Above the Fold Page 36

  “Yes. The day at Manly, when the bird pooped on your sandwich.”

  “Of course you remember,” he replied. “Like me, you remember every damn thing we ever did. The good things, and the silly things. I remember our Shagging Sanctuary, and my first rather inadequate performance.”

  “Made up for it though, my darling, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said. For a moment there was another silence while they gazed at each other. “I think the real reason I’m here,” Luke said, “is because I actually can’t live without you any longer. I’ve tried, God knows, but I can’t.”

  “So why did you want to go?”

  “Because I’m an idiot,” Luke replied. “If I stay, that is if you want me to stay, can we see Steven and try to explain?”

  “Of course we can,” she answered gently.

  “It’s been a big part of my problem,” he said.

  “I know that.”

  “It won’t be easy.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “When can we see him?”

  “Why don’t you just turn around and look behind you.” She pointed at the window of the estate agency, and Luke turned to see Steven gazing out at them. “He’s been standing there watching.”

  “Standing? Can he stand?”

  “Occasionally. Probably wondering why we’re shouting and carrying on like a couple of enemies, when he knows we love each other.”

  Steven lifted his hand in friendly recognition. Luke responded but was unsure what to do, until the door of the agency opened and Steven emerged. He was limping, but to Luke’s astonishment, without help, not even using a walking stick.

  “Where’s your stick?” he asked as they met to hug each other.

  “Inside. Can’t be bothered with the bloody thing. Makes me feel old,” Steven replied, managing a smile, and primed himself for what he was going to say. What he realised had to be said. What he’d been rehearsing in his mind while watching them.

  “I don’t know what all that was about, Luke, but she’s been waiting for you. Ever since I could walk, and was offered a partnership in the firm she’s been waiting. So there’s just one question, mate. What the hell took you so long?”

  Claudia came to join them, an arm around each man then fondly hugging Steven for such predilection in his graceful exit from her life.

  AFTERMATH

  Email: From the Right Honourable Barry Silvester

  To: Undisclosed recipients.

  “You’ve got mail,” Stephanie Elliott called, and handed a printout to her mother as she joined her parents at breakfast. Claudia looked at it, made a face and gave it to Luke. “How the hell did he get our email address?” she asked.

  “Probably from ASIO,” Luke said, and made her laugh. She told him to budge over, and when they couldn’t fit on the same chair she sat on his knee so they could read it together. Stephanie observed this. Her parents were in their sixties, their birthdays a week apart, but there were still occasions when they behaved like teenagers.

  She loved them deeply, even if it was difficult being Luke Elliott’s daughter and trying to follow in his footsteps. If she’d taken the advice of their friend Justice Helen Richmond who tried to encourage her to do law, or another friend the film star Rachel Ives who said Stephie should be a set designer, it might have been easier. But it was apparently in the genes, or so people said, which is why she grew up determined to be a journalist like her dad.

  It was challenging, though, as if you were never quite good enough. No-one ever said that, but she knew it was what people felt. But the dice was loaded when your father was famous, and had won a Pulitzer Prize for his book The Race to Our Own Destruction, or as he privately called it, Skulduggery at Maralinga. Stephanie had been fourteen at the time, in year ten at South Brookvale High, the school where her dad and his close friends had been, and the annual magazine had produced a special section eulogising him and the high-achieving graduates of the same year. The Celebrated Class of ‘42 they’d called it. A judge who’d been a renowned QC, a film star, a politician and a Pulitzer Prize Winner.

  There was another friend not so famous, the one she liked best of all: Steven Pascoe, her mother’s closest friend for whom she was named, the owner of a chain of real estate firms on the Sunshine Coast. Steven, who had survived polio in the days before the Salk vaccine, and who’d told her to be a journalist if that was what her heart really wanted, as long as she enjoyed it. So his advice had decided her, even if some felt she wasn’t good enough. But her parents never subscribed to that. They made her feel at home and supported her, and she knew she’d miss the banter at breakfast if she and her boyfriend could ever afford a flat and move into together. Breakfast was always fun in their family.

