The morning my grandparents took us swimming was the same morning my father cried. I skipped across rust coloured dirt towards the caravan park pool. The ground was hot, and I’d forgotten my thongs at the cabin. I had to be quick to avoid blisters on the soles of my feet. I was already learning the difference between home and our new surroundings. My twin sisters, Mum, Dad and I had moved 1200 kilometres west from our coastal city of Mackay to the regional town of Longreach. Our Grandparents made the journey with us, I assume, to help corral the kids and give our parents space to grieve. I was ecstatic that they had come, partly because it felt like an extended sleepover, but mostly due to my nan’s homemade tomato sauce. I would have it each morning on fresh white bread. I’d toast it, much to my father’s dismay, he always told me to save the fresh bread for sandwiches. Our move hit a speed bump when we received news that our moving truck was bogged just outside of Emerald and wouldn’t arrive for another three days. We took what little we had to the only holiday park in town and moved into our corrugated palace.
To escape the burning ground, I jumped onto the pool fence. It creaked under my weight and left green paint marks on my hands. The sun slowly disintegrates everything out there. Once Nan, Pa and my sisters had reached the pool, I stretched up to open the gate for them. I had just reached the age where I was tall enough to do this. Everyone walked to the far end of the pool, thongs slapping at their heels, and set their towels down on the only deck chair in the area. It was one of those white plastic sun chairs you find in every dodgy caravan park. It had been eaten by the sun’s glare and left white powder all over our towels.
The pool itself was gross. Hair floated in clumps around the edges, and 3 band – aids sat on the surface. The pastel blue of the walls highlighted every speck of grime. Pools of water in the desert are supposed to foster life; this one did not. Algae couldn’t grow on the sun-bleached walls, and hundreds of insects drifted at the water’s edge. Pa snatched the pool net off the fence, water stained the colour of rust flowed from the end and onto the red brick pavers. He dipped the net into the pool and fished out a large, dead rat, while my sisters and I stood at the other end, scared that it would jump at us.
Ignoring the heat emanating from the concrete, I knelt beside the pool and dipped my hand beneath the surface. It was surprisingly cool. I’d always been difficult when it came to cold water. I would take ages to get in the pool if at all. The 40-degree heat was not enough to sway me, so I opted to lie on the brick tiles instead. I splashed some water on the concrete to cool it and laid in the slurry I created. Rocks and water mixed under my stomach in a warm soupy puddle. The rest of my family teased me and quickly got into the pool, sighing with the relief that the cool water brought. A drowned beetle caught my eye. It bobbed on its back in the ripples my sisters created. It was a jewel beetle, the ones with green pearlescent exoskeletons that you don’t see much anymore. Its legs curled over its abdomen; it must have come looking for a drink and slipped into the water. I wondered if anyone missed it. The beetle’s head was bent unnaturally backwards under the surface. I sent a wave crashing over its body with my hand and watched the lifeless spec sink to the bottom.
The pool crumbled my vision of the family adventure we had set out on. All I could think about was the life we had left 1200 kilometres away for this dump. It’s interesting to note that years later, many of my memories are different from my family members. Pa doesn’t remember fishing the rat from the pool, yet my sisters and I can picture it clearly. How many of the stories I tell have come from false or altered memories? Is it still a lie if I believe them to be true?
My daydream was broken by an unnatural screech from my sister. My head snapped upwards. She and the rest of the family were all staring across the pool at something out of my vision. I turned to see a large goanna stalking towards the water. Its fork tongue flickered from its mouth, tasting the air. The lizard’s belly scraped along the ground, and its long claws clacked on the tiles as it moved. I jumped to my feet and walked towards the animal, ignoring the cries of protest coming from my Nan. After passing hundreds of dead kangaroos on the drive, I was excited to see a live animal. I crouched low and crept behind the lizard, putting myself between it and the pool. The goanna ignored me and continued its stroll. I straightened, satisfied that the animal was not going to hurt me and puffed out my chest with newfound confidence. The goanna’s scales, mottled green and white, shone in the sunlight. It had a large scratch on its back leg and was missing 3 toes. I inched closer.
In a second, the goanna spun and launched at me. Its limbs scrambled across the ground at speed, but I was quicker. I let out a scream that rivalled my younger sisters and raced around the pool, goanna in toe. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. I looked for my next course of action and decided my only sanctuary was the pool. The cool water pricked my skin as I broke the surface. Once I was under, I was always happy I’d gotten in. I stayed under the water for a while with my eyes closed. I did this a lot when I was younger. The quiet dark gave me a sense of peace I have not found anywhere else. I don’t know how long I was under the water, but when I finally surfaced, my whole family was standing on the pool’s edge. My heart sank as I realised the goanna had followed me in. I turned to see the lizard floating in the deep end, happy to have found a reprieve from the sun. I screamed again. My Pa laughed as he lifted me from the pool in one swift motion. He was much stronger back then.
On the walk back to the cabin, we cackled over the situation – a moment of happiness in the uncertainty of our move. My sisters mimicked my panicked race around the pool, and my grandparents teased my ‘girly scream’. I didn’t care. I was happy.
Years later, I was having a late-night wine with my mother. I was 17 at the time, the age when your parents start including you in family gossip. We were talking about Longreach and how I loved our five years out west. I’d always thought we’d moved for the pay incentives from Mum’s teaching job and the cheap rent in our govy house. Her face softened, and she looked at me like she did when I said something stupid as a child.
“Do you know why we left?”
I shook my head.
“When we lost your uncle, it became too much. We needed a reset. It seems like you kids did too”
