Floodtide Page 15

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The news that Mike McAllister had suffered a heart attack while diving at the Abrolhos shocked everyone to the core. Not Mike McAllister! He was twenty-two years old! He was the star centre of the uni A grade team! Mike was young, and as strong and fit as a mallee bull!

  Mike himself had discovered that if he hadn't been as young and strong and fit as he was, he'd probably be dead. He'd been told as much by the cardiologist at Royal Perth Hospital, who'd informed him that he had a congenital heart weakness.

  'It's nothing that won't allow you to lead a normal life,' the doctor had assured him, aware the news had come as a shock, 'but attempting Mount Everest and deep sea diving are not to be recommended with a condition like yours. If you'd been older and less fit and pushed yourself to the absolute limit as you did, it's quite likely you wouldn't have survived. I'd certainly watch it in future.'

  Following his attack, Mike had been taken to the Geraldton Regional Hospital where his heart condition had been stabilised, then immediately transported by the Royal Flying Doctor Service to Royal Perth Hospital where his horrified parents had been waiting.

  Two days later, Spud called in. It was eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning.

  'Jesus, mate, you gave us all a bit of a scare,' he said.

  'I gave myself a bit of scare,' Mike admitted.

  'I mean, hell, if that can happen to you, then what's on the cards for the rest of us?' Spud looked around the small private ward, pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat. 'Do they mind if you smoke?' he asked, diving a hand into his pocket for his cigarettes.

  'I don't know – give it a go and see.'

  Spud lit up. 'How long are you going to be in here?'

  'I'm not sure. They reckon another day, maybe two.'

  'Bugger of a thing to happen, eh.'

  A minute or so later, Maggie and Jools arrived. Jools had flown over from Sydney the moment her mother had rung with news of Mike's heart attack.

  'G'day, Mrs McAllister. G'day, Jools.' Spud rose, stubbing his cigarette out on the side plate next to the fruit bowl on the bedside table. 'Well, I'll leave you to it, mate.' He gave Mike a pat on the shoulder. 'You look after your-self now.'

  'Yeah, thanks for coming in, Spud.'

  'No worries. Any time.' And he left.

  'I brought you some peaches.' Maggie took them from the bag and put them in the fruit bowl, then bent down and kissed Mike on the cheek.

  'We need another plate,' Jools said.

  Outside in the car park, Spud climbed into his brand new HD Holden Premier sedan – he'd long since traded in the Austin. He started up the engine and turned on the car radio, thankful for the opportunity to escape. Christ, he hated hospitals, they gave him the creeps.

  'Yesterday' was playing and he turned up the volume.

  Great. The Beatles' new hit, and his favourite. Poor old Mike, he thought as he drove out of the car park. He started to sing along. Who'd have thought it, eh? Mike McAllister, of all people!

  He continued singing along to The Beatles at the top of his voice as he headed towards Ascot Racetrack.

  Spud had been an accredited satchel swinger for over eighteen months now. White money bag slung over one shoulder, the name 'Wetherill' printed on its side, he'd take his place alongside Big Bet Bob regular as clockwork every Saturday afternoon – at the summer track of Ascot or the winter track of Belmont – and then again each Friday night at the Gloucester Park trots. Be it turf or harness, Bob Wetherill's stand was invariably the busiest in the bookie's ring.

  Big Bet Bob paid his young clerk well. Christ, the kid was worth it, Bob thought – the clever little bastard had a built-in calculator for a brain – which meant it'd be only a matter of time before he went into business on his own. But what the hell, wasn't that always the way with the smart ones? You trained 'em up and then they shot through on you, it happened every time. Bob was philosophical about it – he liked Spud.

  Spud doubled the money Bob paid him by betting carefully and wisely, keeping his eyes and ears open to the main chance. He rarely lost, and occasionally came in for a sizeable win. But he didn't waste his newfound wealth on the good life – there'd be time for that later, he told himself. He'd acquired the requisite wardrobe to go with his new image and he'd bought the Holden on hire purchase, squirrelling away the majority of his earnings. He'd need a healthy sum in the new year. Under the Betting Control Act of 1954 a bond was required to become a registered WA bookmaker, and he'd need to purchase permits from both the WA Turf Club and the Trotting Association. Then, of course, he'd need to buy time while he earned a reputation and built up a following.

  Things were going very much according to plan, Spud thought smugly as he walked into the elegance of the world that was Ascot. Christ, he loved Ascot. It was a track truly built for the sport of kings, right by the Swan River with its own natural lake in the middle, stone buildings that reeked of a bygone age and a grandstand to match any. Ascot was in a class of its own. And it was a class to which Spud already felt he belonged.

