Read Online Clowns At Midnight by Terry Dowling - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Terry Dowling
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fields, Scotch thistles stood dry and blown. The once green and purple crowns were corn-husk silver stars now; their seed pods sailed on the bright air, each one a Santa Claus or ‘fairy carriage’ as Julia used to call them.
The memories were rich and strong, but the day pressed in, reaching through the glass. Bushfire plumes on the hills. Emergency services called out. Homes and lives at risk.
I returned to the study, resumed work on a new chapter and wrote through much of the afternoon. At five o’clock I left off, went out onto the veranda and looked over to the Richmond River hidden deep in the cutting between its double line of trees. From where I stood, those tree lines made the first of four distinctive horizontals on the land: the river, the highway, the railway line, the far line of the ranges. I planned to visit the river soon, now little more than linked pools of emerald water, with boulders and the occasional bones of cattle rising to mar the stillness. But with the air so hot and still and even the cattle tucked in under whatever shade they could find, this was definitely not the time.
Determined to be part of the day regardless, I took the old regional map from the magazine rack by the television and spread it out on the kitchen table. There it was, this vivid landscape in miniature, neatly labelled: Ettrick 9440-1-5 Topographic Map 1976 Reprinted 1979 1:25 000 Published by Central Mapping Authority of New South Wales .
How strange to see it reduced to so much unmarked emptiness, just contours, road- and creek-lines, a scattering of names, hardly changed in the thirty or so years since the map was reprinted.
I became lost in it, intrigued by the names of places and properties I would never see, that probably lived more as locations imagined and hinted at than if visited: Edenhope, Ardenlee and Stratheden, Everdowns and Armagh, Starlite and Glentimon, so many places marked Abandoned , here bordered by Doubtful Creek, there by Hope’s Bore, names that said it all. Eden itself was a lightly forested hilltop marked with the triangle of a trig point and a height designation: 174.
I located the Risi place and looked for any sign of a maze. Nothing. Just more contour lines and numbers on white paper. I found where the Summerland Way turned into McDonald’s Bridge Road, then into Edenville Road near where Len Catley lived with his wife and sons. I ran my finger along what I had so often driven across, found my hill with its property divide. The tower wasn’t marked, but I guessed where it would be.
The phone rang, pulling me back to the reality of a kitchen in a house set between two contour lines further down that hill.
I grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Davey?’
‘Jules?’ Davey and Jules; how easy to fall into the old routines.
‘You okay? You didn’t return my call.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s part of getting through it. You have to understand.’
‘But your mum and dad haven’t heard from you. Sam hasn’t. I thought one of us should check in.’
I made myself stay calm. There was so much wild emotion, so many contrary rushes of feeling, I didn’t dare let myself react, didn’t say: There’s a reason why they haven’t phoned here. We have an agreement to leave me be for a while. They would have told you. I told you.
‘Well thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s all part of the healing, you know.’
‘I know. You know I do. But you’re managing?’
‘I’m managing.’ The words covered a multitude of things. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m fine. Doing well considering. The promotion came through.’
‘Knew it would. I’m really pleased, Jules. Congratulations! How’s Mark?’
It wasn’t a question she wanted. It snatched away the illusion, brought distance, made it them and me.
‘He’s fine, Davey. Busy as always. Asks after you all the time.’
‘Well, give him my best. Tell him not to work too hard.’
It was telling her to finish and be gone. It was refusing to help
The memories were rich and strong, but the day pressed in, reaching through the glass. Bushfire plumes on the hills. Emergency services called out. Homes and lives at risk.
I returned to the study, resumed work on a new chapter and wrote through much of the afternoon. At five o’clock I left off, went out onto the veranda and looked over to the Richmond River hidden deep in the cutting between its double line of trees. From where I stood, those tree lines made the first of four distinctive horizontals on the land: the river, the highway, the railway line, the far line of the ranges. I planned to visit the river soon, now little more than linked pools of emerald water, with boulders and the occasional bones of cattle rising to mar the stillness. But with the air so hot and still and even the cattle tucked in under whatever shade they could find, this was definitely not the time.
Determined to be part of the day regardless, I took the old regional map from the magazine rack by the television and spread it out on the kitchen table. There it was, this vivid landscape in miniature, neatly labelled: Ettrick 9440-1-5 Topographic Map 1976 Reprinted 1979 1:25 000 Published by Central Mapping Authority of New South Wales .
How strange to see it reduced to so much unmarked emptiness, just contours, road- and creek-lines, a scattering of names, hardly changed in the thirty or so years since the map was reprinted.
I became lost in it, intrigued by the names of places and properties I would never see, that probably lived more as locations imagined and hinted at than if visited: Edenhope, Ardenlee and Stratheden, Everdowns and Armagh, Starlite and Glentimon, so many places marked Abandoned , here bordered by Doubtful Creek, there by Hope’s Bore, names that said it all. Eden itself was a lightly forested hilltop marked with the triangle of a trig point and a height designation: 174.
I located the Risi place and looked for any sign of a maze. Nothing. Just more contour lines and numbers on white paper. I found where the Summerland Way turned into McDonald’s Bridge Road, then into Edenville Road near where Len Catley lived with his wife and sons. I ran my finger along what I had so often driven across, found my hill with its property divide. The tower wasn’t marked, but I guessed where it would be.
The phone rang, pulling me back to the reality of a kitchen in a house set between two contour lines further down that hill.
I grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Davey?’
‘Jules?’ Davey and Jules; how easy to fall into the old routines.
‘You okay? You didn’t return my call.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s part of getting through it. You have to understand.’
‘But your mum and dad haven’t heard from you. Sam hasn’t. I thought one of us should check in.’
I made myself stay calm. There was so much wild emotion, so many contrary rushes of feeling, I didn’t dare let myself react, didn’t say: There’s a reason why they haven’t phoned here. We have an agreement to leave me be for a while. They would have told you. I told you.
‘Well thanks,’ I said. ‘It’s all part of the healing, you know.’
‘I know. You know I do. But you’re managing?’
‘I’m managing.’ The words covered a multitude of things. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m fine. Doing well considering. The promotion came through.’
‘Knew it would. I’m really pleased, Jules. Congratulations! How’s Mark?’
It wasn’t a question she wanted. It snatched away the illusion, brought distance, made it them and me.
‘He’s fine, Davey. Busy as always. Asks after you all the time.’
‘Well, give him my best. Tell him not to work too hard.’
It was telling her to finish and be gone. It was refusing to help
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