Goldenscale

Saturday 18 March

36

Saturday was still young when Henry arrived in a gleaming Mustang coupe. Beth was upstairs.

‘Sam,’ she said, but when she looked out the window again, she saw her brother was already on the front lawn.

‘Mum! Dad! Henry’s here!’ Beth called out as she strode towards the front door.

Abbie slunk out onto the front lawn. She nodded at Henry, clinched briefly, kissed him on the cheek and stood back. Nick was more enthusiastic, dishing out a vigorous handshake. ‘Great to have you back, Henry. Felt like you were due here sometime — like smelling rain in the air.’

Sam was already close to Henry, looking up at him with open admiration. Not that Beth was any less free with her affections. ‘Uncle Henry!!’ she yelled, rushing forward and hugging him.

Henry had changed in the last year — a little more relaxed, a touch of grey at his temples. He was slender, light on his feet, a good looking man with a tendency to smile at private jokes. He took only his own advice and seemed without fear.

‘Any new tattoos?’ Sam asked.

Henry rolled up his shirtsleeve and showed them a tiny rearing dragon on his right forearm.

Beth stared at it. Bloody hell. ‘What does that one mean?’ she asked, making every effort to appear uninterested.

‘It’s my year,’ explained Henry. ‘Chinese, that is. Year of the fire-breathing lizard.’

‘I’m a monkey,’ said Sam.

‘How apposite. Are you still an imp, Sam?’

‘I try,’ said Sam. ‘I was in trouble, but Mum’s forgotten all about it.’

‘Disappointing.’

Henry drove them down to the Colonial Village Shopping Centre.

Sam leaned over from the back seat.

‘What were you doing in Siberia?’

‘I was spying for Australia,’ he told them, ‘counting oil wells and gold mines. Funny place. Mosquitoes as big as terriers. Dragonflies with a poisonous spike between their eyes. Spiders with a penchant for nesting in nice warm beds.’

’For real? said Sam.

37

Henry sprawled in the driver’s seat, one arm loosely holding the wheel, the other hanging from the window, beating time on the bodywork. His plaid cap flew off and smacked Sam on the nose. Sam promptly tossed it out the window.

‘I saw that. Pick it up on the way back, will you?’

‘Can’t, old tacker,’ said Sam. ‘You’re dropping me off at my friend’s place. Ken’s.’

‘Your oldest friend,’ said Henry. ‘I remember him. Overhanging brow, crooked teeth.’

The two of them had an insult competition going, a tradition of prankish one-upmanship. Beth felt a little jealous. Insults and teasing were a way of life in her family, and she didn’t like being left out.

‘Did you really see anything strange in Siberia?’ she asked.

‘Not unless pollution on a heroic scale qualifies. Russians really know how to despoil a landscape. Anything weird happening here?’

‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘We had a few earthquakes. That’s all.’

‘Oh Just a little earthquake?’

‘No-one else in the street feels our earthquakes,’ said Sam disappointedly.

They ate at the Tokyo Dragon Inn. The name made Beth smile a little. Dragons everywhere.

The tablecloths were checked vinyl, the chopsticks plastic, and each table had a small smudged bottle of soy sauce.

Sam ripped open three sugar sachets and spread them out more or less evenly on the table. ‘Draw a map of Siberia.’

Henry moved sugar around. A waiter glanced over, shook his head.

‘That’s Lake Baikal, the largest freshwater lake in the world, and home of the only freshwater seal. One part in five of the world’s fresh water is in that lake, and I sailed across it this summer.’

Many of Henry’s stories contained an element of the incredible: that was part of their attraction.

Henry moved on to Siberian highways (potholed), Siberian cities (old and rundown) and the landscape (endless). The locals were mad, broke, drunk, crooked, generous, mixed up and Henry’s kind of people.

A waiter arrived with their seaweed and rice. Sam ate so many nori rolls he began to groan.

‘I’m such a pig,’ he said. ‘We going in the car again?’

‘Is a one eyed duck in the woods the pope?’ Henry asked.

As the trees and hills flickered past, Beth reflected on Sam. Whenever Henry was around she found Sam close to bearable. The eccentricities of his character seemed to match up with those of Henry. It’s all genetic, she thought.

Presently, they dropped Sam off at Ken Dankovitz’s place. Sam waved as the Mustang backed out of the drive. After picking up Henry’s mangy, weather-beaten hat from the side of Dairy Road, Beth felt a sense of relief when Henry turned the car away from Goolgoorook.

‘Let’s go walking,’ he suggested, and they drove to the foot of Mount Acute. He parked haphazardly and rummaged around in the glove box, finally extracting an odd-looking hand-woven bag with a long strap.

‘Peruvian,’ he said. ‘For the water bottle.’

After only a few minutes of walking, he called for a rest stop.

‘You get fitter …’ he puffed, ‘ … every time … I come back … or I just get … older.’

‘You just pretend to be out of shape,’ she said, ‘to make me feel better.’

During their rest-stops, she told him about Len Crabbit and his antics.

