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Rain pelted down. Standing in his assigned position around the half forward flank, Miles could only see the other players as shapes in the rain, scrambling in an undignified way over the ball in the mud on his team’s half back line. It did not rain often in Sydney but when it did, as he had discovered, the heavens opened for hours, even days, turning the playing ovals into mud puddles and drenching players. He was just as wet as if he had been swimming. He moved towards the center, mud squelching under his boots, more to keep the opposing half back flanker occupied than through any real hope the ball might come his way. It was late in the final quarter, his team was five goals behind and the scramble that passed as the game action in that muck and rain had been mostly confined to the opposition’s half. As well as being wet through, mud splattered and tired, despite the comparative lack of action – he was not as fit as he thought he was – Miles faced a long drive home. Sydney, he had discovered, was a gigantic wilderness of houses, roads, shopping complexes, blocks of flats, more houses, roads, reserves, sporting fields, more houses, traffic lights, shops, golf courses, schools, more houses, parks, more houses and, well, more houses.
Another and comparatively minor problem was his opponent – a hefty Western suburbs thug who had been sent to cover Miles for the second half, after the reporter had run rings around his previous opponent, in the few times the ball had come his way. He suspected that this beefy Western suburbs gentleman had been told to “knuckle” the upstart flanker whenever the umpire was not looking. Thugs had tried to knuckle Miles on a football field before. The thug was now trying to provoke Miles, but he was not very inventive, and after weeks of Ros and Angela for company Miles was well use to hostility. He hardly even heard the man.
“Bush fuckwit,” said the opponent, trailing behind him. “Your dad fucks sheep mate.”
Miles almost said “uh huh” by reflex but stopped himself in time. Then he saw the play turn. One player wearing his side’s colors booted the ball off the ground, in a spray of mud, and miraculously it went to the Lovett Bay center. That player turned and, half blinded by the rain, looked for a lead down field. The center half forward ran forward but was well marked by his opponent.
“Ya mum..” Miles never heard the gross insult against his mother. He had heard it earlier anyway. He swerved and dashed across the field. “Ohhh!” said his opponent and splashed ponderously through the mud after him. The center, an accountant who had gone with his wife’s career to Sydney, saw the flash of Lovett colors, opted for the big kick, and had the sense to kick where Miles was going to be. It worked. Miles sensed rather than saw the ball in the rain, and it thudded onto his chest as he ran. The umpire blew his whistle for the mark then yelled “play on”. Glancing behind to see that his opponent was still wallowing through the mud behind him, Miles charged down field. He touched the ball once on the ground – bouncing it was out of the question in those conditions. The full forward was too well marked for a pass. He touched the ball on the ground again. His opponent was sending mud flying in an effort to catch up. Another Westie back was closing on him from the front. No one to hand pass to. Then, abruptly, the rain stopped; an open goal beckoned and he kicked. The ball sailed through, well above the outstretched fingertips of the full back. The goal umpire, a Lovett player’s girlfriend, ducked out of the way with a squeal when the ball went through the goals, then jumped back to signal two thumbs up, all without letting go of her umbrella. His second goal for the game.
Miles watched the ball go through then jumped in the air, hands raised, half turning. Whump! His frustrated and still charging opponent barged straight into him, the Westie’s shoulder colliding with Miles’ nose. The reporter sailed through the air. For a moment he felt almost a sense of peace. So he had to put up with Ros and Angela. So he had no date this evening. What did it all matter? Somewhere far off, almost in another world, the umpire blew his whistle. Then he landed with a distinct splat in the ground’s biggest mud puddle. Before he could pull himself out, players were involved in what sports writers call an “on-field incident”. Enraged Lovett players converged on the tough. A few of the other side decided to help their team mate. Miles’ only role in this was to be stomped further into the mud by three struggling players falling on top of him. When he hauled himself to his feet, Jake, as the substitute ruck, was in the middle of a pushing and shoving match with Miles’ opponent and assorted players from both sides.
