Dirty Talk

"Enough, Rat-a-tat-tat boys, it's dinner time."

The nurse appeared with our meal trays.

"Mind you, eat those vegetables before tucking into the pink jelly."

Josh scoffed the wobbling coral dessert.

As I ate, he said, "Oh, drat Luke, we will miss Cub Scouts tomorrow evening because of this hospital."

"I don't think I could go with this eye."

"You could. Everyone would think you were a boxer."

"Coral wouldn't like to see us like this."

"Pooh to Goldilocks, you'd never get her in a tent. Boy, did we have a great weekend at our troop's overnight camp picnic earlier this year?"

Our chat drifted to the troop's annual outing in a lively buzz. A rural riverbank was the setting in the summer of 1968—a dry grassed reserve covered with pop-up awnings and generous play gear.

Upstream, the river flowed, knee deep, bordered by a shingle bank and rocky shallows. Fifty metres downstream, an imposing old wooden trestle bridge crossed high as the road arrowed north.

Josh kept me company in the non-swimmers area, restless for action. I needed more commitment to learning how to swim. Josh eventually tired of skipping stones or plonking 'mortar' rocks in this depthless setting. This led us on a walk down the riverbank to the main picnic tent, where he spied excitement on the far bank. Several gesticulating cub-pack members waved, 'Come on over.'

Josh raised a thumb, waded into the river, and urged me to cross and play. Neither of us considered my non-swimmer status. Finally, he grabbed my hand, and we trudged deeper. The streambed guided my feet, even as the water lapped my waist and neck.

Josh's hand holding mine acted as my safety net. When he let go to stroke, I slid and sank. My limbs flailed. The river swirled a turbulent, murky brown as bubbles engulfed me.

A befuddled disorientation dominated as air escaped my open mouth and water filled my lungs. Too stunned to process the peril. Massive arms scooped my legs and neck and laid me on the grass, and the risky venture streamed behind me.

Spluttering water, I forgot to thank my rescuer.

Three adults hunched and asked if I felt okay. I bobbed my head.

A pat atop it and on my shoulder, and they decided, the sixties definition of 'fine.'

One man pointed up the river.

Another said, "Stay out of the deep water."

Everyone continued their day in an age devoid of trauma counselling. Josh waved as he climbed a massive gum tree on the far side of the stream.

After the picnic, I learned to swim. Mother arranged the classes. Every stroke hindered me, as I hated putting my head underwater. Residual fear lurked in my mind, and practising floating dragged as arduous lessons. I never became a recreation swimmer and only once stroked boldly, following a girl, Jenny, into deep water. Beyond this, my knowledge of swimming had a survival role.

Josh threw his second pillow at me from his hospital bed.

"Mate, stop wool-gathering! Boy, I had a great time playing pirate and cannibal hide and seek over the riverbank. Still, the tents at night were the best, eh Luke!"

"Josh, you like hide and seek when you win."

The nurse appeared. She picked the pillow off the floor and collected the dinner trays.

"Shh, boys! Sleep. You must present your best face to the doctor tomorrow to go home."

Two months after the car accident, my mother drove me to the centre of Melbourne in her new vehicle. A journey minus an explained purpose. Important, though, as I missed the start of a school day.

As a young lad, downtown trips occurred seldom. Melbourne's inner-city streetscape framed unfamiliar as we parked in my mother's updated Ford. Her former Holden was a write-off.

My eyes fired agog on the footpath, amazed by the surrounding grand sandstone buildings. The imposing structures hooked my focus as my mother fed coins into a parking meter. Up and down the street, I admired the columns fronting the professional consultants' addresses.

Next, I tried to read the shiny brass plaques closest to me. Years later, I understood the panel's words. Gynaecology, paediatrics, and dermatology were beyond meaningful to a lad.

My career in design emerged here, fascinated by the shape of the columns. The pillar's fluted majesty and Doric elegance wowed. My mother and I entered an ornate building.

