The Imitation Lake

SYNOPSIS: In this early story, a recently divorced man drives through a regional landscape, trying to decide what direction in life to take. He stays at motor inns and detours to quirky tourist attractions which remind him of his two young daughters. A man-made lake might hold the key to his fate.  

Stuart Hatch sat awkwardly on the slippery seat at a laminated corner table in the hamburger restaurant. The décor was a squeamish combination of orange, mustard and black and he tried not to look at it. He lifted up the barely-warm bun of his burger to examine the thin circle of meat, slimy rounds of pickle and slice of cheese stained pink from tomato sauce. A little tub marked ‘coleslaw’ contained wispy strips of carrot in white sludge and he poured some onto the burger. The french fries drooped over the edge of the cardboard holder and he only tried a couple. Too much salt.

Taking his time, Stuart walked back to the motel in the deserted night. It was quite a few blocks and he wanted to burn off the meal. He gazed into shop windows and imagined furnishing a bachelor pad with the goods on display.

In his room, Stuart kicked off his shoes, filled the plastic kettle and switched it on to boil. He was about to flop down on the bed when he noticed the pink breakfast order form on the sideboard. It was past the 8.00 pm lodgment time so he turned off the kettle, ticked his selection and twisted into his shoes again to head to reception.

The manager, Ken, was busy signing in a young couple, informing them of the town’s main attractions with the aid of a complimentary tourist map. Stuart dropped the breakfast slip on the counter, apologised for being late and swiftly departed.

He sat on the edge of his bed, drinking tea and scanning the covers of the pamphlets fanned strategically on the sideboard. Along with sample menus from nearby restaurants was a brochure for McKey’s Tours. They offered a range of full and half-day trips throughout the district. After nearly two weeks of lonely travel, Stuart felt like being with someone, in a limited, impersonal way, and a tour guide seemed the best bet. So he picked the tour that interested him the most, plus one in reserve, and rang the number on the back of the brochure.

Almost immediately, a voice at the other end said, ‘The Golden Ram.’ It was Ken, the manager.

‘I’d like to make an outside call,’ Stuart stammered. ‘This is Room Six.’

‘Just press zero before you make the call,’ said Ken.

‘Thank you. Oh, I see now,’ said Stuart, noticing the instruction card under the phone. But Ken had already hung up.

Shaking slightly, he dialled zero, followed by the number for McKey’s Tours. A middle-aged woman answered the phone. ‘Hello, Vera speaking.’ The female half of Walt and Vera McKey, reiterated in block letters at intervals throughout the brochure.

‘Yes, hello, I’m ringing about the tours,’ said Stuart.

‘Which one were you interested in?’

‘Number four. The ghost town,’ said Stuart, consulting the brochure again.

‘Good, because the gardens one is off during winter, so you won’t mind that. And how many are you?’

‘It’s just me.’

‘We normally conduct the tours for three or more people,’ she recited. ‘How long will you be in town?’

‘A few days,’ lied Stuart, not wanting to sound like a fugitive or a cheapskate. The whole idea had obviously been a mistake and he wondered if Mrs McKey would have any way of tracing the call if he hung up.

‘Down, Rocky, I’m on the phone,’ she scolded, and then in a more patient tone: ‘You see, at this time of year there’s not much calling for tours during the week. But there should be enough to make up a group on the weekend if that would suit.’

‘That should be fine,’ he said, all set to give a false name if she asked for his details. But Mrs McKey was silent and he heard only the whining of the dog. ‘I’m not sure of my plans yet, but I’ll ring back later in the week when I’m certain. Thank you.’

Stuart put the phone down quickly and fell back onto the bed. It was soft and for a second threatened to cave in. He rebounded and unravelled the covers, expecting to find a sagging piece of foam instead of a real mattress.

