Other Side of the Season Page 4

  ‘Dad’s done it all his life, and his dad did the same into his seventies. Physical labour keeps a body and a brain young and healthy. So do bananas.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard all that stuff about how good bananas are as many times as you. I get it.’

  ‘I’m just saying, I plan on living a very long time, right here on this mountain.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ David was not convinced. ‘I plan on making every minute count and being something more than a full-time banana farmer. I want to paint and draw and create. I want to experiment, do the impossible, show people–’

  ‘You’re a banana boy from country New South Wales. You’ll never be famous.’

  ‘Pro Hart was a miner from Broken Hill.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Pfft! Typical.’ David waved a dismissive hand. He wanted to tell Matthew about his and Tilly’s dream, their shared passion for new art, and how one day they planned to exhibit their work together. People would travel long distances to oooh and ahhh and buy their pieces. He wanted to tell Matthew dreams were also hard work. Dreams worth chasing, that is.

  Tilly would get so excited whenever they talked about their future together, like on the last day of summer school break, hiding out in their secret cave to escape the insufferable January heat. The underground chamber, halfway up the Greenhill mountain, was a huge hole in the side of a cliff-like ridge, the rocky outcrop hidden within the plantation with a view all the way to the ocean. Inside the cave that day Tilly had strutted around, acting all hoity-toity like those artistic types in the movies with their fancy cocktails and flamboyant fashions. With a beach towel as a turban and her shirt flung around her neck as a makeshift scarf, she’d pranced about in her bikini, waving a pretend cigarette and crying out, ‘Darrrrr-link!’ while welcoming imaginary guests, planting air kisses on imaginary cheeks, and ushering potential buyers to David’s latest drawing. ‘Isn’t my lover’s latest masterpiece absolutely marrrrvellous? Awfully glad you could join us at the grand opening of our very grand gallery called–’ Tilly stopped, spun around to face David.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘What on earth will we call our very grand gallery?’ she said. ‘How will the invitations read?’

  David smiled from the sidelines where he rested, one knee bent, the sole of his thong pressed against the cave wall to keep his balance. He pushed his body off the rock and walked over to Tilly, taking her hand in his. ‘Well, darrrrr-link!’ he mimicked. ‘The invitations will read: David and Tilly request the pleasure of your company at the grand opening of–’

  ‘Oh, no, darrrrr-link,’ Tilly interrupted. ‘I think you mean Tilly and David. A lady always goes first.’

  ‘In that case, maybe the invitation should read Mr and Mrs.’ He dropped to one knee like he’d seen in the movies, drew the back of her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘You will marry me one day, won’t you?’

  Tilly snatched her hand back and pressed the palm to her mouth, slapping her speechless. Without her constant chatter echoing throughout the cave, the place was strangely silent, the sounds of the world outside their hideaway far-off and muted.

  ‘Well?’ David asked.

  ‘Of course I’ll marry you one day, darling David.’ Tilly laughed as she flopped onto his knee, throwing her arms around his neck and knocking them both off balance. David fell backwards onto his bottom, grunting as she landed on top of him so hard the beach towel turban she’d fashioned unravelled, draping itself over David’s face.

  ‘If you don’t suffocate me first.’ He tried laughing as he knocked the towel away, but the weight of her hands was crushing his chest, the tips of her hair–still smelling of saltwater from their earlier swim–tickling his nose.

  ‘Let anyone try to stop me marrying you, David.’

  ‘I adore that face you pull.’

  ‘What face?’ Tilly stiffened, pushing herself into a seated position and sliding onto the ground next to him. ‘What face?’ she demanded.

  David sat up, hugged his knees to his chest. ‘I’m teasing you.’

  ‘Well don’t. Not until you’ve told me you love me.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Honestly?’ She played with the ends of her hair, twirling a strand tight around her finger before letting it spring back.

  ‘I really, really love you, Tilly.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘More than there are rocks on the breakwall.’

  ‘Oh, David!’ Tilly tugged and tugged at his arms until he let go of his knees and stretched his legs out in front of him. ‘You’re my rock, David, and I need that. I need you so I won’t be alone. I can never become my mother and you can’t ever leave me. Promise?’

