White. Rosie ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
his father would call him.
‘Come on, Sammy. It’s your turn.’
‘No.’ Trying to climb with his father watching, with the hammering of blood in his ears and the shivering of his joints, and the sipping for breath with the top inch of his lungs because to breathe more deeply might be to dislodge himself from his precarious hold – all of these were too familiar to Sam.
‘Watch me, then.’ Mike sighed.
His movements were so smooth as he climbed, his body seemed like water flowing over the rock. But Sam’s arms wound tight around his knees as he sat watching and his breath came unevenly.
Don’t fall, he prayed. Don’t fall, Dad.
A moment or two later the man reached the crest of the boulder and disappeared, then his broad grinning face looked down over the edge. ‘See? Easy as pie.’
Sam felt his cheeks turning hotter, not from the sun’s brightness. His father was already down-climbing, smooth and steady. And then midway he suddenly stopped.
‘Now what can I do?’ he demanded, flinging the words back over his shoulder into the still air. ‘I’m stuck. Tell me what to do.’
The boy raked the reddish cliff with his eyes, searching the sandstone for a crack or a bulge. There were no ropes, nothing held his father safe except his own fingers or toes and now he was stuck and he would surely fall … he would fall and fall, and he would die.
‘See anything?’ Mike McGrath called more loudly. ‘Any foothold?’
Sam gazed until his eyes burned.
The red rock was flat and hard, and there wasn’t a dimple in it, even to save his father’s life. Terror froze the sunny afternoon and silenced the birdsong, and stretched the moment into an hour.
‘Wait. Maybe if you go that way …’ He rocked up on to his knees, so that he knelt at the rock face, and took tufts of long grass in his clenched fists to hold himself tethered to the earth. There was a little nubbin below where his father’s feet rested.
Too late.
‘I’m falling,’ the man cried suddenly. And as he did so he peeled away from the rock and his body turned once in the air, black, and as helpless as a dropped puppet.
Out of Sam’s mouth a scream forced itself.
Even after Mike had executed a gymnast’s neat backflip and landed upright, knees together and arms at his sides in the exact centre of the old bath towel that he left at the foot of the boulder to keep the soles of his rock shoes from contact with the ground, Sam went on screaming. The sound brought his mother running. He buried himself in her arms.
‘Michael,’ she remonstrated, ‘what are you doing?’
She was holding the boy pressed against her as she spoke and Sam could feel her voice vibrate in the cage of her chest.
‘I didn’t mean to frighten him. I was just showing him it’s safe, for Chrissakes. Sammy, I’m okay. I came off deliberately.’
‘He’s eight years old, Mike.’
‘I want him to know what climbing means.’
Sam McGrath already knew. He knew it was what his father loved. Without knowing how to form the words he understood that Michael cared about him and his mother in his own way, but climbing was what gave everything else a meaning. Every dollar that he had to spare, every possible weekend and any vacation, were devoted to it. That was all. It was so overwhelming that in a way it was perfectly simple. And for himself, Sam also knew that it scared him speechless.
‘Let him alone. He’ll learn when he’s ready.’
There was something here, some tension like a fine wire drawn tight between the two of them that was more uncomfortable even than his own fear, and to discharge it Sam scrambled away from his mother and stood up.
‘It’s okay. I’ll do it now,’ he said.
‘That’s it, fella. You see?’ Michael laughed and the woman frowned.
Once Sam asked his father, ‘You use ropes when I’m climbing with you. Why don’t you use them when you’re on your own? Wouldn’t it be safer?’
He always remembered the answer.
‘It’s not about safety. It’s about purity.’
Mike told him that a climber could make himself as safe as he chose. By knowing what he was doing and where he was going, by calculating and planning. And above all by concentrating.
‘It’s like a problem in math. The rock sets you a problem and you solve it. Ropes and bolts and all the other climbing aids only make muddle and add up to more danger. Real climbing is the same as making love. There’s only the two of you, you and the rock, and naked is best. You’re too young to know anything about that yet.’
Sam felt embarrassed and he mumbled, ‘Most people except you climb with a partner.’
‘I’m waiting for you to grow up. By then I’ll have taught you everything I know. After you’ve been to college and trained to be a lawyer, you’ll be rich enough to go to Alaska and the Himalaya, and climb the big hills, all the places your old daddy’ll never get to see.’
Sam lifted his chin and gazed back at him, containing the defiance that he felt within himself like a stone at the bottom of a cup.
‘Can I get you another?’ Sam asked, nodding across at the coffee pot. He heeled his chair back to its accustomed place and stood up. It wasn’t breaking a connection between them, because there hadn’t been one in the first place. Mike’s attention, apparently, had barely twitched away from the television and now he held out his empty cup without comment.
Sam filled it for him, and began to make preparations for a meal. He had taken a trip into town, and bought a heap of supplies to stock the empty cupboards and the old chest freezer that wheezed in the outhouse. He didn’t think Mike was taking care of himself properly and he wanted to be sure before he left that there was at least food to hand for him, even if he chose not to eat it.
‘Steak and salad okay for you?’
Simple food was what Mike always liked. Sometimes he reminisced about Mary’s chicken pot pie or dumpling stew, and Sam would realise how much he still missed his wife and felt guilty that he didn’t live closer or make the effort to see his father more often.
‘If it’s what you’re making.’
When the food was prepared Sam laid knives and forks on the old yellow laminate table and put the plates out. ‘It’s ready.’
Mike fumbled for his stick, but it still lay where Sam had pushed it aside. The old man gave a grunt of irritation and stretched awkwardly but Sam was there first. He put it into his father’s hand and helped him to his feet, then guided him the few feet to the table.
‘I can manage. How d’you think I get by when you aren’t paying one of your visits, eh?’
‘Sure you can manage. But when I’m here, I like to be able to help you.’
They ate in silence after that, the only sound the clink of their knives and forks, and the wind driving darts of ice against the windows.
‘Not going to be a great night for travelling,’ Mike remarked.
I could stay over, just until tomorrow, Sam thought. But he didn’t want to and the realisation twisted yet another strand of guilt in him. He wanted to get out of here, back to his own place, away from the mute cohorts of their memories.
‘It’ll be fine. I’ve got to get back to work.’
That was another aspect of disappointment. He hadn’t even made it to law school. Sam’s business was computers, designing and managing websites, and it wasn’t an outstandingly successful one.
At least