by Steve Hawke
‘Nervous?’
‘Scared shitless.’
They don’t allow the empathy to linger though. Some smart-arsery is called for. Joe puts on his lighthearted voice as he heads to the pantry for the whisky bottle. ‘I’m expecting a full report. Saturday night? I’ll lay on a good bottle of red. Hang on, you might get lucky and be otherwise engaged. Would Sunday be better?’
But Eric is not in the mood. ‘Lay off it Joe. It’s alright for you, boasting about Annie screwing you senseless. It’s six years since Lil left me. Six and a half since I’ve had a fuck.’
Joe winces.
‘Probably eight since I had a good one.’
He pours a bit more into Eric’s glass.
MEA CULPA #2
Joe turns the phone off. He doesn’t want to hear from the world just at the moment. As he does so he notices the time. It is only twenty-four hours ago that he felt as high as he has in an age, punching the air as he stepped out of the lift into the lobby after his presentation to the JKH crew.
Twenty-three hours ago he’d been stalking the backstreets of Subiaco in a state of rising panic.
Now?
After talking to Anne up in Karratha there is a bad feeling in his gut, that he does not yet understand, and that will not be ignored.
The lie just slipped out, unplanned. Never has he deceived her so easily. She laughed, and called him a clever bugger.
Two big lies in a week. That’s not how we operate.
He has no qualms about the Betty lie. It was honourable. But the car story? It happened so easily, so naturally. His initial feeling was relief at getting away with it. But now there is a quease in his guts.
Why the second lie?
By the time he works it out Joe has smoked a quarter of the pack of Camels. Once he started to tease out the threads he had to go and buy a pack, his first in thirteen years. Now he thinks he’s got it, he empties the packet, crumbles the ones still left into a pile of paper and tobacco shreds, gathers up the butts, and bins the lot.
Better dead than demented. He hears himself saying it, in semi-jest, to Anne and Eric. Hardly a month ago now, after the last visit he and Betty did together to Uncle George.
All the way home in the cab last night he told himself over and over that it was just the stress of the week. It was the humiliation of the encounter with Constable Green that was consuming him. How could he have been so stupid?!
He wasn’t thinking about Uncle George. Not consciously.
The cash for the fines and fees this morning. That was so Anne wouldn’t see the transactions on the bank statement, he realises now. But he is positive that thought had not entered his mind beforehand.
Not consciously.
He remembers Uncle George drooling with delight as he sculled that glass. On top of the day with Betty.
Six days later he has an inexplicable memory loss.
There’s no logic to it, he tells himself, but it is the only thing that makes sense. Of the lie.
Calm down Joe.
All that’s happened, he tells himself again, is a balls-up on a Friday night after a big, big week. It means nothing.
But he knows that he didn’t want to go there with Anne. From somewhere within came an unconscious lie.
Am I going to tell her?
April 2004
KNITTING
Joe knows he should really wait for Eric before starting, but he’s feeling pleased with himself. He’s put in nearly a full day at his home office, despite it being a Saturday. With the due diligence done, and the green light from the JKH management committee to fully commit, there is a manic month ahead before the tender closing date, to finalise their bid. He reaches down to the fridge under the drafting table and grabs a beer.
A chair spin. Anne is in her favourite verandah chair, knitting in hand. He can’t help a chuckle. He takes a sip, and then a deeper draught, enjoying the feel of that first cold blast of ale for the day. And muses—as he has done every day since she got back from Karratha, often many times a day.
Not yet. I will, but not yet.
The last two weeks have seemed close to magical. Anne is euphoric still, her heart and mind overflowing with the perfect miracle of her new grandson, James, and her reconnection after all these years with the red earth and rawness of the north. Joe is longing to meet the babe in the flesh, but feels included and embraced, with a surfeit of photos and phone calls. He can tell that baby James has a good pair of lungs.
Workwise, the civic centre project is shaping as the most exciting thing he has done in twenty years, and the intern he is working closely with, young Tony Chen, is sharp as a tack, and completely entranced by the buttressed arch concept.