  “Listen to the eminent drongo,” said her father, “the honourable Bazza sent as a parliamentary observer to the Sydney bid team for the Olympic Games.” He read aloud from the email. The boats in Monte Carlo are like an armada of the rich, the tower offices are filled with multi-national tax dodgers, and this lavish enclave feels too European, too affluent, and a recipe for disaster. Our attempt to bid for the summer games of 2000 is doomed to disappointment. Beijing, the hot favourite, is building vast numbers of stadia in anticipation of being awarded the Millennium Olympiad. We should’ve saved the sums spent on overseas junkets and substantial gifts that were in effect blatant bribes.

  “Speaks his mind as always,” Claudia remarked.

  “Thinks he’s on a popular wave,” Luke answered. “A lot of people don’t want the games. Shuts the city down for weeks. Too expensive. Montreal is still paying for theirs.”

  “I thought he was there to support us,” said Stephanie.

  “Barry Silvester supports just one person, and has done all his life,” her mother replied. “What do they term unwanted garbage on this new email that you and your friends like so much, darling?”

  “Spam.”

  “Right,” said Claudia. “I know where Bazza’s spam is going.” She scrunched the printout into a ball and tossed it in the bin.

  Luke grinned. “Feel better, my love?”

  “Much better.”

  “Your mum doesn’t like the right honourable,” he told Stephie.

  “I can tell,” she laughed. “Do you like him, Dad?”

  “I did, my darling. He was my first friend. Kids at kindy together. But as he once said … friendship is tricky … sometimes shit happens.”

  “He lost his seat at the last election, so shit did happen,” Claudia said. “And according to Baz Sydney has no chance of getting the Olympics. He’s so often wrong, this gives me hope we might surprise him and win.”

  “It’d have to be a big surprise,” Luke commented. “We’re a distant third behind the hot favourite Beijing, with Manchester running second.”

  The surprise came a week later when Sydney won the games in a final count of just two votes. The Premier of New South Wales leapt joyously in the air, and an astute cameraman snapped the shot. Claudia gleefully flourished the newspaper and reminded her family Barry had done it. His support for the hot favourite had jinxed Beijing. China was upset; students blamed America and marched on the US Embassy. Sydney, after a few euphoric years, went into a period of disputes and endless wrangling. There were blunders, mounting costs and overruns; two years from the event the predictions of a debacle appeared likely.

  Thinking about it, Stephanie sometimes wondered how, in the end, it had happened so perfectly. But it had and, miraculously, she was a part of it. Not an important part, but she had a media pass and was there — a sports journalist at the Olympic pool in the first weeks of the Games. She was thrilled by the excitement, the brilliant opening ceremony, and the ultimate moment when Cathy Freeman lit the flame at the cauldron amid thousands of flashes from cameras, recording the moment.

  In particular she liked the way the city had taken the athletes to its heart, how the predictions of disaster had been turned to triumph. Sydney had been transformed into a
kinder and far nicer place, and one of the reasons for this had undoubtedly been the rush of volunteers. Thousands from all walks of life had given up a month of work to take on the roles of interpreters, ushers, drivers, nurses, doctors and dentists; there had never been such an exhibition of mass goodwill.

  Her own father had volunteered to be a driver — passed his interview and road test to drive the Spanish team. Her mother was an interpreter for the French. Stephanie was thrilled at their involvement, even if, at their age, they had to take public transport to the stadium each day.

  “Isn’t it a bit tough, you and Mum having to travel on crowded trains each day at … er … at …”

  “I hope you weren’t going to say ‘at our age’, Stephanie dear,” Claudia said with a rare steely look.

  “I wouldn’t dare, Mum.”

  “Actually,” Claudia declared, “we’re a pair of old codgers who both think we still look forty.”

