Winter 16. ISSUE TWO
Christians. After a while she said goodbye and jogged off.
I am blessed, he thought.
‘Listen, Arlo,’ he said, ‘be more careful who you pick up.’
We are blessed.
At the far end of the beach was a gentle mound of sand, grit and broken shells, which he suspected was a midden. Another of the dispossessed, but worse. White racism, white leisure, white development had turned the tribe into ghosts. There were no aboriginal surfers, no road workers, no casuals, not even at the motel. He wondered if they were watching, hostile, wide-eyed, like Arthur Boyd spirits, from behind the ti-tree scrub which bordered this end of the beach. Or would they be wearing black-red-andgold headbands? I am your friend. Trust me. Trust me, I am the government. Trust me, I am not the government. Trust me because I am good at heart.
He called to the dog, started the motor, and backed slowly onto the dirt road. The tailgate window was blurry with salt. I am the way, I am the Saviour. There were a lot of fundamentalists around here, in the neat weatherboard churches of the hinterland, and New Agers. They would have to fight it out. The place was changing. He turned the car around, headed out through heathland scrub coated in road dust. He would call the motel owner later. He was going home.
Why should they believe? It was a long slog back. The motel yard was deserted. The sun burnt into the salt crust across his shoulders. His hair was standing on end. He felt unwashed, deserted. His feet were sore. This was black man’s land: he was the intruder. The station wagon was baking in the heat like an alien spacecraft in the Sahara. The hubcaps blazed. The motel windows stared at him blankly.
Homecoming appears in Motel, a novella of love, desire and marriage, by Craig McGregor. Opposite page, illustration by Chrissy Huntsman BETWEEN FICTION AND REALITY III, 2012
Without quite knowing what he was doing he took his surfboard out of the back of the wagon and tied it to the roof. There was plenty of petrol in the tank. His suitcase was hardly unpacked.
‘Do you know if you can get around the point there?’ she said.
‘That’s a strange name.’
‘No. Don’t think so. Even at low tide you have to climb up over the headland.’
‘Ever heard of Woody Guthrie? He was one of the great folk poets of the ‘thirties. American. Radical. Arlo was his son. Wrote Alice’s Restaurant. I reckoned he deserved a dog named after him.’
‘Too hard,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re damned right. It’s alright for goats. And dogs.’ ‘You staying at the motel?’ He nodded. ‘How did you know that?’ ‘I thought I saw your dog there.’ ‘Yeah, he’s a great conversation piece. That’s why I keep him.’ She looked at him with the start of hostility. ‘Just joking,’ he said. ‘He’s an old mate. Ain’t you, Arlo?’ 32
She laughed. ‘Can I walk along with him?’ ‘You can walk along with us both.’ They strolled on, talking desultorily, but he soon ran out of things to say. She was staying at the new hotel further back from the beach. Never been here before. From Sydney. She was a Christian; they had a conference on next weekend. Was he a Christian? Pity. She decided to come early, get healthy, break in her new jogging gear. She liked the place, despite it being a bit shabby. She was friendly enough but he was practising being alone. Also, his heart wasn’t in the chase. Also, he was trying to be faithful. Also, he drew the line at 33