Driving Into the Sun - Softcover

Polain, Marcella

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1925591999 ISBN 13: 9781925591996

Verlag: FREMANTLE PR, 2019

Inhaltsangabe

For Orla, living in the suburbs in 1968 on the cusp of adolescence, her father is a great shining light, whose warm and powerful presence fills her world. But in the aftermath of his sudden death, Orla, her mother, and her sister are left in a no-man’s land.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Marcella Polain’s work has been published nationally and internationally, and in translation. Her first novel, The Edge of the World (Fremantle Press), was shortlisted for a Commonwealth Writers’ Prize. Marcella’s short fiction has twice won the Patricia Hackett Prize. She has published three collections of poetry: Dumbstruck (Five Islands Press) won the Anne Elder Poetry Prize; Each Clear Night (Five Islands Press) was shortlisted for the WA Premier’s Prize for Poetry; and Therapy Like Fish: New and Selected Poems (John Leonard Press) was shortlisted for the Judith Wright Prize. In 2015, she was awarded the Gold Medal by the Writers’ Union of Armenia, and the International Grand Prize for Poetry in Curtea des Arges, Romania. She is Senior Lecturer at Edith Cowan University in Perth

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Driving into the Sun

By Marcella Polain

Fremantle Press

Copyright © 2019 Marcella Polain
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-925591-99-6

CHAPTER 1

Cold and still, the moon overhead, and the track from the sheds to the farmhouse overhung by trees. It isn't far. They're walking up ahead of him, eager now that it's all over. He can hear them joking about, shoving one another, laughing. He'd smile, too, if he could. Because it's hard dirty work, this work, best done at night. And that means they've all been here, the other lads and him, for the past three nights, and he's not been getting home till dawn, falling into bed beside Henrietta, falling into a dead sleep, woken groggy and nauseous by the kids an hour later. Snatches of sleep through the past two days — they were Saturday and Sunday, weren't they? — while Henry's been at work herself. Then a nap when she gets back, a shower — leaning against the wall, the hot water pouring on him — and off to work again.

He'd smile now if he could because the job's finished. But his legs are lead, he's short of breath, queasy, more tired than he can recall ever being. He'd smile because now it's Monday, the important day, because there were moments he wasn't sure he'd — well, the ten o'clock appointment is almost here, so ... He'd smile because it must be nearly dawn (though he's not sure; he left his watch in his car) and the stinking job is over and he can begin to believe that he will, he will turn up in his suit beside his Henry and sign the contract. If he could stretch out his arm he could almost touch it, and he wants to smile; he does. This important day.

From up ahead he hears one of the lads yawn extravagantly and say it's nearly three and that makes sense, and then mid- step he's pain, he clutches his, opens his, staggers; he pitches forward, makes the aarrgh sound of all breath leaving, his legs already gone from him, and he hits the ground hard.

And he hasn't been kind to his girl, his good girl, Orla; he hasn't; he hasn't been kind to her.

CHAPTER 2

One long Sunday afternoon, the year before, when they still lived in the hills, Orla had come in from the light and heat, from the clicking forest, its bushes, its pointy leaves, its tiny plants between stones festooned with flowers; from lizards scurrying and glossy in the sun, from trails of ants; from birds calling in the big warm air. She brought her bush-ears with her, ears she used in slow walks between trees, her feet cracking twigs; ears for the rustle of snakes, the flit of a low bird's wing, its sharp beak ready.

The house, when she entered, was dim and cool and quiet. Her arms radiated heat. She walked slowly with her bush-ears listening. For an instant, a fear clutched at her — they had disappeared while she had been among other creatures; they had disappeared and left her alone. Then a sound she had heard before, mechanical; she had been curious about it then, had asked her mother. And her mother had said, in a firm voice, that her father was writing and was not to be disturbed.

