mask from Dad’s face.

  ‘There are still plenty of ashes left in the urn,’ she says. ‘We’ll find a better place to scatter them.’

  ‘You take your time, Doris,’ says Dad, spitting out some ash. ‘It’s important that we find the right place for Reg and I don’t think it’s in my face.’

  ‘Thank you, Kenneth,’ says Grandma.

  ‘You’ve still got a bit on your nose,’ says Xander.

  Mum wipes the last bit of ash from Dad’s face.

  The reason I am silent throughout this is that Sam is hugging me. She has her arms around me and is resting her head on my shoulder. We look as though we are comforting each other in this time of sadness. That’s what Grandma and my parents probably think. But I know differently. Even though I am overwhelmed by the ghastliness of it all, Sam is having a different reaction. I can hear her breathing, close to my ear. She trembles. Sam, my exquisite new girlfriend, is laughing.

  She’s not busting a gut, but she’s definitely laughing, and there is nothing remotely funny.

  No one except me knows that Sam laughed. They don’t know that, as soon as Grandpa’s ashes blew into Dad’s face, Sam stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth to prevent herself from guffawing. Then she grabbed hold of me, to use me as a human shield, so the world wouldn’t see her laughter. What would my parents think if they knew? What do I think? Sam is kind, I remind myself. Sam admires me because I’m kind. But do kind people laugh at horrible things?

  Dad is driving the SUV to Port Argus, so we can drop off Sam before returning to The Ponderosa. As we reach her house it occurs to me that Sam’s family must be a lot richer than mine. The house is larger than my grandparents’ old place on The Escarpment. Last time I was here, I was so busy thinking about Sam that I hadn’t noticed the surroundings. Now I see a little more of Sam’s world, and I wonder if I might be a foreigner, entering this place of wealth and privilege. I still think Sam is gorgeous. But Sam laughed. Something awful happened and Sam laughed.

  I walk Sam to the front door, because neither of us has had a chance to speak candidly in the SUV.

  ‘I’m sorry about laughing,’ says Sam.

  ‘I don’t think anyone else noticed,’ I say.

  ‘Please Adam, you’re supposed to make me feel better by saying that you forgive me.’

  ‘Okay, I forgive you.’

  ‘You have to mean it.’

  ‘I really do forgive you.’

  The words come easily enough. I’m quite good at forgiveness. If I bore grudges I would have stopped talking to Xander years ago.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come with you,’ says Sam.

  ‘It was good to have you there,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t know why I laughed,’ says Sam. ‘It must have been a terrible moment for you.’

  ‘It was.’

  We reach the front doorstep. Sam takes out her key.

  ‘I hope I didn’t upset you,’ she says.

  ‘You didn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s okay.’

  When I get back to the SUV, Dad and Mum are arguing again. I worry that they might have noticed Sam laugh after all, and that it’s made their tempers flare up. But when I climb into the back seat, I realise that they’re arguing about the quickest way to get from Port Argus to Samsara. Grandma sits on the back seat, nursing the urn, while Dad and Mum argue about a shortcut.

  ‘Could you both please be quiet and take us home,’ says Grandma. She isn’t being grouchy. She’s being completely reasonable. My parents are the ones who are behaving badly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Doris,’ says Dad.

  He starts the car and we head back the way we came, which Mum still maintains is not the shortest, most direct route.

  ‘It was nice to meet your girlfriend,’ says Grandma. She sounds like she means it. Xander says nothing, but plays with a wacky ball, pretending that it is alive. Grandma doesn’t ask him to put it away. At the moment, she seems the only reasonable person in the car.

  Dad turns on the radio. The classical music station is playing a piece by Bach. I recognise it, thanks to Sam. I’ve been finding out all I can about Bach. The music is a hymn, perfect in every way. It suits the mood.

  ‘What wonderful music,’ says Dad, abandoning the argument about shortcuts.

  ‘It’s by Bach,’ I say. I don’t mention that the name of the piece is ‘Bloody Wounded Head’. Did Bach ever give a decent name to one of his tunes?

  When we arrive at The Ponderosa, we see Stanley Krongold’s big red car parked outside. This is the last thing we want. We find him in the reception area, trying to have a conversation with Marika. I know, of course, that such a thing is impossible. Marika is in the middle of telling Stanley Krongold a story about how her friend Bettina took too many diet pills and turned into a pipecleaner. I’ve heard this story before. Marika doesn’t have that many stories to tell, and until she starts listening to people she probably never will. Mr Krongold looks relieved when we enter the reception area. He’s almost as unobservant as Marika. He fails
to notice that we are dressed formally and that a mood of sadness hangs over us.

  ‘Marika and I were just having a lovely chat,’ says Mr Krongold. ‘I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time?’

  ‘I’m afraid this is inconvenient,’ Dad says.

  ‘I understand. But please call me later today.’

  ‘Mr Krongold, you seem like a generous man,’ Dad says.

  ‘I like to think so,’ says Mr Krongold. ‘And I wish you’d call me Stanley.’

  ‘We are fortunate to live in a country like Australia,’ Dad says.

  I’m not sure where Dad is going with this, but Mr Krongold nods in agreement. Of course Australia is a good country.

  ‘And yet there are people in the world who are starving,’ says Dad.

  ‘It’s awful.’ Mr Krongold nods. ‘But what can we do?’

  ‘I was thinking that you might like to buy those chocolate peanuts on the counter. They’re for famine relief.’

  Mr Krongold looks at the counter pack of chocolate peanuts as if they have only now magically appeared. He doesn’t want anything to do with them, of course.

  ‘Well, if they’re for famine relief, I will certainly buy a packet.’

  Mr Krongold reluctantly takes out his wallet. When he looks inside, he believes he is off the hook.

  ‘I only have a twenty-dollar bill.’

  ‘That is most generous of you, Mr Krongold,’ says Dad.

  He takes the bill from Mr Krongold. Before our unwanted visitor has a chance to protest, Dad stuffs the note into the charity box.

  ‘You may take ten packets of chocolate peanuts,’ says Dad, ‘and I’m sure the starving orphans in Sumatra will thank you from the very bottom of their malnourished hearts.’

  Mr Krongold is furious, but keeps a lid on it as he takes ten packets of chocolate peanuts. There are only two packets left in the box.

  ‘You will call me later?’ Mr Krongold says, trying to juggle the ten packets.

  ‘Of course,’ says Dad.

  Stanley Krongold realises this is the best he can hope for, and hobbles away, desperate not to drop his bundle of charity purchases. He gives me a wink as he passes. I hate that wink.

  ‘Ah well,’ says Dad. ‘At least the day hasn’t been a complete disaster.’ Dad turns to Marika, making a brave and foolish attempt to engage her in conversation.