The umpire raced up and blew his whistle so hard that players held their ears – that official’s own way of breaking up the occasional brawl.
“Quit it you blokes!” he yelled, “Or I’m gonna send names to the league.” Jake was pulled away by team mates. “You!” The umpire pointed at Miles’ opponent. “It’s a goal, it goes back to the center and a free kick from there against you!”
The Westie spread his arms, his mouth open in astonishment, to suggest total innocence. “Whaddit I do, ref?”
“I’m an umpire not a referee. You flattened him clean after he’d got rid of the ball. It’d even gone through the goal. And you..” The umpire swung around to Miles, meaning to say that he was getting the kick but started when he saw the reporter, “..you’ll have to go off.”
“Meh!” Miles was suddenly aware his nose was blocked, and hurt.
“Blood rule, mate. Go off and get cleaned up.”
Miles wiped his nose, aware that his opponent was suddenly cackling with glee. His hand came away with a bright streak of blood, mixed with mud. Oh great! If blood was showing he had to go off. He trotted away, past his opponent who could not resist another cackle and a shove. Miles staggered theatrically and the umpire rose to the bait. “Oy! Oy! Fifty meters up on the free kick for that!” A decent kick by the Lovett Bayers would get the ball into their goal square.
“Hey umppie, I just gave ‘im a shove!”
“We weren’t even playing!”
At the boundary line the coach jerked his thumb in the direction of dressing room and told him to lie down head back, which was fine by Miles. But then, with his nose still running with blood, who should he meet but Anne. She looked trim and neat as always, wearing an expensive coat and carrying a large umbrella as a concession to the rain. She had come to meet Tomasina and was just putting her umbrella down, when she looked up and saw him.
“Miles!” She yelped
For a moment Miles could not understand why she looked at him with such horror. The he looked down and realised that beside being covered in mud there was blood all down his football jumper and, for all he knew, all over his mouth and chin. He took out his mouth guard but, given the state of his nose, it did not make him more understandable.
“At beast I’b not drunk,” he said.
“Miles, just go somewhere at get cleaned up,” she said, waving him away and averting her eyes. “Please don’t just stand there, dripping blood.”
He trotted off, his feelings a little hurt, and lay down on the concrete floor in the changing rooms where he heard the final whistle. His team mates soon came in, boots grating on the concrete floor. Jake loomed over him.
“The girls think you’re dying in here.”
“Don’t worry mate I’b am,” said Miles opening his eyes. He got up, and blew out each nostril with force, ejecting two large wads of blood and mucus into a wash basin. “It’s stopped, maybe.” he flopped wearily beside Jake keeping his head well back for, despite his brave words, it felt as if blood was going to leak out. The philosopher started taking his boots off.
“How’d it go at the end.”
“Henry,” this was the full forward, “got another goal after you left. “So we ended only three goals or so down. Not so bad, considering it was mostly in their half.”
“Rough game.”
“Nah! I went to a workshop once on post modernist concepts in existentialism; now that was real intellectual violence. Never mind these amateurs. My opponent, however, did seem up on the Greek philosophers. I’ll give’im that.”
Miles was going to ask both what existentialism and post modernism were when the coach blew in. As his team had held one of last year’s finalists to just a three goal win, despite a big turnover in players he was reasonably hopeful for the season. That meant, for once, that he was almost human.
“Good game Miles! Nose okay?”
“Just a knock”
The coach nodded. He was an electrician who had played with minor clubs in Melbourne in his younger days. “And not so bad Jake but, mate, we’ve gotta teach you about tackling in Aussie rules.”
“In this game if you start manhandling guys, everyone starts screaming.”
“It’s that thing called the rules. Try ‘n make it to practice on Tuesday and we go through some basics,” said the coach.
“So I can tell the girls you’ll live?” said Jake after the coach had gone.
“Guess.”
“They don’t understand why they we do this stuff,” said the philosopher. “They don’t see the fun.”
