in the dark

Margie and I get to talk as she drives me through the darkness from Mansfield to Yea.

Hours earlier five of us finish our ride along the high country rail trail. The others book into the backpackers, shower, head for the pub, the last place I want to be. Besides I have to go home, work tomorrow.

Will picks me up on Mansfield’s main street, takes me out to Mt Battery. We roam their property, say hello to Margie’s horse Ruby, watch the sun set, set the ducks off in silhouette over the dam, a wing dipping in the water, rippling the surface.

We eat on our knees in front of the log fire, chat about our lives. Will takes me to his study, shows me the edit of his documentary on John Milne, the father of seismology. His phone rings three times: he’s on call. The final call summons him to the hospital. So Marg is driving me down to Yea to pick up my car.

Off Mt Battery we duck down a couple of back lanes, swing into the BP just off the Mt Buller road, no petrol between here and Melbourne’s outskirts. Next we pull into the backpackers and I load the Red Rocket, a bag of sweat-soaked bike gear, and a magpie-attracting helmet into the back of her 4WD.

Just out of town is a left to Howes Inlet where Margie grew up. She’s 60 now, was 19 when I first met her. Will is 60 too, recently sent me a black and white photo of the two of us in grade 5, a photo taken by Masatoyo Hiroshima, a Japanese student who came to the school that year, the only kid with a camera.

As we pass The Paps, Maindample, Bonnie Doon I try to tell Marg how my good woman and I came unstuck. I understood it all 72 hours ago, but not now. The rationale has moved on, pangs of incredulity all that remain.

I ask her how 40 years with Will has worked. I don’t see them much, but can’t imagine an argument or unkind word between them. Last year Marg went to Turkey on her own. Earlier Will went to Japan, the States, Iceland and England making the documentary with his nephew. He’s a driven man of singular achievement, doctor, adventurer, campaigner, thespian, photographer, and more.

She tells me something of their marriage but my mind is elsewhere. In the rear yard of Yea’s Royal Mail Hotel I load the Rocket into the Jazz. Marg turns back toward Mansfield, I race through the dark to Croydon. Alone.

Rock on.