Free The Nature of Ice by Robyn Mundy

to make the seagulls on the point stand to attention.
    After breakfast Chad and Ma would be faced with the aftermath, their rubber thongs squelching on the sticky cement. Don’t go near the broken glass, love. Ma would wear a stoic grimace as she gallantly carried the survivors from the shed and stacked them out of harm’s way beneath the tank stand, arguing that as she came protected by an inbuilt layer of cushioning, she was best equipped to transport any live ammunition.
    Even then, Chad understood his family summers were special, better by a mile than his schoolmates’ back in town. Sacrosanct these things that are numbered, he thinks now, summers with all three of them together the grab-’em-while-they- last kind.
    â€˜Earth to McGonigal!’ Simon stands at the whiteboard with his marker pen poised. ‘You putting on a flick tonight?’
    â€˜Ask Freya. Slushy’s choice.’
    â€˜ Amelie ,’ Freya announces.
    â€˜New one on me,’ spouts Fling, who hasn’t watched a film since Chad’s known him.
    â€˜Chick flick,’ two of the dart players cry out in unison.
    At the end of the bar, Kittie jumps up in support of Freya. ‘ Amelie is a wonderful movie. European films are so much more creative and uplifting than the formulaic crap Hollywood spits out.’
    â€˜Chick flick with subtitles,’ the met boys shout.
    â€˜I’ve seen it. It’s good,’ Chad offers, though no one but Freya acknowledges him with a smile.
    Simon adds a line beneath the film title: Slushy’s choice. Uplifting and creative .
    â€˜What are you trying to do?’ Charlie says. ‘Drive’em away in their droves?’
    Chad leaves the banter, intending to secure a good seat at the end of an aisle.
    Freya trails him to the theatre door. ‘I was wondering if you’d have any time this week. To come out.’
    Chad shrugs. Freya Jorgensen has some ground to make up before she can start asking any favours of him.
    â€˜I was thinking we could head out to one of the islands. If that sounds alright.’ She begins to squirm, starts to walk away.
    It feels a niggardly kind of win. ‘Sounds okay.’
    A release of breath. ‘First day of good weather?’
    Chad gestures to Kittie. ‘Have your mate put in an order.’
    CHAD LINGERS IN THE THEATRE while the closing credits of Amelie roll up the screen. His seventh winter on the ice was the year the film was made. How many more winters would he put his hand up for, he who had always planned to see the world? He switches off the player and slips the DVD back onto the shelf. He runs his palm across the leather satchels that line the theatre walls. He likes the texture of the cases that house the old sixteen-millimetre movie reels; faded delivery stickers—railway express, films urgent—speak of their commercial days. Chad savours the smell of age trapped in the leather, the sense of preservation in the straps and buckles that hold the cans in place. Film was on its way out when he began his time down here. The collection would be gone altogether, shipped back to Australia lock, stock and two smoking barrels, if not for a few sentimental stalwarts like himself who refuse to surrender to change.
    This past winter, he’d screened a golden oldie twice a week. He’d fed each reel through the jaws of a fickle reconditioned beast that would, given half a chance, chew up every splice and spit out rags of film. He’d arrived at the theatre ahead of time to fill baskets with Roses chocolates and chips—it was as close as he could imagine to hosting his own party.
    Chad cherishes the quality of film, the texture of the grain, the imperfections and scratches that stream down the screen and give it charm. He finds magical the razzle-dazzle, star-crossed lovers, women’s satin gowns. He is drawn dizzily, hopelessly, to happy-ever-afters and uncomplicated lives.
    He gathers a handful