‘A drongo,’ Henry said mournfully. ‘Would have been better if he had gone to Ooralloo. Might have shamed him a bit.’ He contemplated that thought for a while, then brightened. ’Could try some kind of camp for people like Len. Take ’em out bush and let ’em fend for themselves. Make him learn bushcraft — maybe he’ll appreciate the aboriginal side of things. Make a TV show out of it.’

She shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t work. Len’s far gone. He looked like he wanted to kill me the other day.’

They walked upslope for some time, finally stopping at a daisy-speckled meadow.

‘Very pretty,’ said Henry. ‘So report him yourself, then. Tell the police exactly what happened.’

Beth looked at Henry. It’s easy to say that kind of thing, she thought.

‘No-one gains if you stay silent, Beth. Not even him. Certainly not your friend Sarah. Or Jo.’

‘Jo hasn’t said she wants to do anything about it …’

‘Then do it yourself, Beth. Don’t wait for her. Morality isn’t a product of consensus. It is what it is — you have to make unpalatable decisions.’

A ladder bolted into solid rock formed the final stage in the ascent of Mount Acute. Eventually, they leaned on the summit platform, taking in the all-encompassing view, dominated by the mighty Jugamai Plateau, home of the Gugamai. ‘One day, this will all be yours,’ said Henry, fanning a hand at the valley below.

Beth laughed, squinting fine patterns formed by roads and glinting lakes. Her home was too small to see, but she could follow the low ridge on which it had been built. Just like Sam’s relief map.

‘There’s our place,’ Beth said. ‘More or less.’

‘Hemming Heights,’ said Henry unenthusiastically. ‘Not really the scenic high point of the region. Or the cultural. I was rather hoping your parents might have chosen a farm.’

Beth smirked at the idea of Nick feeding cows or Abbie fixing fences. ‘I might buy a place like that someday,’ she said, ‘but not to grow anything — just to look at the sunsets and go fishing along the river. If there’s any land left by then.’

Beth tried to imagine the countryside when the dragon first began his sleep. He would have dug his burrow, expecting to emerge safely into a little-changed world.

‘Don’t tell your parents what I said about Hemming Heights,’ said Henry. ‘Strictly between you, me and the blue sky.’

After their descent of Mount Acute, Henry helped her to collect half a dozen tree ferns from a quiet dirt track just outside the park and bundle them into the boot.

‘For a school project,’ Beth said, and Henry nodded.

When Henry stopped to buy a few bottles of beer for Nick, Beth bought a large packet of Ambassador Dog Bikkies.

‘If Mum and Dad are out, can you help me put all of this stuff in the cellar?’

‘Should I ask what you’re going to do with them?’

‘No.’

Abbie and Nick were indeed elsewhere and Sam was not in evidence.

Henry followed her through the open cellar doorway and down the stairs, and stood beside her in the half-light.

He shook his head at the rents in the cellar walls. A moment later he whistled, as Sam once had, at the biggest of the apertures — the space through which Beth took her instructions. Henry’s gaze strayed to the seat in the middle of the floor facing the crack, then to Beth.

‘Strange place to come and think, isn’t it? You don’t think it could be dangerous?’

‘No. It’s quiet down here,’ said Beth, willing him not to ask any more questions.

They had just finished unloading the ferns and the biscuits, and were leaving the cellar when Nick rounded the corner. He frowned.

‘I didn’t give you a key.’

‘It was already open. Search me. I don’t have a key.’

Nick turned to Henry, and smiled a little. ‘Beth’s a bit of a secretive girl, these days.’

‘She was showing me the after-effects of the tremors.’

‘Lucky Abbie’s not here,’ said Nick, putting a hand on Beth’s shoulder. ‘You’d set her off again if she saw you coming up those stairs.’ He glanced at Henry in appeal. ‘We were having some small tremors. Subsidence in the hill somewhere. Abbie got spooked. It’s quietening down now.’

‘Smells amazing down there,’ Henry said. ‘Hard to describe, though. Spilled wine? You must have kept some great vintages, Nicky.’

Nick shook his head. ‘We drink the good stuff as soon as we buy it.’

She watched them walk away and made her own escape. Inviting Henry down into the cellar had been yet another in a long line of bad mistakes. She hadn’t liked the way he looked around. For a moment she had felt he was about to guess the whole thing.

38

Beth spent half an hour choosing a suitable book for that night’s session in the cellar. I know a bit. Not much compared to some people, but I must be better than nothing. Catcher in the Rye? No. What was the point? Lord of the Rings? Too long-winded. Why don’t I spell out a modern idea to him? He asked about science the other night.

She scanned the titles of her pop sci collection. Finally, her finger stuck on the spine of a book she had recently read when she was supposed to be studying biology: Climbing Mount Improbable, by Richard Dawkins. Kind of appropriate, really.

At midnight, Beth crept forth with unlit torch in hand, slinking along the corridor towards the cellar door. She had Dawkins and a notebook in her other hand.

‘Beth!’

She gripped the torch convulsively. ‘Who … ?’

‘Who? Who? The night owl, of course.’ Uncle Henry stood at the edge of the kitchen area, a slice of toast in one hand, smiling. ‘Doing the devil’s errands?’ he asked.

‘Watering. I was going to check the ferns.’