Standing quietly, eyeing the room, he thought that if it had been a family holiday with the girls along, his girls in the room right now, he would have begun searching for ‘bugs’. He would have explored the light fittings with flourish and scrutinised the buttons on the sofa. He moved a step towards the sofa and noticed that it had been repaired with a patch of plaid fabric that didn’t quite match. In fact, nothing in the room quite matched.

Before taking a shower, Stuart switched on the television to keep the room occupied and less sombre. He had a shower at the end of every day; it helped him to sleep and allowed him to cry in private when he felt like it. With his head bowed, the tears could merge with the streaming sprinkles.

The water took a long time to come through and even longer to heat up. He had to keep fiddling with the taps. Turning them just a fraction provoked a dramatic change in temperature. He stayed under the hottest endurable water for twenty minutes and it left his skin in red splotches.

In the shower, Stuart thought about his visit to Fairyland earlier that day. Fairyland was the creation of a Dutch engineer who came to Australia after the war and started all over again. The plaster mannequins were child-sized and moved electronically, without any external prompting. Stuart had watched the elves dancing and the princess in the castle and the dwarves swinging picks and had made a wish, along with a busload of seniors, at the fairy ring before departing.

Stuart was dressed, shaved and ready before breakfast was due and he wished he had ticked an earlier time than 8.15 am on the order form. He wanted to get going, to get away from rooms; they solicited his memories and displayed them on the walls. Sitting on the bed with the pillows behind him, he used up the time watching the morning news.

After breakfast, he rang work and spoke to his boss. They hedged at first around pleasantries and the fine weather forecast.

‘You’re sounding much brighter,’ said Mr Scheffer.

‘Thanks. I’ve really appreciated the break.’ Stuart took a deep breath and hoped it wasn’t audible. ‘But I might need some more time.’

‘I can understand, Stu, you’ve been through quite an ordeal,’ said Mr Scheffer. ‘I’m just not sure how long we can cover your workload.’

‘Of course. I don’t want to cause problems. But it’s hard to see myself picking up where I left off,’ said Stuart.

‘We can look at other options. Maybe a transfer, if you’d like a change of scene. Have a think and we can discuss it when you get back.’

‘Okay, I’ll aim for Monday. But I’ll ring again before then to confirm.’

‘Great. The main thing is not to take it all on yourself. I’m here to help.’

To wind up the conversation, Stuart said he had a day-trip booked. But when the receiver was back in place and Mr Scheffer’s voice was only an echo in his mind, Stuart could have easily believed that he never made the call.

Stuart retrieved his toiletries from the bathroom and packed his bag. The breakfast tray had been collected from outside the door when he opened it to leave. Entering reception triggered a zapping sound and Ken, the manager, appeared from a back room, wiping the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin. He made out the bill and asked Stuart where he was headed.

‘I thought I might keep going south. Looks like there’s plenty to see in terms of history.’

‘Yes, it’s like travelling back in time,’ said Ken. ‘If you make it all the way down to Providence, there’s a ferry you can get from the mainland to Snape Island. That’s worth doing, if you‘re not in any hurry,’ he added, eyebrows rising with curiosity.

On the edge of town, like a custodian, was an immense bluestone church. It was larger than Stuart would have expected from the size of the town, and the stone was closer to dark grey in colour, but he thought perhaps it appeared bluer in the quarry. He wanted to stand in the breathless heart of the church, below the wheel window and the matching pair of spires, where he could think more clearly.

But when he got out of the car, he realised the spear-headed gate was locked and the doors were sealed shut, as if they had not been opened for a long time.

He called into the visitors’ centre on the highway to collect guides for the next region. A pamphlet on the Verdant Caves caught his eye. They were about half an hour’s drive, in the national park, and he liked the idea of golden spotlights on waxy stalactites, a den of secret flamboyance beneath the lush foliage. But the caves weren’t open to the public on weekdays and he could not justify two more aimless days in the area. Everything seemed geared towards families and weekends. The journey was becoming a road challenge in which he kept lagging further behind a field of unseen competitors.

Stuart continued along the highway heading south, ignoring the turn-offs, until the feeling of failure started to subside.