  “All because when we were your age, Steph, we were told we’d be old some day, but we didn’t believe them. And we still don’t.”

  Definitely teenagers with a coded language of their own, Stephie felt, but none of her friends had parents as much fun as hers.

  “You’ll see me there.” She told them she had a gig with the network.

  “That’s good news, Stephie,” Luke said, and she was grateful he didn’t ask more questions for it wasn’t much, just a freelance interviewing job. But she tried; her parents knew that. It made it more difficult in some ways, them wanting so much for her to succeed. She was going to be thirty soon, and had made a vow that she would give up if nothing good happened by then. As seemed more than likely. Tonight, for instance, sitting in the media seats at the Olympic pool, but not there to cover a race with Ian Thorpe, Michael Klim or any of the elite. She faced trying to do an interesting piece for television about an odd non-competitive event with just one competitor.

  The day had been less than promising. It had begun with a persistent Greek athlete who’d spent the afternoon following her around the village, intent on making a pass, while she tried to interview track stars. The stars had been preoccupied, while the Greek had refused to take no for an answer. His Australian cousin from Piraeus had a restaurant in the suburb of Newtown, and if Stephanie would accompany him there he would be honoured … and afterwards his cousin had an apartment. So after lunch they could go there and make big sex together, and the next day he would run like the wind, because his coach believed that sex was good for freeing both the mind and the muscles.

  Stephanie, who found him companionable despite the gauche approach, had to decline. She explained her job depended on getting some big names to interview, and she had a quota to fill.

  “You can interview me,” the Greek had offered. Trying not to offend him she explained the focus of her work was the pool and interviews with the swimmers. Which is why she found herself at the aquatic centre, hoping to gain access to Alex Popov or Ian Thorpe and, instead, watching a motley trio line up for an invitation heat in the hundred metre freestyle. None of the three would qualify; this was a non-event, but obligatory under the Olympic charter.

  There was laughter from the crowd when two of the trio fell into the pool an instant before the starting gun, followed by a chorus of dismay when they were summarily disqualified. The crowd booed their displeasure at the announcement that the remaining competitor, Eric Moussambani from Equatorial Guinea, would now swim the heat alone in order to be nominated the winner.

  “Fiasco! Bloody ridiculous,” came the chorus of dissent, but the starter raised his gun and the figure in baggy trunks lent forward in an amateurish posture. Stephanie was about to leave but paused to watch curiously as he flopped into the pool when the gun sounded. There was an audible gasp at this inelegance, then titters as he laboriously began to swim the first fifty metres. She knew the cameras would be filming, so on an impulse she turned on her recorder and began to describe the lonely figure wallowing in the centre lane. The same lane, she said, where the previous night Thorpe had swum a magic two hundred metres. This, she murmured into the microphone, would not be magic. It had more chance of becoming comic, or possibly even tragic.

  The crowd, who had started to watch politely, now began to show some alarm. Eric Moussambani could not swim. Stephanie, gazing at his efforts, knew her own prowess in the water was better than this. By the time he had covered the first lap she noticed lifeguards moving to the side of the pool. It was not absurd to believe he might drown. The crowd hushed, all eyes fixed on the flailing arms and rolling figure. She saw the clock, the slowest lap run over this distance. As he managed to reach the turn she felt certain he would give up. So did everyone else in the aquatic centre.

  But Eric Moussambani — soon to be immortalised as Eric the Eel — did not give up. He made a clumsy turn, and, after an agonisingly long time, finally surfaced and went even slower. He was like a damaged submarine seeking a safe haven. That was the moment when something strange and wonderful occurred. People began to clap. Then they rose and began to cheer. Stephanie’s eyes started to fill, her voice became emotional. It was extraordinary; she could no longer speak for the clamour of their encouragement and approval, so she let the crowd speak for her.