“You mean the fun of having your nose flattened and being trampled on in the mud by half yer own forward line? Then getting sent off.”
“’n don’t forget the blood,” said Jake, eying Miles‘ football jumper. “The chance to get covered in your own blood. Women just don’t get sport do they?”
There were no showers in the changing blocks on that field. After sticking his head under a tap to get rid of the worst of the mud and blood, Miles walked out in time to see Anne in the passenger seat of a new Porsche, driving out of the car park. He could not see who was in the driver’s seat but Anne was laughing.
He met her again during the week, by chance. He always walked around a little during lunchtime, if the weather was bearable. It was part of his business to inspect the retail establishments that made up the Koala Bay shopping precinct, or so he told himself, but he also got away from Angela for a time. On one of those excursions he saw Anne in the crowd.
“Oh hello,” she said. Her greeting was neither warm nor cold. “Not drunk, hung over, bruised or covered in blood I see. It’s an improvement.”
Miles had the impression that Anne’s glance had taken in his clothes. He wore elastic-sided boots, an elderly pair of jeans and a gray jumper, a little the worse for wear, on top of a light blue shirt. Wearing a suit for interviews in Koala Bay seemed over the top, but the uncomfortable thought occurred to him that his clothes might not be considered fashionable.
“I’ve taken a vow,” he said, pushing that thought aside.
“To give up drinking?”
“Not to drink port - not with beer, anyway.”
That earned Miles a small smile. “Something to be thankful for,” she said.
“You work for a family company up here?”
A slight shadow crossed Anne’s face. “We have investments up here.”
“So why don’t we go somewhere to get coffee?”
“Too busy just now. Got some shopping to do. She began walking and Miles, naturally, walked with her. “How come you’re walking this way?” she asked.
“To keep you company. You know, you find someone you know in a big city you walk around with them. It’s a bush thing. So how about coffee this week?”
“Busy, I’m afraid Miles. I have to go in here.” They had stopped outside a shop. “I’ll probably see you at Emma’s party this weekend.”
“I could go in here too.”
“Miles.”
“Um, yep.” He like the way she said his name.
“It’s a lady’s lingerie shop.”
Miles looked at the shop window and realised that it displayed women’s underwear. “So it is. Well, maybe I have business in a lady’s lingerie shop.”
She smiled. “You don’t seem like the type, somehow, Miles. I’ll see you around.”
Miles had half formed a plan to ask her to Emma’s party but she would not even have coffee with him. She was not interested, and that was that. He was disappointed of course but at least, so he told himself, he did not have to persuade her to ride in his Orange Ute.
In the end, Miles decided to leave his akubra at home. He had a red silk shirt – his only decent shirt – his best pair of cotton pants and a reddish-brown cord jacket. Country with city flair, or so he hoped. He thought the best way to set off his outfit was a genuine bushies’ hat. Of course it was not a real bushman’s hat, as it was both clean and unmarked. It was a bushman’s hat fit for a city party. He examined himself in a long mirror inset into the front of a recently acquired, second hand wardrobe. The main attraction of the wardrobe had been the price, despite a smell that reminded him of visits to his grandmother, but its mirror was coming in handy. He tried a few different angles and tried emphasising his drawl. Nope! In the end he decided that it made him look too much country and too much obviously on the prowl, so he dropped it on his desk, which was also recently acquired. He thought of a tie, and then decided to button up the top button of his shirt instead. Was that fashionable? Miles had no idea. He undid the top button, as that seemed to suit him.
By the time he got to the party, a pack of imported stubbies in hand, the ice dumped in the bath tub for the drinks was starting to melt and the noise from the guests, scattering throughout the modest, rented brick house, was rising. Emma kissed him on the cheek and introduced her fiancé – a tall, taciturn man with a beard, who Miles would never have picked as a partner for Emma. But as he had come without a partner himself, he was not one to judge.
Jake was in the living room with Tomisina, who inspected Miles critically.