I knew something important was happening because Mum wore her white gloves, which she reserved for special occasions. The receptionist directed us to a long green leather bench in an open, unheated, empty foyer. As I sat, I noticed a wall of several wooden doors with a brass nameplate centred on each.

A mystery puzzled me. What was behind each one?

My idle speculation ceased as a lady ushered us into a smaller room. A balding man in a grey suit occupied an executive swivel chair behind a desk.

He asked my mother questions, which she answered. So many were like the crash hospital doctor- a blur of words.

"And the regional hospital doctor's opinion was….and the facial lesions since the crash….and reconfirming your son's middle name….and his vision and eye socket considering the impact…"

This doctor adjusted his glasses as he emphasised points. His skin reminded me of unbaked pastry, so pasty before my mom crusted it into an oven golden brown.

Baffled by an adult conversation, my eyes wandered the room. I gazed at the walls of books and framed documents. Now, I assume his degrees and boundless credentials.

As I looked through the bay window, the columns across the street shaped imposing. Distracted, I neither heard nor saw the man leave his chair and approach me. Cold hands shaped my face as he perfunctorily turned my head to the side like a down the clown in a sideshow alley.

Then he busied at his desk before speaking gibberish to my mother.

"In my thirty years professional opinion…no evidence of lesions… the skin membrane is youthful…. cellulitis is unlikely… superficial epidermis damage…. the integumentary system should heal…."

Mum leaned forward, ready to question his complicated words.

But with a flick, the man pushed a paper and a fountain pen across the table.

"Mrs. Moore, just sign. It's all fine, sign."

Mother removed her gloves.

"Sign, Mrs. Moore, sign."

She flourished her signature.

My mother trusted professional opinions like her faith in God. I watched the elegant way her fingers slid back into her gloves.

The doctor snatched the paper and pen.

"Goodbye, Mrs. Moore. You must excuse me. I have another appointment."

He coughed twice.

Mother ushered me out of the room.

Her heels click-clacked on the polished floor.

No one sat in the waiting area.

When outside, I questioned, "Why did the man touch my face, mummy?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about, dear," she said, opening the passenger door.

As I stepped forward to the car, she brushed my cheek.

"He explained the faint marks on your face will disappear as you grow up."

The gloves made her fingers elegant and slim. Her graceful pat slid, comforting, courtesy of the nylon.

I never examined the lines across my cheek; I chose not to explore them in my youth. The reality is my Nazca lines are visible under sharp, focused light and at certain angles. My mother signed to waive future compensation for skin damage caused by the car accident. The dermatologist formed a correct and incorrect call. Such is life; we live with the decisions and judgments made by others.

The following weekend, we held a BBQ in our expansive grassed backyard. My father was the chief cook at the rear of his workshop.

"Thanks, Dad," I said, accepting a smoky spiced sausage smothered in ruby red tomato sauce.

Chewing a chunk, I overheard my dad and Josh's father, Guy, talking about the car accident.

"Can you manage a beer in your other hand, Frank?"

"Sure."

"My Sarah said the guy towing the speed boat was a prick. Pulled up down the road and appeased his conscience because another immediate passing car stopped and helped the kids."

"Guy, don't get worked up. Our families got through it. Remember, not all our mates got through the Kokoda Trail."

Using the tongs, Dad turned sizzling sausages that resembled burning flesh.

Josh's father sculled his beer.

"Lighten up, Guy. Everything happens in the moment. I'll tell you the truth about why the crash occurred. The driver of the station wagon and his passenger were distracted by a rutting steer in an adjacent paddock. Yeah, dirty talk and straying eyes steered them off the road."

A BBQ snag, flamed, blistered and popped.

I noticed how weathered my father's hands were as I licked sauce from mine.

Dribbling a basketball with broad paws, Josh called, "Finish playing with your sausage. Stop daydreaming. Get over here and throw some hoops."

Now memory interweaves pallid, colourless mitts morphing into slender olive fingers tracing over the faintest of cheek scarring.