Eventually a billboard loomed from the scrub, proclaiming “The Chicken Coop”, with a cartoon image of a chick hatching from an egg, and he could not resist a closer inspection. His daughters might like it. Down a tributary road, more signs boasted “It’s eggstraordinary” and “It’s eggstravagant”, as he sighted an ensemble of brightly coloured sheds. The entrance to this shiftless carnival was a giant chicken’s head. It gave the impression of a prehistoric specimen attempting to resurface, but served its purpose; he chuckled like a school boy driving through the fibreglass beak.

The complex was multi-staged and Stuart explored it thoroughly. A group of school children was inciting a frenzy in the mock farmyard, flinging grain at the resident hens and ignoring a teacher’s pleas to stop. Educational panels explained the difference between a Rhode Island Red and a Plymouth Rock and traced the life cycle of a chicken from egg to dinner table with bloodless glee. Stuart took over ten minutes to find his way out of the timber henhouse maze and he observed the automatic grading and packing procedures from the glass-fronted viewing platform, where the children caught up with him again.

The souvenir shop offered a selection of chicken-inspired gifts, ranging from mundane items embossed with “The Chicken Coop” logo, to grotesque specialities such as hen’s teeth necklaces. He chose two wind-up fluffy chicks, each in a different colour so that his girls wouldn’t get them confused, and asked the lady to wrap them in tissue paper in preparation for the long journey by post.

He reached the rural city of Curran in the early afternoon and coasted around the streets for somewhere to stay, choosing a whitewashed place with terracotta trim called the Calamosa Motor Inn. The proprietress asked how long he intended staying because they were fully booked for the weekend on account of the car rally. Stuart said he was in the canning business and was only stopping overnight on his way to a product seminar. The proprietress followed him to the door of reception and indicated the direction of his room. According to the large tag on the room key, her name was Noeline Stenning.

At the end of the yard was an inground swimming pool for guests, and Stuart wandered over to investigate. The pool was not covered and a few fallen leaves floated gracefully on the surface. He wondered if anyone used it at that time of year.

Noeline appeared at his room holding a small jug. ‘I’ve brought your milk in case you want some tea,’ she smiled. ‘But if you’re after something stronger, you’ll find the bar fridge is well stocked.’

Stuart nodded, feeling suddenly grateful to this woman, as though she had guessed his predicament but was decent enough not to let on.

‘Well, I’ve left the desk unattended and my husband’s at footy training, so I’d better get back,’ she said.

‘I noticed the photos in the lobby,’ said Stuart. ‘Does he still play?’

‘No, he coaches the local side.’

‘He hasn’t lost touch with the game, then.’

‘For sure. I can’t imagine our lives without it. That’s how we came to run this place. He stayed at so many motels in his touring days, he wanted to own one.’

Stuart set off in the car to explore the town but didn’t get past the Botanical Gardens. There was a grand, wrought iron gazebo in the centre of the gardens and he admired it from every angle. He followed the patches of sun through the fernhouse and read all the commentaries in the statuary. Among the civic leaders, pastoralists, businessmen and outlaws was the intriguing case of Simon Davoren, the first town planner who led a victorious expedition. But the commentary concluded: Tragically, he could not settle back into civilian life after his return and deprived himself of meeting his Maker.

Racing the onset of dusk, Stuart drove out to Lake Respite on the edge of town. He knew about it from the local guidebook he’d picked up at the visitors’ centre. Parking at the scenic lookout, he sat on the bonnet of his car to watch the last coppery light strike the water. He would never have guessed that the lake had been created by flooding an old quarry if the guide hadn’t exposed the illusion. He stayed perched on the end of the car until the blazing water cooled to a cautious grey and the lake seemed to sink like a pit, with steep sides surrounded by hills and spruce. By the time he was ready to leave, Stuart had changed his mind and decided that the lake was all the greater for its human intervention.

