Freight

Winner: South West Writers’ Celebration 2024

I sat alone in the parked car, cooling engine ticking beneath me, and waited for my eyes to adjust to the small-town darkness.

     I’d driven over at dusk, and had been too busy watching for kangaroos to notice the full moon that now dominated the sky. Through the windscreen, it illuminated the silver backs of a dozen vans, slumbering like animals in the uncovered lot. A ping from the centre console announced that I was on my own for this one. Sorry baby, we’re ramped. Haggle for me x

     My half-written reply was interrupted by a rap on the bonnet. A lanky teen in work boots stood before the car, a burgundy can glinting beneath his sleeve. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, eighteen at a stretch, but his oversized workwear made him look like an old man. He lifted his chin in silent recognition.

     ‘You’re here about the van,’ he said. His breath bloomed in the evening air, and I smelled booze.

     ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I’m Erin. Rhett’s girlfriend.’ I cringed at my own qualifier.

     ‘Macca. She’s in the shed.’ He motioned with his head towards the back of the lot. ‘You want a can?’

     ‘I’m good. Thanks.’

     We crunched wordlessly towards the shed, where the words McMahon & Son Freighters were painted proudly above the doorway. Macca pressed a button on his keys and a roller door hefted itself gracefully towards the ceiling.

     A white Winnebago gleamed from the centre of the floor. Its creamy panels and wide windows had been polished to such a lustre that it seemed to emit its own light. I’d spent my lunchbreak poring over the van’s dimensions online, but was floored by its physical reality. This was a ship, not a car; a vessel for a life’s worth of dreams.

     ‘Shit, Macca,’ I breathed. ‘She’s a beauty.’ I stepped closer, and pressed my fingers to the cool metal.

     ‘Me old man bought her before he got sick,’ came Macca’s voice from the doorway. ‘Wanted to drive ’round Australia, but only got as far as Portland.’

     ‘Sorry to hear,’ I said, but my mind was racing. Surely, this was it.   

     Rhett and I had been planning the trip for a year, now. Twelve months on the road in the height of our twenties. Our fortnightly deposits into a joint savings account felt like small acts of subversion. We’d catch eyes at dinner parties where friends spoke in urgent tones about stamp duty and rate hikes, and smile into our glasses. Afterwards, drunk in our cramped kitchen, we’d sketch our dream fit-out on the tiles. Rhett wanted a fridge he could reach from the driver’s seat; I wanted a skylight above the bed.

     Of course, there’d been moments of vertigo. As if aware of our intentions, my social media feeds spewed articles on inflation and metastatic student debts. One night, Rhett and I had a horrible argument after I opened his laptop to a bright grid of Melbourne real estate. Each time, however, the same four words pulled us back to centre: if not now, when?

     ‘You wanna take her for a spin, then?’ said Macca, interrupting my reverie.

     ‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I’m still getting the hang of manual. I’ll bring Rhett on the weekend.’

     Macca’s expression was hard to read.

     ‘You’re ’right. I’ll take ya.’

     I hesitated. Surely this kid didn’t have his licence. This kid who’d sunk two beers in the last fifteen minutes. I looked back at the van and felt something in me give way.

     ‘Alright,’ I nodded. ‘Thanks.’

     ‘Back in a tick,’ he said, throwing me the keys and disappearing into the darkness. I stood there a moment, examining the keys in my palm. They were heavy and warm from Macca’s pocket. I pressed the unlock button and a yellow light flicked on in the cab, beckoning me gently upwards.

     A string of postcards had been blue-tacked across the dash: Peterborough. Port Campbell. A photograph of a man who could only be Macca’s dad, arm around the shoulders of a pretty curly-haired woman. I leaned forward to touch the glittering green scales of a fishing lure hanging from the mirror.

     Macca swung easily into the driver’s seat, and dropped a can of beer in the cup holder at my knee. ‘In case you change your mind.’ I’d pulled the seatbelt half way across my body when I let it slip between my fingers.  

     High above the road, Macca steered the twenty-foot van as if it was the easiest thing in the world. He was beautiful to watch. I couldn’t look away from his hand on the gearstick. His nails bitten down to the quick were at odds with his smooth, confident movements. For the first time that evening, I relaxed. I settled deeper into my seat, and lifted my gaze to the moon.

     If I hadn’t clocked the speedo, I would never have realised how fast we were moving. The needle had climbed past 130, and was edging steadily towards 140. My heart surged.

     ‘Shit – Macca – slow down!’

     Macca’s eyes were glassy, his body still. 145. The fishing lure began to tremble, then sway. 150. 155.

     ‘Stop the fucking car!’ I yelled, grasping for my seatbelt. But Macca was a wall. Outside the window, fence posts flashed past with sickening speed.

     I braced for impact, but it didn’t come. As quietly as he had accelerated, Macca shifted down through the gears and pulled up neatly on the grassy verge. I ripped off my seatbelt and half-fell from the cab. Dew soaked through my pant-legs as I retched on hands and knees.

     ‘What… the fuck…’ I choked. ‘You could have killed us.’

     ‘Sorry, mate,’ he said, laughing. Above him, the night sky had filled with stars. Still chuckling, Macca reached out his hand to help me up.

     ‘Sorry,’ he said again, settling back into the driver’s seat. He gave the wheel an affectionate smack. ‘We always wondered how fast she’d go. And if not now, you know…’