“Your eye is all healed. I told pain here,” she whacked Jake on the shoulder to emphasise her point, “that if he gets into fights like that again he can look for someone else to get the ice for the bruises. I won’t be there.”
“Okay, okay,” said Jake. “Next time I’ll try Eastern philosophy… Lot of beer here to discuss, mate.” Tomasina had started talking to Emma.
“Maybe. Thought maybe I’d give Darwin a work out.”
“Yeah..,” said Jake, nodding sagely. “Couple’a sorts here. Rejection’s a bit of a pain, but philosophers can handle it. We get rejected a lot.”
“How do philosophers handle it? I may need to know.”
“Hmmm.. welllll… It all depends on how you define ‘no’ or ‘get lost arsehole’. From the speaker’s point of view then, okay, it’s a rejection. But you’re not looking at it from their point of view, but from your own. And from your own it’s one scene in the absurd tragi-comic theatre of your existence.”
“Theatre?”
“Well, maybe heroic journey is better.” Jake was warming to his theme. “That’s right, we’re all heroes in our own personal heroic journey, so someone appears and has a bit part – a one liner. They are merely an obstacle; one of the barriers that must be circumvented in your quest to find the true female lead.”
“I’m on an heroic journey?”
“That’s right, you’re voyaging through life.”
“That’s such bulldust!”
“Hey, man, I’m on a roll here.. please no simple negativity. We philosophers value only reason and dispassionate argument.”
Before they could discuss the issue any further, Anne came into view obviously in the company of the man. Miles had been expecting something like this, and had to push aside a surge of jealousy. It did not help that Anne was looking particularly chic in black pants and a skivvy that clung to her figure. Her companion was blonde, tall, clean cut and was wearing a suit without a tie, as if he had just come from a meeting which he had.
As they were with Tomasina, Anne came to them first. “This is Allen,” she said a little nervously.
“Gentlemen.”
“Hey!” said Jake.
“Hi!” said Miles. He did not look at Anne and, out of the corner of his eye, he noted that she did not look at him.
“Miles and Jake are both journalists.”
“Oh right!” said Allen, his face lighting up. “So who are you guys with – the Herald, Channel Nine; one of the magazines.”
“Not exactly up that high yet,” said Jake. “I’m on the South Forest Bugle.”
“Koala Bay Bugle.”
The light in Allen’s face was abruptly switched off. Anne had turned to talk to Tomasina and Emma, leaving Allen temporarily alone with the journalists. He glanced at her, plainly hoping to be rescued from such undistinguished company, but then thought he should try to make the best of it.
“What are you messing around with those things for? You want to get up onto the big papers, or the networks.”
Miles had previously encountered, and would encounter again, people who may look at a newspaper once in a blue moon giving unsolicited career advice to journalists. He had quickly learned there was no point in trying to argue with them, so he just said “uh huh”. Jake, however, gave the advice the treatment it deserved.
“See, Miles mate, that’s what I’ve been saying all along. We’re wasting our time on the locals. What we should do is march right up to the Channel Nine office, brush aside the heaps of people wanting jobs, and tell them ‘we’ve decided to give you the benefit of our experience’.”
“They’ll go for it mate,” said Miles, catching his cue.
“They’ll see our vast experience - me four months on South Forest and you, what? A few weeks on Koala Bay..”
“And two years part-time on a weekly in the bush.”
“..Mate, they’ll wet themselves offering us contracts..”
“That personal journey you were talking about before, that’d really speed up.”
“F’king oath It’d speed up – especially if security gets a hold of us. Whadda ya reckon Allen?”
Allen brows knitted over this. “Personal journey? It’s not that far to channel nine – maybe an hour by car.”
That response stopped both journalists cold but then Tomisina called Jake away to meet someone and, as Anne had not rejoined her friend, Miles was left alone with Allen and had to make the best of it.
“You go in for any part of the law?”
