Free Eyrie by Tim Winton

their frames by a suddenly opened door. He realized Doris was speaking.
    Sorry, he said. What?
    Nothing, she said. I was just faffing on about the wine. To impress you.
    But her face had fallen and he suspected she’d been talking about something more important. Doris, love, I’m always impressed.
    She smiled for him and it smarted.
    He drew himself up, took in the rich spillover of kitchen vapours, the briny scent of the river. Saw his right leg twitching waywardly. The house music – some generic World nonsense – was loud. He shot a look at the staff flexing their tatts by the kitchen pass. No use asking them to turn it down; these days restaurant music was not for the paying customer.
    Hey, he said into the taut pause in proceedings. I might come by tomorrow and grab the dinghy.
    Just in time.
    How’s that?
    I was getting ready to turf it out at the next street collection.
    Couldn’t blame you.
    Well, it’s been a while.
    I’m thinking of a spin on the river.
    Good. Lovely.
    Listen – did I sleepwalk as a kid?
    I won’t even inquire about
that
rapid transition.
    Sorry.
    Somebody once peed in the linen press, if I recall.
    Don’t remember
that
.
    Well, she said with a laugh. Then you may have your answer.
    But you would have said. If it was one of us there’d be an inescapable family legend.
    Probably. But I do recall small bodies ghosting about in the night. Having to steer them back to bed.
    Kids from the street, he said. Your lame ducks.
    Lame ducks? she said with arched brows.
    Doris let him marinate a moment. He saw the irony. Now that he was the chief wounded bird in her life, the least functional member of the family. He raised his glass, all the acknowledgement and surrender he could manage.
    I remember a lot of sheets on the line, a lot of wet beds. All those kids you took in.
    They had their reasons, she said.
    I don’t doubt it.
    But, no. Neither of you wandered or wet the bed.
    Huh.
    A long moment passed. Doris jingled.
    Why d’you ask, love?
    Keely sipped his wine, tried not to gulp.
    Oh. Nothing, really.
    She gave a diffident nod but he knew she wasn’t buying it. She hoisted a clacking arm and summoned one of the prowling narcissists for some service.
    Keely tried to address the menu but he was preoccupied by her heightened watchfulness. The flash of her specs coming off and on – clunkitty-click. Every vegetable, every bit of protein on the list had a provenance more complex than a minor Rembrandt. And he didn’t know what half of it meant. What the fuck was a
coxcomb of Serrano solar
? Or was he just obtuse? Christ, he was starting to sweat. He was leaving great smudgy fingerprints.
    Food, she said. It wasn’t always this stressful.
    He smiled. What a lovely, impressive old duck his mother was. By some obscure law of nature he was expected to supersede her, yet in her presence he felt like a flake. It wasn’t really what she said that made him feel wet and feeble, it was just who she was, what she’d done for Faith and for him, and what she’d achieved for herself. A young widow with two kids, she’d gone back to finish high school, studied social work part-time and kept two jobs as well as a home life. After that, the law degree, and all the quixotic social justice causes. Daughter of a wharfie, wife of a diesel mechanic, Doris may look like Julie Christie but her voice was still pure Blackboy Crescent, as broad and dry as the coastal plain.
    As if resisting the catalogue of fetishes on the menu, she ordered briskly, almost offhandedly, and he found himself following suit. The waitperson stalked off as if aggrieved by their want of reverence and after a shared chuckle they fell silent. Doris drank her wine, chewed her lip. Keely felt his pulse quicken. He sensed trouble.
    Well, she murmured, setting her glass down carefully, turning it worryingly once or twice. Here’s an interesting piece of information I’ve been wanting to share all day.
    Oh dear, he said, tamping down his panic.