  ‘Why would I? We share the same dreams, don’t we?’

  They kissed and came so close to making out–really making out.

  David wanted nothing more than to go all the way with Tilly. They’d come close a few times, eagerness his undoing on each occasion. He’d wanted it so bad, he tried too hard and felt too much, too soon. His brother had bonked girls without the need for emotional attachment, but David wasn’t his brother. He wanted the first time to be good for them both–to be the right moment and meaningful. He wanted to go off like a firecracker.

  Firecracker! Maybe they’d do it then to welcome in the new year. That way even if he turned out to be a fizzer on that occasion as well there’d still be fireworks. Or maybe Christmas, both options were still a year away. Did he want to wait that long?

  ‘Davo!’ Matthew was yelling. ‘Quit daydreaming or we’ll be here till bloody Christmas. Dad needs these boxes loaded on the truck today.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  Little did David know his Christmas was about to come early.

  • • •

  ‘What kept you?’ Tilly asked him. She was huddled between two rock ledges–the best place to escape the winter winds that blew straight off the ocean, then whipped through the Greenhill plantation, swirling around the mouth of the cave before scooting up the hill. ‘Look. Almost done. Last one.’ She’d been working on a knitted rug for weeks, sewing dozens of small, colourful squares together. ‘And in time for winter, as promised. Wanna try it with me?’ She opened a gap in the blanket and invited David in with her. ‘I’m so cold,’ she said in a soft, sexy kind of voice that got his attention.

  He let his art satchel slide off his shoulder and onto the cave floor before walking over. ‘You want me to warm you?’

  Tilly pulled at his arm until he was at her side on both knees. ‘Get in,’ she ordered, covering them both with the blanket. ‘I need you to love me.’

  ‘I do love you, Tilly. How many times do I have to say it?’

  She propped herself on one elbow so she was above him, peering into his eyes. ‘Stop saying it and show me.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ David questioned, confused.

  ‘I mean . . .’ She lifted a leg over his lap so she was straddling him, the arch of her back making a tent of the knitted rug, then she leaned forward to whisper in his ear. ‘Show me how much you love me–now.’

  ‘Tilly, are you . . . ? Are you sure you want me to–?’

  She was nodding before he’d finished asking, her mouth moving over his lips all warm and wet. She pulled away long enough to tell him, ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything. Together forever, remember? Now kiss me back.’

  • • •

  Afterwards, David had struggled to lie still. He’d wanted to know what real sex felt like for so long, but if someone had tried to tell him how awesome he would feel going all the way with a girl, he wouldn’t have believed them. He’d gone off like a firecracker all right. Now every nerve in his body was twitching, making him want to jump up, run from the cave and crow like Tarzan from the edge of the escarpment. From the top of his lungs he’d call out, ‘TILLY LOVES ME!’

  But Tilly’s body anchored him to the spot as she snuggled into his side, her head on his chest. ‘Oh, David, this is th
e start of something special. I feel it.’

  ‘I’m feeling something,’ he quipped, making another play at her breasts, but she slapped his hand into submission.

  ‘Stop that. I’m talking about our future away from here. Imagine,’ she sighed and hugged him tighter, ‘our very own gallery one day. Somewhere out there is the perfect place. Maybe a funky inner-city warehouse. Do you think Sydney or Melbourne?’

  ‘Inner-city warehouse? What are you talking about? If you want funky, the old slipway by the breakwall will be perfect.’

  ‘Now I know you’re not being serious.’

  ‘Yeah, I am. Why not the slipway? I heard Dad telling Matthew to write a letter for him. You know how he gets on his high horse with the mayor every now and then. Dad’s telling council that Dinghy Bay needs a good slipway to support the fishing boats. He reckons they need to apply for a grant to get a new one built, among other things.’

  Tilly lifted her head from his chest, placing her face inches above his own. ‘What are you going on about, David?’

  ‘It means, by the time I’m done with uni the new slipway will be finished and the old one will be up for lease. Maybe Dad will help us find a way to buy the place. Rustic is a great backdrop for contemporary art and the natural light in there is amazing. There’d be room to hold workshops, or spaces that we can hire out. A kind of country retreat for artists who need to recharge.’

