‘Doesn’t matter; I have to know.’
‘Orright. Sad story, dis one.’
‘I can handle it!’
‘Dat Albert and Ginny, dey go off t’see lawyerman in der town for der money an’ stuff.’
‘They were going to bring a case against him?’
‘All dat! Dat walypala bastard Forrester plenny mad!’
‘Mad enough to kill them?’
‘You lissen. Dat walypala bastard Forrester searched for Albert and Ginny on der road. Jus’ pass Commun’ty see dere car. Bang!’ Her hands clapped together. ‘You work it out.’
‘What did the police say?’
‘Dey say accident bud I ars you? Bullshit!’
‘But you’re saying Ginny and the other women and girls at Barren Hills were being violated by Jack Forrester.’ Leonora began to poke up out of the scrub ahead.
‘Yeah, he was warnngi, that bastard!’
‘Well, who’s my father?’
‘All plenny big mess dat accident, Forrester ’ere, Albert dere, all mess up. You choose your farder. One good man, one bad man. You choose.’
‘I guess I’d choose Albert Bayona.’
‘Me, too. Now yer know yer story. Id’s caud up to you. It’s pard of you and you pard of it. It will ’eal your spirit. It will make you belong.’
‘But what if Jack Forrester is my biological father?’
‘One way or dudder, you got lots a ’lations.’
‘Oh!’
Jeanie drove along Tower Street and pulled left into the corporation car park. The old bus snorted to a stop and belched out a cloud of fumy diesel as the motor finally died, its day’s work done. Auntie Peggy slapped her hand on Jeanie’s shoulder and said simply, ‘Welcome ’ome.’
—
It was around five when Jeanie and the kids walked in the back door. Auntie Peggy had headed back to The Community to spend the night with Popeye; tomorrow she would leave for the Lands and be part of that constant, slow-moving drift of humanity, back and forth across the desert. Jeanie was dead on her feet. Rastus was just plain dead.
‘Oh, shit, oh shit!’
‘Mumma, you …’
‘Jaylene! Jay-lene!’ Jeanie kneeled down beside the body of Rastus; if he had a soul, it had left some time ago, destination unknown.
‘Is Rastus dead, Mumma?’
‘Yes, Robyn, Rastus is dead.’
Hearing that, the twins began to sob softly, hugging each other and comforting each other in their grief. They had never lost a friend before. Old Rastus had been gross, but close. He had been part of the family, a four-legged kinsman, almost human.
‘Does he smell yet?’ Nadine bent close and sniffed, genuinely curious. She prodded the dog with an extended digit. ‘Are we gonna have a funeral?’
‘Yes, darling, we’ll give old Rastus a good send-off, okay?’
The twins had regained some composure. Robyn went and got the late dog’s blanket and covered him, giving him some dignity. She felt a twinge of remorse for having called him ‘old fart-sack’ while he was alive: hiding him might assuage her guilt. Georgina stood there crossing herself.
‘We’re not Cat’lics, Georgie. Only Cat’lics cross themselves.’ Robyn tried to set her straight.
‘Saw it on ’Ome and Away. Saw it on Bones, too. Betcha they weren’t Cat’lics.’
‘Betcha they were. God gets you inter trouble if you cross when you’re not a Cat’lic!’
‘Does not!’
‘Girls! Please!’
There was silence in the kitchen for an instant save for the familiar flap-flap-flap of thonged feet mounting the back steps. Heads swung towards the back door. Jaylene appeared, cardboard box in hand, tears in her eyes.
‘It wasn’t my fault, Mumma. He just died.’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes; the nose needed a tissue. ‘I got the box from Auntie Marie.’
‘Come here, baby.’ Jeanie extended her arms towards her eldest daughter and they came together over the body of Rastus. The younger children, too, apart from Little Albert asleep in his stroller, were gathered up into the embrace. ‘You know what, kids, Rastus was the best dog we could have ever had.’
‘Can we get a puppy?’