“Property law,” said Allen, becoming animated now that the conversation had returned to his favourite subject – himself. “I was putting together a trust structure today for a client to buy land. The object is to minimise tax but retain flexibility in a family trust structure. We do that and the tax work and the trust management in another section. We’re a one-stop shop on trust structures, if you like.”
“Uh huh,” said Miles, thinking that his new lawyer acquaintance would not be keen on a chorus of the philosopher’s drinking song. “Been keeping you busy, have they?”
“Yes, it’s a good time for property. Thinking of getting in myself. Been checking out the market. Don’t think much of residential but commercial property is looking good. Are you invested in property at the moment?”
“Not really.”
“Oh well then equity?”
“I’ve got investments in information technology and the automotive sector,” said Miles, thinking of his beaten-up car and dodgy computer, “but I would like to invest in land.” Miles tried not to smile. Allen missed the joke.
“Well if you think of property then Anne’s family are the people to watch.”
“Oh yes?”
“That’s why I thought you might know something about property if you know Anne.”
“We’ve only met a few times. I know her because I know Jake.”
“I see.” Allen was losing interest, which suited Miles fine. “I thought you must be in that crowd. But you must see property investment opportunities as a journalist. You have to move around and talk to people. Then you can invest and talk it up in the paper.”
“Sadly not ethical, and there are some terrible killjoys in the Bugle Group who’d spot tricks like that a mile off. You don’t become a journalist to get rich. The calling comes with a vow of poverty and everything.”
Talk of poverty made Allen restless. “I just realised I don’t have a drink,” he said, “I must go and see what Anne has done with the drinks we brought. Nice to talk to you.”
“Same to you,” said Miles, and he escaped out onto the back porch.
The night was still and cold but a few of the partygoers, preferring the night air, leaning on posts and railings and talking in hushed tones. Miles walked around a little, and then talked with a sub-editor he knew from the Bugle Group, then a male photographer that the sub editor introduced. He was avoiding going back inside where Allen and Anne lurked.
“Miley!” It was Emma clutching the arm of another woman of about her own age she had just dragged from inside. “This is Fiona. She’s not long moved up from Melbourne.” She turned to Fiona, “This is Miles. He’s from the country in Victoria.”
“Oh right!” said the friend, embarrassed at being strong armed into an introduction. “So how come you’re in Sydney?” She was built along the same lines as Emma, which was good, but with longer hair. The chin was perhaps longer than it should have been, but bright eyes made up for it. Miles glimpsed briefly, in his mind’s eye, her long hair, wet against her slim back.
“Fresh start. Time to move away. And you?”
“Me too, time to move on. Got a job with an advertising agency here, as a PA. Hoping to move up.”
They chattered for a few minutes, before the inevitable question.
“So what do you do?”
“I’m a journalist.”
“Ohh! I love journalists. I always think they are so interesting. So who do you work for? The Herald? The Telegraph?”
“Not exactly. Locals I’m afraid. The same one Emma takes pictures for.”
“Oh right.” The light went out of Fiona’s eyes. “Oh yes, I’d forgotten, the Koala Bay thing, and, um, the Lovett Bay paper.”
“I do the Koala Bay Bugle.”
“Right.”
Just then Jake burst through the back door to confront Emma, who was talking to another girl.
“Hey listen Emma, it’s a real disgrace. There’s a major emergency in that bath tub of yours.”
“For heaven’s sake, what is it?”
“There’s no more Fosters. I ask you, how can a photographer have a party, invite a bunch of lawyers and not have enough Fosters on hand, instead of the foreign stuff.”
“You got away from Tomasina, I see,” said Emma.
“I snuck away. Say Miles,” he said, catching sight of his friend, “how come you’re just standing there?” He was half drunk, and working on the other half.
“Well I was..” Miles looked around, meaning to say something to Fiona, but she was not there. He glimpsed a back with long hair going into the house. “..I was just thinking to myself what a right bastard that Darwin is.”
“Wasn’t a philosopher, mate. He was a scientist, and they’re bad news. Ignore him mate.”
