The Turning by Tim Winton Page B

She had a lamb leg big as a guitar. There was no way out.
    The Keenans lived down by the surf beach in a shabby art deco place beneath Norfolk Island pines. Dyson arrived at six and stood for a moment at the door, bracing himself for
the necessary explanations about his status as a single parent. Ricky looped his fingers around Dyson’s belt. Both looked up at the soughing pines before Dyson knocked.
    Marjorie squeezed each of them on the doorstep and dragged them indoors. The house was unchanged since the days he’d come here to play pool and grope their daughter furtively in the
garage. In the hallway a candle burned before an icon of a severe Russian Christ. There were seascapes on the walls and a portrait of the Pope. The place smelled of meat and potatoes and the
strange lemony odour of old people. Somewhere in the house a television blared.
    In the kitchen Don Keenan rose on sticks and met Dyson with a hand outstretched, copper bracelet gleaming. There were tears in his eyes.
    Look at you, he said. Lord, just look at you.
    Long time, Don.
    The old man sat and wiped his face. Yeah, he said brightly. And time wounds all heels, eh?
    Except that it’s his knees that’ve given out, said Marjorie. That’s a lifetime of football for you.
    They beckoned him to sit and Ricky edged onto his lap, reserved but curious. Dyson saw that the boy was transfixed by the old man. The tears, the florid cheeks, the Brylcreemed hair, the walking
sticks. Ricky curled against his father. Dyson smelled the sweetness of his scalp.
    Mister Keenan was my coach, Rick. When I was a boy. He was a gun footballer, you know. Played for Claremont. Three hundred and twenty-two games for Railways – that’s a team here.
    You like footy, Ricky? the old man asked.
    The boy nodded.
    Who’s your favourite player, then?
    Ricky looked at his father.
    Go on, said Dyson.
    Leaper, said the boy.
    Ah, said Don. Now he can play!
    Lamb’s ready, said Marjorie.
    Still cooking on the woodstove, said Dyson admiringly. Look at the size of that thing.
    It’s the Rolls-Royce of ranges, that, she said.
    Big as a blessed Rolls-Royce, too, said Don.
    Just as their plates came and the old man was carving the meat, the thin blonde child came into the kitchen and took a seat.
    You met Sky, said Marjorie.
    Sky, said Dyson. This is Ricky.
    Hi, the girl murmured.
    Lo, said Ricky.
    There was a brief moment of bewilderment when grace was said. After all the crossing and amens Ricky glanced at Dyson for reassurance. Then hunger got the better of him and he ate
unselfconsciously.
    The talk was of the town, how the harbour had finally been cleaned up and the whales had returned and brought new tourists to the place. There are wineries now, said Don, and good wine like this
one. Dyson didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d given up the booze but he knew that Marjorie wouldn’t have missed the fact that his glass was untouched. The food was simple and
hearty and the kitchen sleepy-warm. It was nice to be with them again after all this time. The Keenans were good people and he felt bad that he’d left it so long to come and see them. After
all, he’d been closer to them at one stage than he was to his own mother. A long time had passed since the business with him and Fay. He told himself he needn’t have been so
anxious.
    Ricky pleased Marjorie by taking a second helping of everything. Rain lashed the windows and though he was sober Dyson felt as safe as a man with four drinks under his belt. Eventually the kids
sloped off shyly to watch TV. Marjorie made a pot of Irish breakfast.
    You don’t need to explain about your wife, Peter, said the old woman, pouring him a cup. We know already. We’ll spare you that.
    News travels fast, he murmured, stung.
    Small town, mate, said Don. Don’t we know all about that.
    Well, said Dyson, doing his best to recover. That pretty much explains why I’m back.
    There was a long, hesitant silence. From the loungeroom up the hall