—
The house was quiet: the younger kids were asleep. Jeanie and Jaylene sat in the lounge room drinking tea by the light of the television, the sound wound down and barely audible. The fan hummed on and Jeanie heard the wall clock tick, its lazy hands somewhere past eight-thirty, in truth closer to nine. She listened and searched out the quietness of her sleeping children, the peacefulness of their slumber. She smiled her thankfulness to God for she was grateful she never had to listen to the echoes of an empty house.
Night had fallen in behind the departing day and held part of its heat as it went: it never missed it at all. Only in the early morning would it start to cool. For a while neither Jeanie nor Jaylene talked. They just sat with their tea, sipping occasionally, thinking out, thinking in.
Jeanie had called her father.
‘Your Mumma is a lot better, stable but still not out of the woods,’ he had said. Jeanie imagined the little stick-figure of her mother hemmed in by a forest of stout eucalypts, false exits everywhere. She hoped she would find her way out. She was a good woman.
‘I’ll be down as soon as I get the car fixed, and I don’t have any petrol money. I can pay you back on Thursday.’
‘I’ll put some in tomorrow morning.’ Line fuzz. ‘Matthew really needs to go back to work, you know. Despite what you say, he’s no Tim Winton.’
‘He gets that carer’s pension thing for looking after Archie.’
‘Yes, and you know my opinion about that. He should be there looking after you and the kids.’
‘Anyway, Dad, thanks for helping me out.’
‘It’s okay. It’s God’s money after all.’ Always the missionary.
‘I’ll try to get down by tomorrow night. Love you, Dad. I’ll say a prayer for mumma.’ Despite everything, she felt he would always be her father; all blood is red.
‘You do that. Bye, love.’
—
Jaylene found the spade where she had left it beside the cubby of bush and branch and her dad’s cheap blue tarpaulin. She didn’t know it then but that would be the last time she visited her childhood, for she’d been pulled through its ever-closing aperture into the age of adolescence by rough hands and circumstance.
She dug the hole to the depth of tiredness, a good metre and a bit, and she trimmed the sides to take the box as neatly as she could. Georgie had fashioned a cross out of duct tape and stakes plucked from Mrs Craigieburn’s garden. Robyn stood by with flowers from the same place. They hoped the old lady wouldn’t notice. Jeanie made a sign to hang on the cross. It said simply: RASTUS rip. Jaylene kneeled down and pulled the cardboard coffin into the grave. It dropped with a thud and when she stood up Jaylene saw how far away the box appeared, falling forever into the arms of Mother Earth who gratefully accepted back her own: the original recycling queen.
They stood around the grave, those mourners, each offering up a few words, not quite eulogies but heartfelt nonetheless. He’d been a great companion for Jeanie and the older children and they were still teary eyed as they waited for Nadine to speak.
‘Thank you, God, for the dog.’ Thinking. ‘Will the dingoes come and dig ’im up?’
‘I don’t think so, darling.’
On hearing that, Nadine showed a face of disappointment and the lamenters went inside for biscuits and cordial. Except for Jaylene. She shovelled dirt back into the hole and stuck in the cross at one end of the mound. The blister on her palm had burst and she wondered just how deep a hole has to be to bury something really bad.
30
The utility had left Busselton behind and it followed the road as it swept through a large belt of green pine plantations, small-holdings and dry bush. It passed a huge ’roo, bloated to bursting, lying on its side on the gravel shoulder. Archie watched
it go by, its front paws stuck out in mute prayer, hoping for a different outcome: an unwinnable situation, an unchangeable result.
‘Death is such a fickle mistress, don’t you think?’ Talking to everyone, talking to no one. ‘For him,’ the ’roo fell away into the distance, ‘it was probably instantaneous. For me, well, it’s just so bloody well drawn out.’ He slumped back into the seat. Matthew handed him the plastic cup and Archie sucked at its contents, ‘Warm piss! Oh, my godfather!’
‘They tell me it’s an acquired taste.’ He took back the cup and gave Archie a look of mock disdain.
‘Well, I’m too old to acquire it. Why is the beer warm?’
‘The Esky is in the tray, Dad. I didn’t think you’d need it for the trip back. It wouldn’t be fair on Vince, would it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so but what about me? What’s fair for poor old Archie?’ He spoke in a series of stops and starts, as if the words were weeds pulled out with equal amounts of exertion and satisfaction. For most of the aged and infirm, talking is their last great pleasure.