And on the home front his stocks are as good as they’ve been in ages. Anne is full of sympathy, and also gratitude, for his handling of Betty’s suicide. For his white lie that left her to enjoy the time in Karratha unfettered.
There is a sadness every time he thinks of his aunt, but it is a manageable, untraumatic, almost palatable sadness. He has constructed a mental narrative in which she was both wise in her decisions and courageous in her actions, and as thoughtful as she could possibly have been in their execution.
The other lie remains unresolved. He tells himself it would be cruel and pointless to break the golden spell of these weeks with such a downer, which may well prove to be nothing anyway. He stands there at the shed window, watching her struggle with her needles. Another pull at his beer, and as he savours it, he comes to a decision. The revelation can wait until this tender is off his plate. He immediately feels better, lighter. There is a spring in his step as he pushes the door open, and makes his way over. He leans in to give her a peck before sitting on the old sofa beside her chair.
She smiles fondly, and waves her knitting at him. ‘I’ve lost the hang of this.’
‘You never were that crash hot were you,’ he responds in a teasing tone.
‘What about that jumper I did for Claire!’
‘If I remember correctly, you were knitting it for her birthday—and she got it for Christmas. In the middle of a bloody heatwave!’
She chucks a ball of wool at him. ‘Shut up you.’
‘They live in the tropics. I can’t quite see James in a woolly cardigan.’
‘It gets quite chilly in the house sometimes. Geoffrey likes the aircon too high. Besides, he’ll need warm things when they come down for the christening.’
THE ELECTRIC BLUE SHIRT
‘Ding dong,’ calls Eric as he pushes open the side gate and joins them out the back. ‘You really should get yourselves a louder doorbell if you’re going to be out here all the time,’ he says, putting down a plastic bag.
Anne drops her needles and is quickly on her feet to give him a big hug, and a kiss on each cheek, and a ‘so good to see you’. But then she is holding him back at arm’s length to scrutinise his clothes; the electric blue shirt, and sharply creased slacks with a silver glitter threaded through the light grey. She shakes her head. ‘The famous Carol outfit I presume! She’s got no fashion sense, that’s for sure. Or can she see past all that to the heart of gold that beats beneath?’
‘She’s colour blind actually.’ Eric says it with a peculiar smile. ‘Ironic,’ he adds, as both Joe and Anne dissolve into laughter.
‘You didn’t tell me that,’ Joe laughs.
‘Only found out last night.’ They realise from his tone that he is not finding it funny, and exchange a glance. He says to Anne, ‘Bugalugs insisted I wear them tonight, for your benefit. But it’s their last run.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’ He gathers himself. ‘Where’s my beer Joe?’ And to Anne, ‘So how’s it going Granny.’
‘Oh Eric, it was just so wonderful to be there. It might’ve been the best two weeks of my life I think.’
‘She’s knitting,’ Joe throws over his shoulder, as he heads off for beers.
‘There’s a medical term for that isn’t t
here,’ Eric says with a smile, and the vibe is good again. ‘So tell me, how’s Claire?’
‘Radiant. Oh, there’s nothing like it Eric, those first few days with your firstborn. She said to give Nuncle Neric her love.’
‘Bless her.’
Joe arrives back. ‘Careful with the blessings business. They’re coming down for the christening and baptism. We’re waiting to hear what the date and arrangements are. I’m thinking waist deep in the Swan. Full body dunking and all that shit.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ Eric asks.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Anne says with a half-serious glare at Joe.
‘Buggered if I’ll be part of it,’ he blusters.
‘You will so.’
Eric endures and enjoys the stream of photos, and Anne’s intricate account of the birth and the aftermath, and her time in the Pilbara. But they have to pause when Anne jumps up to get the roast out of the oven.
COLOUR BLIND
Eric disappears while Joe and Anne are engaged in carving and gravy making. He emerges as she is serving up, wearing his more familiar jeans and tee-shirt. He throws the plastic bag, now containing the fancy clothes, into a corner, saying to Anne, ‘Can you get rid of these somewhere?’
‘What’s going on?’ Joe asks.