  Johanna hadn't gone down to Manjimup over the Christmas break. Normally she would have – despite dreading the experience, she always returned home during the holidays to play the dutiful daughter. But Mike wouldn't be away in the Abrolhos for long, and she'd wanted to spend as much of the break with him as she could – to eke out their affair for as long as possible. Although they'd been lovers for six weeks, she was no more secure in his feelings for her than she had been at the start. In fact, now more than ever, she felt she was living on borrowed time.

  She'd considered going home for the ten days he was away, but at the last moment she'd decided against it and phoned her mother to say that she'd been invited to the coastal town of Rockingham by a girlfriend at uni whose parents had a holiday shack there. She didn't know why she felt the need to invent such an elaborate lie – her mother was probably thankful that she wasn't coming home – but it was typical of their delicate eggshell existence. They trod very carefully around each other – more so than ever these days.

  Jo was deeply thankful now that she'd stayed in Perth.

  So was Mike. For the first time in their relationship he felt a genuine need for her. And it showed.

  Johanna was aware of the change in him the first time they had sex after his release from hospital. She'd been uncertain as to whether they should or not.

  'I'm not an invalid, Jo,' he'd said, sensing her doubts, although, in a way, he was. He'd had strict medical warnings not to overtax himself for the next several months, but he'd decided that didn't include sex.

  That night, in the little bedroom of her Kingsway flat, they made love as they never had before. Sex between them had always been satisfying. Mike was a considerate lover, proficient in foreplay, careful to bring her to orgasm before his own climax, but Jo had been aware that to Mike sex was purely sex. It certainly wasn't an act of love – it wasn't even a particularly sharing experience. It was more a highly pleasurable exchange of favours, and she'd come to expect nothing more. Theirs was simply an affair and much as she loved him, she accepted the fact.

  Tonight was different. She could sense him giving himself to her wholly, lovingly, and she responded in kind. Tonight it wasn't sex, she thought, tonight they were making love, and as they approached their mutual climax, they looked into each other's eyes. What was it that she saw there, she wondered, as her own love threatened to engulf her. Was it a return of her love? Or merely gratitude to be alive?

  As they lay sated in each other's arms, she was still wondering. She suspected the latter. But whatever it was, they had certainly shared something.

  They talked that night too – in a way they'd never talked before.

  It was a hot, sultry December night. The afternoon sea breeze had not performed its customary rescue mission for the past two days, and many were finding the heatwave uncomfortable. But not Mike and Jo. They sat comfort-ably cross-legged amongst the rumpled sheets, the bedside lamp illuminating the sweat
on their bare skin, while he told her what had happened at the Abrolhos. He'd told no-one else, and he didn't intend to, but he felt the need to unburden himself just the once. Just to her.

  'The Abrolhos had a profound effect on me, Jo,' he said.

  'I mean, right from the start – before the heart attack. The islands are desolate, and at first they appear insignificant, but they're not. They're dangerous and indestructible. For centuries they've defied erosion, and there they sit, like innocent outcrops of sand and rock, just biding their time, waiting to lay claim to anyone or anything that's foolish enough to underestimate them.' He was aware that he probably sounded fanciful, but he didn't care. 'I'm not talking about a malevolence,' he added thoughtfully, 'I'm talking about nature making a statement. You defy that statement at your own peril, and that's what I did.'

  She made no comment, but waited in silence for him to go on. He'd never spoken in this manner before, and she was aware that again he was sharing something intimate with her.

  'When I dived on the wreck,' he continued, 'I was over-whelmed by the sight of it. There she was, the Batavia, lying right where she had for over four hundred years, stored by the reef like a prize. I didn't want to leave. It was extraordinary – the preservation of the wreck, the beauty of the reef, the sheer power of it!' He shrugged, briefly breaking the moment. 'That's where I went wrong. I didn't respect its power. I stayed down too long, it was as simple as that.'

  Mike had said nothing to her about the discovery of his congenital heart weakness. Surprisingly, he'd said nothing to his parents either, having decided that the fact would remain strictly between his cardiologist and himself. He couldn't bear the thought that others might treat him differently, that they might see him as 'fragile'.

  'I felt I could breathe underwater,' he said. 'I honestly felt I could open up my mouth and breathe. I could have stayed there forever.'

  He remembered the faces of the dead people coming at him from out of the wreck, screaming. He'd remembered them often over the past week, but he wasn't haunted by them. They were a lesson, a warning not to intrude too far, not to overstep the limits. That's what the reef had been telling him, he'd decided.

  'I tried to make it to the surface. But I couldn't seem to get there.' He recalled the voices screaming for him to come back and save them. 'I could see the sun shining through the water above, but I couldn't get up there. It was as if the reef was pulling me back – claiming me, just like it had claimed the others.

  'I don't remember anything after that,' he said, 'except a massive pain in my chest. I must have made it to the surface and then had the heart attack.' He uncrossed his legs and leaned back thoughtfully against the bedhead. 'You know, it's a weird feeling – it's made me look at things differently.'