‘You’ll be wanting a piss every …’ Warm wind blew in on Matthew’s face; maybe it was compassion. ‘I’ll get you a coldie when we stop next.’
‘What about you, Vince? What of your family, eh?’ Archie had always been driven by a contentious spirit, now seemingly concentrated with age, tinged with the bitterness of a lifetime.
‘Well, my family came …’
‘Why all the questions, Dad? You always try to get under people’s skin. Just leave it.’
‘You shouldn’t speak like that to your Dad, Matty. Leave the old bloke alone.’
‘You don’t understand, mate. He tries to get a rise out of everyone.’ Matthew paused for a bit. ‘See, he’s bloody well done it again.’
‘I need a pee!’
‘Shit, Dad, I knew this would happen! We’ve only just left Busselton!’ Matthew was a recalcitrant in the prison of insensitivity. ‘Sorry, Dad.’
‘What’s got into you, anyway?’ Vince was thinking perhaps the alcohol may be playing a part.
‘Aw, thinking about my car. Those bastards!’
‘Black bastards, weren’t they?’ Old Archie, squeaking from the front seat, the words coming out in a series of blustery wheezes. ‘You said they were “black bastards”.’
‘No. I said they were Wongais, Dad.’ Matthew moved forward in the seat. ‘Does it matter who or what they are, they stole my car.’
‘You think just because I’m old and sick that I can’t voice my opinion!’ The sound of words struggling through phlegm. ‘I still function as a human being. I’m not the vegetable you think I am.’
‘That’s not true, Dad!’ But it was, and no one spoke for a while. The air was thick in the cab, even though the windows were down. ‘There are things you don’t need to speak about, that’s all. You shouldn’t use your age as an excuse for racist comments. Sometimes you need to be discreet, for your own good.’
‘For my own good! How do you know what’s for my own good?’ Wheeze, whistle. ‘You drag me away in a ding’s car and think I can’t see what’s happening. Now, I ask you.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘Does it matter? I still think and I still hear.’ Archie mustered up as much indignation as his tired body could manage.
‘Why didn’t you say something? We could have left you at home with Delores.’
‘I wanted to come, you know. I’m glad I did.’ He looked at Vince then lay back, his sad face reddened by a sun still full of demon. ‘You were right. I did try to get a rise out of Vince but he has helped me see things a bit differently.’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Looking across the water … we all came from across the sea.’
‘Pull over, Vince.’ Vince did. Matthew got out and walked back to the tray. From his father’s bag he retrieved a towel, which he hung on the inside of Archie’s window. ‘That’ll stop you getting burnt.’
‘We’ll take you to the toilet at Capel. It’s a couple more minutes down the road, okay?’
The old man nodded weakly and the ute pushed off onto the tar, heading for Capel.
—
Archie was asleep when Vince pulled up into the driveway of THE WOUNDED SINNER. Matthew unlocked the front door of the house and set about opening the windows. It had been gasping for air all day, closed in with the odours of men and sickness. He carefully picked up Archie’s incontinence pads, left on the floor since earlier that morning, and took them in a plastic bag out to the garbage bin. The house never seemed to smell that bad when Delores was there, and it remained a mystery to Matthew. He scooped Archie out of the cab and into his wheelchair.
‘He gets touchy at times, doesn’t he?’ Matthew, stating the obvious.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Vince pulled the chair up the steps, careful lest he wake Archie.
‘I guess so but Dad and I are on different planets. He has little understanding of my problems.’ He helped Vince over the last step. ‘Anyway, he’s lived his life.’
‘No, mate, he is still living it, he’s still, er … experiencing stuff.’
‘And where did you learn all these marvellous insights, Vince?’
‘From him!’
Vince took the wheelchair inside. Matthew stayed on the veranda until he finished his smoke and he cursed Vince for being so right.
—
‘I was wondering if I woke up dead, would I be disappointed with my life, how I’ve lived? How do I find that out, Matthew? How do I find that out?’
‘You won’t have that opportunity, Dad. Soon as you’re dead, I’m driving a stake through your heart. There’ll be no nocturnal wanderings or visitations from you.’