Eric tells the tale over dinner.
‘We had a fantastic night, until’—though there is no logic to it, he looks at his watch—‘about two fifty this morning.’
‘Meaning?’ asks Anne.
‘I’ll get there.
‘Dinner was great. The Italian in Maylands. Better ambience than the casino was, that’s for sure. And that was when the colour blind thing came up. She asked me what colour my shirt was!’
Joe is astonished. ‘You’re joking.’
‘It was her way of letting me know. She’s a bit touchy about it, so I suppose it was some sort of signal that she trusted me. Liked me? Something like that I suppose. Did you know that blue-yellow colour blindness is much rarer than red-green?
‘Anyway, dinner’s good. And back at my place is fan-bloody-tastic, if you’ll excuse me saying so.’ He is blushing, but defiant. ‘You guys know. It’s been a while. We’re lying there afterwards, and as you do—despite the dinner—we get the munchies. She says, “I’d love some KFC right now.”’
Anne can’t help a delighted guffaw. Eric’s penchant for the Colonel is a standing joke. He manages a chuckle. ‘Yeah, I know. It was one of those perfect moments. Next thing you know we’ve thrown on some clothes and headed for the all-nighter near my place.
‘I put my order in. I’m feeling like a teenager, happy as a lark sitting there in the passenger seat while she rattles hers off. “Two piece feed, hot’n’spicy, barbeque dipping sauce, regular Pepsi and a chocolate mousse.”’ Eric says it in a rapid staccato. ‘She’s done this before, that’s for sure. I’m not really paying attention. The girl on the intercom asks her if she’d mind repeating the order. Which she does. This time the girl asks, “Which dipping sauce was that madam?” And gets back, “BAR—BE—QUE! Got that?” It was like a snarl. The first inkling that starts to bring me back from happyland. Then it’s, “Learn to understand English if you want to live in this country. Or better still, go back where you came from and leave the jobs for good Aussie kids!” ’
His last Carol quote comes out in an ugly nasal twang that distorts his face.
‘Oh no,’ Anne murmurs.
‘Oh no indeed. This was all on the intercom, I hadn’t even picked up on the Asian accent till she came out with that. But it gets better guys. You couldn’t write the script.’
Eric can hardly believe it himself. ‘Until she started up, I’m still basking in the afterglow. So I’m not exactly on the ball. I’m not sure what I said. Something pathetic like “steady on”. The look she gave me! By now we’ve driven round to the window. This poor Asian girl’s tearing up, and starts making a hash of the change, and it’s five dollars short. So what does Carol do, demands to see the store manager, saying she’s not putting up with this abominable service and rudeness—the girl hasn’t said a word. She hands over the order, apologising—her apologising mind you, the poor thing, hoping we’ll piss off. But Carol won’t let go, she insists on seeing the manager. So the girl scurries off.
‘By now my mind’s racing, trying to work out how I’m going to deal with this. Plan A is to get her out of there before things get any worse. I tell her to forget about it, let’s just head home. But she just ignores me, with her foot tapping away like a bloody drumbeat. I sink down in my seat scared of what might be coming next, when this deep voice says, “What seems to be the problem madam?” We look round, and—you’re not going to believe this—the manager’s a six-foot-seven African guy.
‘She just says, “What’s the fucken point,” and pulls out. “We got the daily double. Slanty eyes and uppity niggers.” From there to the flats I get the full Pauline Hanson spiel, uncut.’
He drains his glass and holds it out again. ‘Not the Perth we grew up in hey guys? In more ways than one.’
‘What on earth did you do?’ Anne’s question comes out as an agonised groan.
‘Well it was a bit awkward wasn’t it. Her jacket and her handbag were still up in my flat. I managed to send her on her way. “This isn’t going to work,” I think is what I said. Pretty lame in the circumstances, but I think I was in a state of shock basically.
‘“Fuck you too” were my dear Carol’s parting words. And I never got my chicken feed either, it was still sitting on the passenger seat when she roared off.’