When he got home in the small hours of the morning, Miles had to admit to himself that the evening had not been very successful. After striking out with Emma’s friend he had fallen into conversation with two accountants – a husband and wife who knew Emma from her days as an accountant. They had been amused to find that he was a journalist on, as they put it, a “dinky little paper” like the Koala Bay Bugle. They asked what sort of stories he wrote and giggled over the fact that he wrote about parking restrictions, street upgrades and sporting ovals. Miles laughed along with them but found the conversation tiresome and moved on. He had spent the rest of the evening avoiding both them and Anne and Allen. He has nothing against Anne but hanging around when so clearly selected out was not cool. In any case he did not like Allen. Well stuff them all. He would read for a time – he was a reader – then go to bed.
Just as he reached that healthy conclusion the phone rang.
“Miles?”
The voice was girly and breathy. The memories rushed back.
“Elizabeth? Do you know what time it is? Is everything alright?”
She giggled and then, when she slightly slurred her next words, Miles knew she was drunk. It happened very rarely but it did happen. It did not sound as if she was using a mobile. Maybe it was from her bed room?
“I just rang to tell you I’m getting married.”
Oh great! That was all he needed. Was there any alcohol in the house? He needed to get blind drunk.
“You rang me at this time on a Sunday morning to tell me? Couldn’t you have gotten your mum to tell my mum, or something? Did I have to know? How did you get the number anyway?” He knew that was a silly question the moment he asked it. In the district he had come from there were few small secrets, but there had been one very big one and it was the reason Miles had left.
“I wanted to tell you myself.”
“Well, okay, consider me told.”
“Is that all you are going to say?”
“Oh – um – I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“Don’t you want to know who I’m going to marry.”
“No.” He thought he could guess.
“It’s Ben.”
“Okay, well, it’s Ben.” Until very recently Ben had been Miles’ best friend.
Her voice sank to a whisper. “You left before I could explain anything.”
“I’m not good at those scenes. Anyway, wasn’t it a bit late for explanations? I must’ve been the only one who didn’t know what was going on. I just wondered why people kept on smiling at me. I was blind.”
“Are you still blind, Miles?”
“Dunno. Probably not as stupid as I was, but that wouldn’t be hard.”
She giggled slightly. “I miss you Miles.”
“I miss you too.”
“Are you ever coming back?”
“I haven’t been gone long enough to think about coming back.”
“Jas said you wouldn’t even see him, when he was there. He was upset.”
“Fuck Jas! He picked his side he can stay on it.”
“Miles don’t be like that,” she said, slurring her words and sounding close to tears. Miles remembered that she was the local beauty, with long brown hair and oval face. “I hoped we’d all still be friends.”
“.. Well, we’re still friends - sure.” What harm could there be in saying that?
“Are you seeing anybody?”
“Nope. No one wants me.”
“Poor Miles,” she giggled.
“Yes, poor me.”
“So you could come back?”
“What to you and Ben? It’d get real complicated.”
“They still talk about you at the newspaper.”
Miles was sure they did. There was not much else to talk about.
“They’ll get by without me.”
“You could come back for the wedding – it’d be a nice gesture.”
“You’re drunk. You’ve got your fiancé to think about and it’s not me.”
“That’s true,” she admitted.
“Can’t we leave it now? It’s getting late and I have to get drunk by morning.”
“So why do you have to get drunk Miles?”
“Seems like the thing to do. Lots of people get drunk in Sydney.”
She lowered her voice. “You know, I still have your ring.”
Miles swallowed This was hard. “Keep it to remember me by.”
“Try to make it for the wedding,” she said and hung up.
Well, that was just great. He had been trying to adjust to life in the big city and his past had come back to wallop him over the head. Why did she have to call? He gave up the thought of reading and, to distract himself, watched a violent action film that belonged to his landlord. Despite what he had said to Elizabeth he did not want to start drinking alone. Unexpectedly, he fell asleep in the chair.