Going Overboard

GOING OVERBOARD JENNY PAUSACKER For Ika, who turned it all around, and thanks to everyone who gave assistance, encouragement and feedback along the way. Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it. GEORGE SANTAYANA PART I SPINNING THE YARN One It all started when Daniel Matheson woke up and found his train carriage balanced on the edge of an escarpment. Gusts of wind collided outside the window, making the train shudder. Birds whirled towards him like leaves caught in the wind. And way down below, at the bottom of the cliff, Daniel saw a big rose-pink map of Australia spread out on a wide brown plain. The map was a bit lopsided, like one of those charts drawn by the early explorers, but you could tell it was Australia, all the same. It looked so weird that at first Daniel assumed he was still asleep and dreaming. He blinked, to adjust his sense of perspective, and when he looked again, the map of Australia had turned into a blob of streets and red-tiled rooftops, shimmering in the late afternoon sunshine – a birdʼs eye view of a medium-sized country town. To his right, the escarpment curved round the plain like a fortress wall, tucking the town into a safe little nest or cutting it off from the rest of the world, depending on the way you wanted to look at it. To the left, Daniel could see some smaller, rounder hills, furry with gum trees, and after that a distant line of light: sun on sea. He recognised the view from the postcard his aunt Caro had sent him, which suggested that heʼd be arriving at Lomond pretty soon. Unless this cliffhanger business meant the train was about to go off the rails and crash straight down to the rocks below. Daniel looked round. The carriage was empty - Lomond was only one stop away from the end of the line – so he dropped his usual careful non-expression and grinned like a fox, waiting for the moment when they would go over the edge. But at the last possible second, after the train had swung out so far that he was sure its wheels must be travelling across empty air, it gave a little wriggle and began to tack down the side of a sandstone gorge, slow and steady as a skier on the beginner slopes. He sighed. Too bad. He had kind of liked the idea of spending a minute in freefall, then crashlanding on the rocks and wiping out everything that had gone wrong with his life so far. On the other hand, heʼd come here to get away from all that shit, so there was no need for anything as drastic as a kamikaze train crash, right? Right. He bent forward and groped under the seat in front of him, searching for the book that had been on his knee before he dozed off - one of his longterm favourites, The American Civil War by Winston Churchill. By the time heʼd found it and straightened up, the plain and the town and the hills and the sea had gone. All he could see was a square of shadow and, at the centre of the square, a woman in white. So Daniel was the first person to meet Lucy Dove. She was wearing a white t-shirt, a fringed white vest, big white pants and a wide-brimmed white hat like the ones that cowboys in the Wild West used to wear. Her right hand hoisted a white canvas suitcase and her left hand was shading her eyes, as she peered out of the shadow into the sunlight. Behind her, black letters danced on a long white board. Daniel stared at the letters until they settled down and read LOMOND. He jumped up, grabbed his bag, wrenched at the door handle, slammed his elbow into the metal wall, dropped his book, threw the bag out of the door and tumbled after it, landing an accidental kick on the book just before it fell into the gap between the train and the platform. It flew into the air and the woman reached out and caught it. ʻThe American Civil War, huh?ʼ she said, handing it back. ʻYou donʼt run across many Aussie kids with an interest in American history.ʼ Her voice was light and quick, with a slight drawl on the ʻrʼ sounds, like the echo of an American accent, and she was either younger or older than Daniel had thought at first. Younger, when he looked at her snub nose and round blue eyes and the small hand holding his book, no rings or nail polish. Older, when she frowned and two comma-shaped lines hooked onto her pale eyebrows ʻIʼm not interested in history, exactly,ʼ he told her. ʻI just like reading about battles. The Civil Warʼs one of my faves.ʼ ʻPretty different from this sleepy little country,ʼ said the woman in white. ʻLooks like youʼll be here a while, judging by the size of that bag. Me too, Daniel. Maybe weʼll meet up again some time. My nameʼs Lucy, okay.ʼ As he bent to pick up his bag, Daniel found himself wondering how Lucy had known his name. A mind reader? Actually, he could believe it. There was something special about her, something that made him want to use the word “charisma” in a sentence for the first time in his life or ... But, halfway through that thought, he focussed on the label dangling from the sausage-bagʼs handle - ʻDaniel Matheson, c/o Caroline Cox, Karma Drive, Happy Valleyʼ – and laughed out loud. Lucy wasnʼt a mind reader, after all. She was just good at reading luggage labels. Someone called his name and he turned to see his aunt Caro coming towards him, with his cousin Serenity trailing a few metres behind. Daniel waved back and made a grab for the nearest post of the signboard, giddy with relief. He had spent the first half of the train trip from Sydney trying to work out what he would do if Caro hadnʼt got the message he had left on her answerphone, explaining why heʼd run away. But she had got the message, so everything was fine. For the next few minutes he was kept busy, being hugged by Caro and trying to grin at Serenity over Caroʼs shoulder. When he turned back to introduce them to Lucy, the platform was empty. Daniel looked around, wondering where she had gone. The sky overhead was full of pink and orange clouds, woolly as psychedelic sheep. As he smiled up at them, Daniel noticed a small figure on the high wooden bridge that led from one platform to the next - Lucy looking out across the town, her shirt blowing out behind her like a doveʼs fan of tail feathers. For a moment Daniel almost expected to see her spread white wings and go circling down the thermals but instead she turned and walked away. ʻWell?ʼ said his cousin. ʻAre we going to stand here all night or can we go home now?ʼ His aunt sucked her breath in and blew it out in a sigh. ʻOh, Ren! Could you try and act as if you were a bit pleased to see Daniel, before you start whinging?ʼ Serenity shrugged and said, ʻHi, Danʼ and went slouching off to the car. Daniel followed behind her, feeling ungrateful. Aunt Caro had probably meant well but Serenity wasnʼt going to like him any better because her mum had nagged her into it. He got into the back seat, out of their way, angling himself towards the window. There wasnʼt much to watch while Caro was reversing across the car park but a few seconds later he found himself looking down the full length of Lomondʼs main street. A broad strip of grass ran along the middle of the road with the townʼs war memorial at its centre – a tier of stone steps surrounding a sparkly granite pillar with a bronze soldier waiting patiently on top, leaning on his bronze rifle. Elegantly curved verandahs sheltered the rows of shops, whose wrought iron pillars divided the footpath into sections and turned each section into a miniature stage. There was a sandstone town hall with pillars and porticos and a clock that had stopped at three in the afternoon or morning; a sandstone bank built on the same lines but scaled down slightly; an art deco cinema showing the latest Hollywood movie and an old pub on the corner, called the Royal George. Daniel had never been to Lomond before but it all seemed oddly familiar. He realised he was chanting something under his breath – “da-dee towns with da-da-dee dumʼ – so he concentrated harder and retrieved the rest of the words from the back of his brain. Country towns with your willows and squares, And farmers bouncing on barrel mares To public houses of yellow wood With ʻ1860ʼ over the doors, And that mysterious race of Hogans Which always keeps the General Stores … It was some ancient poem that had been used for an ad on telly last year – a beer ad, Daniel thought, although he remembered the poem and the background visuals of a town like Lomond better than he remembered the actual product. ʻCountry towns,ʼ he breathed and Serenity shifted so abruptly that her seat slammed into his knees. ʻOmigod,ʼ she said, without turning. ʻWhy does everyone who comes here start reciting that stupid poem? Itʼs so not what Lomondʼs really like.ʼ Daniel smiled apologetically at the back of her head and looked out the window again.

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