  ‘You’re not serious.’ Tilly winced as though he’d hurt her. She shuffled into a seated position on top of David to stare him down, her hands pressing hard against his chest. ‘But you are, aren’t you? When were you going to tell me about your slipway plans?’

  ‘Ah, well, Dad said the new facility is a good two years away at least, that’s if there’s not a change of government, and–’

  ‘David, David, stop talking.’

  ‘What’s the matter, Tilly?’ David wished he hadn’t mentioned the slipway at all.

  ‘Weren’t you always on about Sydney or Melbourne?’

  ‘Yes, to attend university. The plan was always to come back home to paint and to be with you. I’ll still have to help on the property.’

  ‘Staying here was never the plan. We never agreed and I always thought . . .’ Tilly squeezed her eyes tight and David expected to see tears, only she lowered her face into cupped hands.

  Without the pressure of her hands bearing down, David tried sitting. The cold ground had started to seep through his skin and into his bones, but her body pinned him still. ‘Don’t cry, Tilly. Why does it matter where we have our gallery, as long as we’re together? Together forever, you said.’

  ‘But how would our work get any notice out here?’

  ‘Look at Pro Hart. He was discovered in–’

  ‘Oh, you and bloody Pro Hart!’ Tilly disentangled herself from the blanket and David, sliding off him before tugging the skivvy back over her breasts, clearly too angry to bother about the bra twisted up under her arms. ‘Get over that, David. Pro Hart’s success is a once in a generation thing. You’ll never be like him. Never. And our dream will never come true if we stay in this crappy little town, on this crappy hilltop, with crappy parents. I won’t stay on this mountain with the Marhkts. I won’t,’ she pouted. ‘Tell me you’ll come with me. Tell me I’m more important than a bloody banana farm and a dilapidated boatshed. Tell me we’re family forever, David. Tell me you’ll take me away from here. Tell me now–or else.’ Tilly’s fist pounded the ground.

  David could not understand where this sudden anger had come from. ‘Or else what, Tilly?’ he asked, finally able to sit up. ‘Come on, kiss me again. Let’s make up.’

  ‘No! That’s it. I’m too angry. When you’ve stopped being a mummy’s boy and made up your mind to get away from here, you’ll know where to find me. I have to go.’

  6

  The Greenhill Banana Plantation, 1979

  ‘Why are you hiding in here, Tilly? You’ve been angry for days.’ Moonfaced Albie Marhkt stood in the open doorway to Tilly’s bedroom at the end of the hall and peeled a banana. He’d been an odd-looking boy when she first met him five years ago, a walking caricature with a pimply forehead, receding hairline, broad nose and googly-type eyes on a head that seemed too big for his body.

  ‘Go away, Albie. Not now.’ Tilly was slumped on the edge of her bed with its mattress of worn-out springs sagging, even under her light weight.

  She’d been forced to share this room with her new brother when she’d first moved in with the Marhkts on the plantation in the hills behind Dinghy Bay. Albie had not long turned sixteen. Tall for his age and a little oafish, he was shy and had been bullied by the kids in town who’d nicknamed him–among other things–Mr Potato Head. Tilly, the tough newcomer to the Marhkt household, managed to put an end to the bullying, but soon after Albie had been pulled out of school and put to work full time on the plantation.

  With no hope of having their own children, Ulf and Hilda Marhkt had fostered. The couple were getting on in years and they were shrewd enough to first choose a son, knowing a male would help keep their small banana business and market garden viable. Albie had been taller than most boys his age, which meant he could do more tasks and was more suited to the demands of a plantation, yet still young enough to give the Marhkts many more years’ productivity. Six years after giving Albie a home, Ulf and Hilda had taken in fourteen-year-old Tilly and straightaway she understood her role. Having a daughter meant Mrs Marhkt could spend less time looking after the house and cooking meals, and more time socialising and helping Mr Marhkt run the business.

  Tilly and Albie had shared the same small bedroom that first year, until Tilly complained to the Marhkts that Albie interfered with her while sleeping. It was true, but Tilly had carefully chosen words to deliberately mislead. Albie kept her awake at night with his constant crying out and his creepy, unnerving groans and moans. He had received a good clip over the ear from Ulf as a result of Tilly’s complaint and from then on slept on a stretcher bed in the sleep-out section of the veranda that doubled as Hilda’s pantry for excess dry goods. Still, the night-time noises and sobbing continued. Albie cried a lot when he thought no one could hear him.