There was a drive-in picture theatre just outside Curran, but he imagined getting stuck next to a carload of skylarking teenagers and concentrated instead on finding a place to eat. His stomach growled and he realised he had skipped lunch. Throughout the trip, he had eaten at fast food places or brought takeaway back to his motel room. Restaurants were too intimate. He compared the various options and, having participated in enough chicken promotion for one day, settled for pizza.

Sitting by a window to eat, Stuart noticed people gathered at the bus stop outside the pizzeria come to life as a shining coach glided in. The driver trotted down the steps with a clipboard and opened the luggage hold. Excited relatives walked away arm in arm and new passengers filed on board. A car pulled in behind the coach and a young woman jumped out with a pillow under one arm and ran to make it. The driver ticked her name off the list, slammed the luggage doors and spat into the gutter. The coach rumbled into motion – someone’s nose flat against a window – and gleamed out of view.

When he arrived back at the Calamosa, Stuart felt drawn to the swimming pool. The magnetism was there again when he crossed the courtyard to deliver his breakfast order to reception. He strolled over to gaze at the pool. It was a calm, clear night and he wanted to plunge through its reflection. He wanted the water to seal his eyes and ears from the world. But he was prepared to wait.

Noeline was on duty and he dreaded her being there in the morning to notice the lack of long-distance phone calls on the bill. For now, though, he appreciated her presence and asked her whether he should try to make it to Providence before heading home.

‘You should come back in summer with the kids. It’s a family place. You can go up in the lighthouse, and inspect the tall ship moored in the bay and there’s a maritime museum and a ferry.’

Stuart blushed. He couldn’t remember telling her he had children. ‘I just thought maybe I should check it out first before we go making any plans.’

‘You might be turned off if you saw it now. It’s so different in summer when everything’s open and they have the Neptune festival and there are street parades and floats. The kids love it.’

Stuart sat in his room with the television on low until the other guests returned one by one for the night. He started a desperately cheerful letter to his daughters, recounting his adventures, and wondered whether his wife would let them read it.

At one thirty, he stuck his head out the door and confirmed that the driveway was silent and all the curtains of the rooms were drawn. The pool was a dark slab in the distance. He clicked his door shut and crept across the gravel.

The cars glinted in their bays, and the yard was quiet. Stuart leant over the child-proof fence and stared at the quivering water. Looped around a rung of the gate was a padlock he hadn’t noticed before. But the fence came only to his waist and he scaled it without too much trouble, dropping softly onto the pebblecrete paving.

Half-crouched, he took another look around before stepping up to the edge of the pool. He was surveying Lake Respite again, the imitation lake.

Stuart took a further step to the very edge, so that his toes were hanging over the side. Swaying above the water, he spread his arms to keep balance.

Then he slipped off his shoes and rolled up his trousers. Sitting down, he lowered his bare feet into the water. It jarred at first, his legs flinching at the icy sting, but he swung them hard against the water, pushing with all his strength, and the surface broke into white, moon-caught folds.

The imitation lake was built with the labour and loss of men. Three men, the visitors’ guide said. The pool was a smaller imitation lake, tingling in the night, inviting his contribution.

A door slammed and a shrill voice startled him, toppling from one of the balconies. He flattened himself to the ground, unable to make out the words. It was a high voice, like a child’s. He waited, but there was nothing more.

Such a suspended moment made him realise that people continued in their own small lives all around him.

He would keep going, not for himself but for the girls, even if he never saw them again. Stuart didn’t want to spoil the future for them by making a stain on their past.

Slowly he sat upright and raised his legs out of the water. They were numb and wobbled badly when he tried to stand. He rubbed them vigorously before attempting the fence and clambered over it awkwardly. He skirted around the outside of the yard, protected by the sprawling hibiscus bushes, and snuck under the balconies back to his room.

Safely inside, Stuart changed into warm clothes and put some water on for tea but could not stop shivering. Hoping he had not caught a chill, he took out his maps and considered the road ahead.

© Rowena Helston 1990