  The slower and more heart-rending his stroke, the louder the applause paid tribute to this lonely and singular feat. His arms seemed too heavy to lift out of the water, his legs could no longer kick, the scene became a frenzy as the entire audience exhorted him to keep at it — to go on, to stay afloat and not give up — to somehow finish the bizarre and brave race. Stephanie now captured every moment, speaking close to the handheld microphone so that her commentary competed with the great roar that filled the entire centre when his exhausted arm reached out and found the wall.

  It was surreal. People were crying with emotion, hugging each other with joy; it was the slowest hundred metre race in memory, and everyone fell in love with the sheer resolve of this accidental hero from Africa, the most unlikely star of the Sydney Olympics.

  After it ended she knew he would be a celebrity. All the world’s media had started to queue up, and she could already see him being booked to appear on the NBC Today Show, which would bring instant if brief fame in America. Stephanie, along with her recorder and press pass, set out to try and interview him. But it was impossible to get near Eric Moussambani, for he was surrounded by an eager cluster of photographers and journalists, all swamping him with questions. She waited hopefully on the fringe of this scrum while an interpreter helped him to answer, for he spoke only Spanish and French. Stephanie waited because she knew the interpreter. Her name was Julia Martin and they’d met at drama school. Both had struggled vainly in the congested film industry, after which, bonded by failure, they remained friends.

  When Julia spotted her in the crowd, she murmured to the swimmer, and moments later she told the reporters the press conference was over. Eric was exhausted, he needed rest, and would be available for more interviews tomorrow. As they reluctantly began to disperse, Julia accompanied him to the changing rooms, while passing close by and murmuring a message to Stephanie.

  An hour later, waiting patiently with her cameraman, Julia brought Eric to meet her. They found a sheltered spot and Stephanie got an exclusive interview. She was the first to discover he had learned to swim only nine months ago, he had no coach and he frequently trained in the local river. Were there crocodiles in the river, she asked? He laughed and told her he wasn’t sure, and hadn’t waited to find out. And, yes, for a few panicky moments tonight he had been afraid he might drown in front of all those people. But when he turned for the final lap and heard the sound of the crowd cheering him, it had made him keep going, and he wanted to thank them.

  “And what now?” Stephanie asked, and Julia interpreted. Now he was meeting his team mates and friends to celebrate. And tomorrow he was going to a place called Bondi, to walk on the sand and swim in the ocean instead of a river.

  An hour later Stephanie was at the network w
ith her scoop. After summing up the bravery of the lone swimmer and the sheer joy of the crowd that had equalled all the great achievements and records broken, Stephanie reported that this modest, unassuming young man from Africa embodied the spirit of what the Olympics was meant to be — taking part was every bit as special as winning a medal, when it aroused such genuine emotion as his achievement had done.

  Her description of the race and the interview was shown that night and repeated several times the following morning on the breakfast show. Luke and Claudia were having coffee with Stephanie when a phone call from Rupert told them to switch on their television. At first they saw the floundering swimmer and the cheering crowd, then out of it emerged a voice that made Claudia almost drop her coffee. They looked at each other, then gazed at Stephanie sitting opposite. She just smiled.

  “My dear, darling girl,” Claudia was on the verge of tears, “that’s you.”

  “Don’t cry, Mum.”

  “I always cry when I am pleased or happy.” They listened in rapt silence till the race was over, then the interview followed. By then Claudia was awash with tears.

  “It’s beautiful. Just wonderful,” she sobbed.

  “Bloody brilliant,” Luke said.

  “Luck,” Stephanie insisted.

  “Luck be damned,” her father said. “It was the kind of break you’ve been waiting for, Stephie, and you grabbed it with both hands. I’m so proud of you. Your mother will be too, when she dries her eyes.”

  That was when the phone started ringing. Friends were on the line, her friends at first, then Helen Richmond, Steven from Noosa, and most amazing of all that night, her grandma from Epsom. Ninety-year-old Louisa had just seen it on the morning show in the UK, the top story in coverage of the Games.

  “Just wonderful, darling,” her Gran enthused. “You really do take after your father.”