  Much to Tilly’s surprise, though, even after the clip over the ears, Albie hadn’t said another word about it to the Marhkts. Albie had protected Tilly when he could have dobbed on her for telling tales that day, or for every house rule she broke afterwards. For his loyalty, she made him her confidant, keeping him onside with attention and kind words, like a person rewards an enthusiastic puppy. Every now and then he’d misinterpret Tilly’s confiding in him as something more and get all octopus-like, hands everywhere. Each time she’d remind him they were as good as brother and sister. Shame of it was, Albie refused to see their relationship that way.

  ‘We’re more than friends,’ he’d say, freckle-faced and grinning. ‘You said we were family forever.’

  ‘Family forever because we have the same parents–sort of,’ Tilly would argue. ‘We have to call the Marhkts Mum and Dad. That makes you my brother.’

  ‘Not blood, though. Doesn’t count.’

  ‘Look, blood or not, Albie, I just don’t see you that way, okay? I’m sorry.’

  ‘You might, one day, when I’m older. Won’t be long and I’ll be twenty-one.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’ll be a real man. One day you’ll see I’m the right one for you.’

  ‘I’ll let you know when that happens. Oh, and Albie?’

  ‘Yes, Tilly?’

  ‘That day–the day when I see you’re the right man for me?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That same night will see the moon turn blue.’

  Whenever Tilly visited the packing sheds, delivering thermoses of hot tea and coffee and slices of Hilda’s fresh-baked banana cake, she’d find Mr Marhkt and the seasonal workers making jokes about Albie’s appetite, claiming any other bloke who ate as much would be ‘built like a brick shithouse’–whatever that meant. No
t Albie. No matter how much he ate, his body never filled out. By his twenty-first birthday he had outgrown his puppy-like eagerness. Pimples turned into pockmarks and he developed a stilted gait, hunched shoulders and a shifty look, which meant his gaze never lingered too long in any one direction, like he was always on the lookout for something. Something that made him afraid.

  Despite her telling him to go away, Albie remained in the doorway to Tilly’s room, chewing banana, and doing that thing with his eyes.

  ‘I meant what I said before, Albie. Bugger off.’ Tilly walked over, slammed the door in his face, and flopped back on her bed, hugging a pillow to her stomach.

  For ten days–ever since she and David had argued and she’d stormed from the cave–Tilly had waited, wished, expected him to come begging. He would for sure, looking for more of what she’d let him have that day. And she had more to give, once he agreed she knew what was best for their future together. But when David didn’t make the nightly journey from the Greenhill property to her bedroom window, when she’d let him climb in and they would stay awake into the early hours of the morning kissing, cuddling and conspiring, Tilly assumed he was waiting for her to crawl back to him, begging to be loved.

  Clearly David didn’t know her at all, as pleading for anything was the last thing Tilly would ever do. Begging to be loved was what her mother had done, and look how that had turned out. If David truly loved Tilly, he would have to come to her.

  When another week passed, and David still treated her no differently to Albie whenever the three of them bumped into each other, Tilly grew angry–and a little desperate. She wasted hours going back and forth between their two favourite places to hang out: the cave and the rocks at the breakwall. Then one morning she bumped into Matthew coming back from a surf, his wetsuit exaggerating his long legs and a fit torso beneath the black rubber. He was barefoot, his hair dripping, the morning’s wintery wind quickly turning the water trickling down his face into long lines of crusty salt.

  How could siblings be so different? Where David was short and spirited, easily excited and popular around town, his older brother was offhanded and gawky, although athletic. Matthew looked after his body. He had to–lugging banana boxes and enormous bunches of fruit over steep hillsides was not for the weak. Matthew ran daily, the same course at the same time, twice a day, every day–rain, hail or heatwave. Over the years he had gone out with just about every girl in Dinghy Bay, including those living in the surrounding farm district. Not one relationship had lasted beyond a few months. Tilly and David would laugh about him having bored every one of his girlfriends to death.