  Mike was aware that the experience had left him with a heightened sense of the preciousness of life, which he supposed was to be expected, but of far greater impact was the affirmation of purpose he now felt. The field of environment and marine biology was no longer a commitment. To Mike it had become a destiny. The islands of the Abrolhos and the power of the reef had delivered an unmistakable message.

  'Well, it'd be weird if you didn't look at things differently,' Jo said. 'You nearly died. That's bound to alter your perspective.'

  He nodded. 'Yes.' She was right, of course – gratitude to be alive would certainly explain a renewed sense of purpose. But he preferred to believe that his future had been dictated by the environment itself. All of which was too difficult to explain, he decided. 'Yes, I suppose it's that simple.'

  'Of course it is,' she said. 'I'm glad that you didn't. Die, that is.'

  He smiled as he pulled her to him. Her candour always delighted him. Jo didn't take bullshit from anyone. 'That's my girl,' he said. 'She cuts through the crap and gets right to the point.'

  'I didn't think what you were saying was crap at all,' she started to protest.

  'I didn't say you did.' He kissed her. 'Thanks for listening.'

  They made love again. Very quietly. They heard Kathy come home, she'd been to the movies. They'd known they had the place to themselves until at least eleven. They lay there breathing heavily, giggling a little, hoping she hadn't heard.

  'I'm starving,' Mike whispered.

  'Give it another five minutes.'

  From the slit beneath the door they saw the lounge room lights go out.

  'She's gone to bed,' Jo whispered, 'stay there.' And slipping on her towelling robe, she stole out to the kitchen.

  It was a farce, she thought as she put the bread in the toaster and cut up the cheese. Kathy knew they were there, it was why she'd gone to the movies. Just as Jo went to the movies or stayed out late when Kath had her boyfriend around.

  She remembered the night Mike had tried to tempt her into his side verandah bedroom, as he obviously had many of his previous conquests. They'd already made love that very afternoon, aboard his father's yacht, Alana. They'd dropped anchor at Blackwall Reach, just the other side of the river, and he'd taken her into the cabin.

  'Alana,' she'd said afterwards as they'd lain entwined, the boat rocking in the wash of the odd passing speedboat, 'it's a pretty name.'

  'Yeah, Dad named her after his mother. I can hardly remember Grandma Alana, but you're right, it's a pretty name.'

  She'd refused the verandah bedroom later that night, although she hadn't said why – she'd let him think she was merely self-conscious. But that was the evening she'd met his parents – they'd asked her to stay for dinner – and the idea of the verandah bedroom had seemed tawdry. Jo preferred the current arrangement. If it couldn't be Alana, then it would be her flat, she'd decided, and Kath would be at the movies.

  She returned to the bedroom with the grilled cheese on toast and the mandatory bottle of tomato sauce. Mike couldn't eat cheese on toast without tomato sauce, and she'd recently discovered she couldn't either.

  'Did you go down to Manjimup while I was away?' he asked as they sat on the bed demolishing the toast.

  'Nope.'

  'You said you probably would.'

  'I decided against it.'

  'Why, Jo?'

  'Oh ... just didn't feel like it.'

  'No, I mean you never want to go. Why's that?'

  He was looking at her keenly. He'd not shown an interest in her home life before, she thought. But then she'd always skirted around the issue – perhaps he'd been respecting her privacy. Given the way he'd just unburdened himself, he probably considered it was time for her to do the same. But she was hesitant, still unsure of how much she should share with him.

  'I can't stand my stepfather,' she said simply.

  He nodded, and waited for her to continue. She'd told him that her father had died when she was a child and that her mother had remarried, but nothing else.

  'He's a perve. But my mother doesn't know it, and I can't tell her.'

  Mike studied her for a moment. Johanna's ability to sum up a situation succinctly was a characteristic he admired, but he wasn't about to let her fob him off with so little detail. Not this time. Not tonight.

  'Go on,' he said.

  She paused, then put aside her plate with deliberation.

  'Darren's been perving on me since I was ten years old. When I was a kid, he was always trying to catch me in the bath or while I was undressing. Or he'd invent some excuse to touch me. He'd admire a dress or a new haircut, anything that gave him the opportunity for a bit of a feel-up. God, he's a creep.'

  She could have left it there, but she didn't. Instead, she curled up on her side, leaning on her elbow, head propped in her hand, and continued.

  'I remember, when I was twelve, wishing that he'd make a definite move and that Mum would catch him at it. Then she'd know the truth about the prick she'd married. But he never did – he was too smart for that. And Mum used to nag me for being sullen. "All Darren wants is to be a good stepfather,"' Jo pulled a face as she mimicked her mother, '"but you won't give him a chance." What the hell could I do? If I'd told
her the truth, she would have accused me of lying. She thought I was jealous. When I refused to adopt his name, she told me I was being deliberately spiteful.