‘It’s not a joke, son. My life … you know, how I’ve lived, it weighs an awful lot. I don’t want it to destroy us. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, I think I do, Dad. I’ll turn out the light, okay?’
‘Okay, but I’ll just be thinking.’ Matthew hesitated at the door, unsure of what to do. His father’s voice caught him. ‘Have I always been a prick?’
‘No, Dad,’ Matthew lied, ‘not at all.’
The veranda was cool, settling down quietly into the dark of the night after the sun’s harsh assault. Matthew thought the heat had just about sucked him dry. He opened another stubby to try to even the score. The meaning of life had come home to roost on his shoulders and it wasn’t positioning itself very comfortably. Maybe all the Andrews were pricks, from the original wounded sinner through to himself, thought Matthew. He didn’t know, all family knowledge and lore having been passed down from his father, that being, of course, subject to Archie’s own perceptions and biases. Matthew had never considered himself as one driven by anything other than functional purposes but he realised he may have been less than compassionate in his interactions. Certainly, he thought, he was not a prick.
Vince walked out and sat down, stubby in hand. Matthew had wanted to be alone. Maybe he’d had a gutful of Vince’s peasant philosophy; maybe he hadn’t had enough.
‘This musta been a fancy house, once.’ Vince rubbed the brickwork and wondered if anyone else had touched it since it was built all those years ago. It gave him a sense of the past and, even though it wasn’t his house, it evoked a nostalgic feeling within him. He was sure the house was drawing him, compelling him, to feast on the wealth of the former days to bring light to the present. But, then, it was just a house.
Matthew said nothing. He noticed Vince was on his fourth beer of the day, hardly a drinking man as Matthew defined drinking men. Still, Matthew was not the embodiment of the mythical bronzed Aussie, a quiet drinker, himself. He was putting them away to prove so many things. What a goose, he thought.
‘The family farmhouse in Italy was over 300 years old.’
‘Dairy farm, I’m guessing?’
‘Not now. All the land was subdivided. The house was demolished. It’s sad, really.’
‘Think of the money your family made. What was it? About 300
, 400 acres?’
‘Dunno. That’s not the point, though, is it?’
‘Grandad? Dad says you’ve got a lot of money.’
‘Ha! Do I now? Your father and money, ’ey. You know what? The Bible says that “the love of money is the root of all evil”. It’s a mighty powerful force. I’ve seen it destroy men, and women. Money, though, is just money.’
‘But Dad says you’re rich.’
‘Tell me, Matty, what value is there in loving men? Your fellow human beings?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, find out soon. Don’t stay poor your whole life.’
‘No, I guess it doesn’t really matter.’ The phone rang inside the house: conversation interruptus. Matthew picked up on the fourth ring. It was Jeanie.
‘Hello, love,’ she said, smoothly. Matthew’s ears pricked up like an animal alert to a change in environment or circumstance. Indeed, he lived by his wits but they weren’t always in ready supply. ‘How’s your Dad?’
‘Strange, really strange. It’s like he’s tidying up loose ends and things.’ Matthew sat on the chair beside the phone. He pulled at a loose strand of wallpaper and the plaster peeled off with it. Shit, he said to himself, the place needed some work.
‘Look, we need to talk about the future, Matty. About the kids, about us.’ Silence at both ends.
‘You got a bloke?’
‘I didn’t say that,’ she said guardedly, ‘I’ve just been discovering myself these last couple of days.’
Matthew drifted into discovery himself. He was struggling up the Great Curve of Learning; maybe they all were, all friends and family climbing at a different rate and Matthew imagined himself treading on the heads and hands of others as he made his ascent. It was a distasteful thought, however true it may have been.
‘Same, here. I’ve had a few days to clear my head, too,’ Matthew remarked and he stressed to Jeanie, ‘Things are gonna change.’
Change, Jeanie wondered, change, change, change. ‘We’re driving down tomorrow. Mum’s not been well.’
‘I’ll clean out some space in the storeroom and put another bed in there.’ Matthew was doing the sums, the bedtime arithmetic.
‘Matty, Rastus is dead.’
The Wounded Sinner Page 17