Orla loved the idea of good, so she had done what she was told, had pressed her curiosity down inside her, had just listened to the busy, clanking sound, its joyous bell. And when her father had re-emerged that time, she had studied him in the first moments, studied him closely as he crossed the lounge room. He had looked like the same man — same clothes, same hair — but she saw at once he was not. His face was different. Something, she knew, had happened to him. For those first fewmoments, until he spoke, until he sat down for lunch, he was glowing, electric.

This time her mother was not in the kitchen to ask, and there was no need to ask anyway. This time she was radiating so much heat into the cool, dim house she felt like the sun, filled it with the hot thrill of flowers and lizards, ants and birds, bush-sounds and bush-scents and bush-colours of banksia, eucalypt. She was not just a girl and the idea of good had loosened in her. She tiptoed to her parents' room. The door was wide open, as in fairytales. Which meant only one thing. When the mesmerising mechanical sound paused so did she. When it began again, loud and ringing — taptaptataptaptaptatapding — she held her breath, crept closer.

His desk faced the window; he sat with his back to her, shoulders hunched. She could see the muscles and sinews flexing in his arms and neck. One more step and, over his shoulder, the whole metal contraption — the carriage and keys and casing — came into view. And there, the trapped white paper, the punched black letters, words appearing from the tips of his fingers, like magic. She squinted, took one last step and the phrase came into focus: The Arab stood in the shadow of the doorway. From the fold of his robe he removed a knife. Light glinted along its blade.

Her father's head turned sharply towards her. 'Get out.' He scowled at her. She gasped, rocked on her heels, spun away. She was good, had always been good; who was this other daughter, disobeying? She had done what she knew she shouldn't, and it was too late, too late now. His words, their tone, had lodged in her gullet — she could feel them there; she swallowed her sobs and they slipped deeper, stuck in her chest.

'Get out,' he'd growled. She had barely recognised him.

How could she have known what her father carried in him, a world like that, full of Arabs and shadows and knives.

* * *

Her father had been silent all day, had been silent more often lately. He sat on the divan with a book, his legs tucked up alongside him. Orla was cross-legged on the carpet in the centre of the room. Her mother called it the central carpet. Orla loved the central carpet; it was thick and soft and covered in a pattern of flowers — rose-pink, apple-green, gold, powder-blue. Like sitting in a garden.

Her book was spread open in front of her. Ahead, the big lounge room windows faced west; afternoon sun poured in. She looked at her pages but watched him. Heard him turn his pages, heard the kitchen clock tick. Sunlight edged further and further over her. All around, the carpet shone. She had to close her eyes.

* * *

She heard him stand. She watched him leave the room. Heard her mother come in the back door. Heard her father speak, his voice too low. Her mother said, 'How long will you be?'

Her father crossed the room. Orla stood. She said, 'Where are you going?'

He didn't answer. He reached the front door. Orla turned towards the kitchen. Her mother was already standing by the table, watching him. Orla asked, 'Where's Daddy going?'

'For a walk.'

Orla turned back to him. 'Can I go, too, please, Daddy?'

He opened the door. Orla looked at her mother. Henrietta gave a small shrug, shook her head a little.

Orla looked back to her father. 'Please, Daddy?'

He stood in the open doorway, his hand on the lock, his back to them. He was perfectly still. He was looking outside. Orla's mother said, 'Your daughter is talking to you.'

Orla looked hard at his back. He shrugged. He took a step. Orla looked at her mother again. Her mother's mouth made the shape of a smile. She nodded.

Her father stepped onto the porch; Orla followed him.

* * *

At first she walked by his side. She said, 'Where are we going?' He didn't look at her. He didn't speak. She dropped back a little. She couldn't see his face. He turned onto the main road. It was a long incline. From a few steps behind, she watched him. He might realise she wasn't beside him. He might wonder where she had gone, might turn to see if she...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: FREMANTLE PR
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2019
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1925591999
• ISBN 13: 9781925591996
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 312
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar