Shark by Bruce Pascoe

Author:Bruce Pascoe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Magabala Books
Published: 2013-10-14T00:00:00+00:00

Lester found it much more difficult to be unhappy. He was troubled frequently, despairing that he would ever be loved in the way he sought to be loved, to receive the kind of touches he yearned for. But he believed in a ‘lot’. Everyone had a lot and all of them were different, some better, some worse. And you had no alternative but to put up with the one you’d been allotted. When he tried to explain this philosophy to Maree it had infuriated her. Her rage at his benign oxeness had driven her to the point where she literally began to tug out hanks of hair. Lester’s fright caused him to cease further exposition.

‘We’re not bloody sheep. This way wool, this way carcass, this way woolly lamb, this way chop. That’s the way Christians think. It’s the least intelligent spiritual explanation. What about philosophy, what about will, commitment, race? What about that?’ Lester often wondered whether he should ignore her wrath and issue a challenge to her own attitude. What good is the theory of despair? But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Selfishly, he knew it would drive her from the house and he couldn’t bear that. Secretly, he knew that in not speaking up, he allowed her to wallow in her philosophic state rather than struggle out of the marsh. He had a sharper mind than she gave him credit for but he had a huge natural weakness – his need of her. But despite this he’d been born with (he said born with, she would have said retreated into) a natural amiability and an inability not to respond to sunshine, beauty and pleasure. He truly admired the world and it gave him enormous support. He did not see himself as a victim of the Freudian clash. He saw himself as lucky to be sharing a kitchen and bed with the only woman he’d ever loved.

He knew that his heart was good but he also knew that it was people like her that were capable of bringing change to the world rather than people like him. Conscious of that he tried to support her. At times he wondered whether his support actually weakened her resolve but as he couldn’t conceive any other form of action he persisted.

When she was preoccupied or buoyed by some participation in which she saw some hope, he would feel free to go about his own life. He’d go down to the wharf.

There was always work to do on the Tea Gardens: a painting job, woodwork repair, engine maintenance and most of them involved being on the deck and more often than not the weather was pleasant and more often than not he would have made himself four chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches. He’d sit with his back against the wheelhouse and throw crusts to the pelicans and seagulls riding the blue water of the estuary. Across the channel were the scrubby sand islands and beyond them the humps and creases of the hills which climbed in olive-tufted ranks to the mauve of the distant ranges.

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