‘And take notes? Read them a book, too? S’posed to make plants grow faster. Though perhaps not in cellars.’

‘I keep records of the cracks down there. How fast they’re growing. I want to tell Dr Graydon about them. And sometimes I feel like reading.’

‘A true heroine of science. Remember that smell, earlier? From the cellar?’

‘The wine?’

‘I thought it was wine, but no. It’s something else. Just can’t quite figure out what.’

‘I dunno,’ said Beth. ‘I’d better get back to bed.’

‘Without your notes?’

‘Tomorrow,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t feel like it anymore.’

39

In bed, she listened for any signs of movement in the cellar, but heard nothing. She imagined Henry going into the dragon’s lair in her place and making arrangements to deliver more food than she ever could. He would be a better conversationalist too. Beth fidgeted, dropped into light sleep, woke, drowsed again.

She knuckled her eyes and groaned. Incredibly, daytime had already arrived. Even more improbably, Abbie was sitting at the foot of her bed, wearing her patented Worried Mother Look.

‘I’m concerned about you, Beth.’

‘Everyone is. You should buy tickets and I’ll perform for you all. Sam said you think …’

‘Don’t be facetious. It’s got nothing to do with Sam.’ She patted Beth’s leg. ‘Dear, your father is worried about you.’

‘Him too? Because of Len?’ Beth bit her lip.

‘That too,’ said Abbie. ‘But they’ll catch him soon enough.’

‘Mum, I’ve got to get up … I’ll be late …’

‘In a moment, dear.’

Abbie shifted uncomfortably. ‘Your father thinks you’ve started smoking.’

‘That’s rubbish!’

‘I know that,’ her mother said quickly. ‘I’d smell it on your clothes if you did.’

‘Well then …’

‘I’m worried about you, too. You’re a lot more mature than the other girls in your year.’

Uh oh.

‘I’m not more mature,’ said Beth. ‘Not even close. Hayley Gervin dresses like she’s in a lingerie parade. Jill Herford gets called a ho because she’s been with guys from Year 11. You want more?’

‘Charming. But you’re a lot more grown up than either of them. Whatever else they get up to.’

‘Mum, what is it that you think I’m doing?’

Abbie shifted on the bed, fiddling with her wedding ring as if it was making her finger itch. Finally she spoke. ‘Making a terrible mistake, perhaps. Who is “D”, Beth?’

Beth almost jumped out of bed. ‘You’ve been reading my notebook!’

Abbie coloured. ‘I didn’t set out to … I found it by accident … cleaning.’

What if she found a scale? Or the tooth? Do the diary entries give away too much?

A faint rumble went through the house and Abbie started.

‘That notebook was private, Mum. I don’t go through your stuff.’

Beth slid out of bed and began to dress, dragging on jeans and a shirt.

‘Are you sure you know him? This “D”?’

‘I’ve just figured it out,’ said Beth. ‘It was you who went into my room on Friday night. I thought it was Sam. Was going to blast him.’ She shook her head. Where are my shoes?

She jammed them on without bothering to tie the laces. ‘I’ll be back later,’ she spat.

‘I’m not accusing you …’ Abbie began, but Beth ran past, snatching the diary.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she repeated.

Outside, Beth looked around with wild surmise. Serpentine Drive was quiet. Mr Epadomides waved to her, hose in one hand.

‘How are you, Beth? You OK?’

‘No. Fine. I’m not too bad, Mr E.’

‘You know, I smell a strange smell the other day.’

‘Oh?’ She edged away. Was there an army of people with an interest in her house?

‘Yes. It was coming from your block.’

‘It must have been Freddy,’ she said, stopping. ‘He likes to roll in things.’

‘No,’ he shook his head with an air of quiet certainty. ‘It was like the sea. When I was your age, I lived in a little fishing village, in Greece.’

‘That would have been nice.’

‘No. Well, sometimes, perhaps. But we were very poor. But that smell — it was of the sea. And the fish, and sand.’

People can sense the dragon, Beth thought. Maybe they smell what they love, or what they miss.

Beth heard the door behind her open, then close. ‘I have to go. Sorry!’

He bowed and waved her off. ‘Perhaps there is something strange. We must be careful.’

‘Yes, Mr E,’ said Beth. ‘See you later.’

The front door opened, feet rapidly advancing over gravel.

‘Come here now,’ Abbie yelled, still sounding more irritated than angry. Without looking back, Beth broke into a jog, heading towards Dairy Road. After a breathless few minutes, she throttled back to a steady walk.

The day was beautiful. Fields of beaten-gold grass, blade tied to blade by innumerable spider webs, lit by the smoky haze of late summer.

As Beth strode along, she mentally paged through a volume listing alternative courses of action. Option one: stay and argue with her mother. Option two: try and involve her father as a possible ally. Option three: hire her brother to wreak terrible revenge on parents who denied their children the basic right to privacy. Option four: stay and try to explain away ‘D’ to her mother. The latter course of action might have compelled her to reveal some or all of the truth.

Every time I even think about telling someone about the cellar, I feel like I’m about to go out of my mind. Even if I really wanted to tell someone else, I don’t think I’d be able to get the words out.