He sighs deeply and looks across at the bag with the electric blue shirt and the pants. ‘I’d shed my skin too if I could,’ he shudders. ‘Now, can we please change the subject.’
PASSION
It turns into a long night. To oblige Eric’s request for a change of topic, Anne asks him about something that has been on her mind. ‘You’ve spent time in the Pilbara haven’t you?’
‘A bit. More in the Kimberley though. All that Aboriginal housing stuff I was doing in the eighties and nineties.’
‘There’s something about the country up there, isn’t there. I think it got in my blood more than I realised in those Tom Price years. I only got out of Karratha for half a day, but still. The colours, and the space!’
‘Yeah, but it’s harsh,’ Eric responds. ‘I remember driving through the Pilbara just after a cyclone. The road signs were bent double by the winds, but that mulga and saltbush is so bloody tough it hardly seemed touched. Give me the Kimberley any day.’
‘Yeah, barramundi country,’ says Joe.
‘It does have that going for it,’ Eric agrees. ‘A damn sight more rivers, and water in general.’
‘Both then!’ Anne exclaims. ‘Let’s do it! Every waterhole in the Pilbara and the Kimberley. How about that for a plan, Joe?’
Anne is taken aback by the intensity of her response. The way it emerged unpremeditated, unbidden, but with complete conviction. She feels the flutter of an odd sensation that she cannot put her finger on. But Joe is oblivious, still in jocular mode.
‘I reckon I could manage it.’
It is Eric who picks up on her tone, and is watching her keenly. ‘Every waterhole in the Kimberley’d take you years,’ he says. ‘There’s some wild country up there.’
‘All the better. I want to see a Gouldian finch. In the wild.’
‘That’s the big gaudy one hey?’ Eric asks.
‘Erythrura gouldiae. It’s big for a finch, yes. I don’t know about gaudy though. Amazing colours. Green, royal blue, light blue, yellow belly, purple breast—now that’s rare in a bird, purple. But there’s a subtlety to the colours, some of them are almost pastel. So no, not gaudy. And rare as hen’s teeth. There’s twitchers who’ve ticked off every Australian bird except the Gouldian.’
The men exchange smiles as she rhapsodises. She is perfectly aware of them, but doesn’t give a toss. That flutter again, like a fledgling bird inside her, testin
g its wings.
‘You’ve got her started now,’ Joe chuckles.
‘You’ve got to love the passion though,’ Eric replies.
‘Yeah, but it can go on for hours.’
Eric turns to Anne. ‘You really should check out Bullfrog Hole. They reckon there’s Gouldians there.’
‘That’s where you got your barra hey?’ asks Joe.
‘Sure did.’
‘Didn’t you say it’s station country though? Private property?’ Anne asks.
‘I can put in a good word for you with Rosa—Lil’s all-time favourite student. She’s the chair of the community there now.’
‘Let’s do it Joe. Not just Bullfrog Hole. All of it. The real country.’
‘When were you thinking? Next week?’
‘I’m serious.’
The fledgling within is growing flight feathers as she speaks. A flight of fancy that has the feel of a truth.
‘I don’t know when. Or how, yet. That’ll come. But imagine it. We could use Claire’s as a base, and just explore. Live off barramundi and tins. No-one but us.’
Joe is finding her fervour, and this idea that seems to have come from nowhere, slightly disturbing. ‘What about the big Americas trip? Birds’n’blues?’
‘That’s a holiday. The perfect one for us two, sure, but still a holiday. I’m talking about what we do with our lives. How we live.’
This is getting a bit serious for Joe, and he resorts to flippancy. ‘An epiphany Eric. Before our very eyes! Bear witness.’
‘Smartarse. Something is happening though. It just hit me while I was up with Claire. I’ve had enough of teaching. I’m over it.’
‘And this has got nothing to do with baby James?’ Eric asks.
‘Of course it does. And why not? But that’s not the core of it. Joe and I have battled our way through to a pretty good space lately. And you know better than anyone, Eric, that didn’t always look likely. It’s that “good space” that’s important to me these days. You said it just now. Passion. Birds, the bush, and my family. That’s what I’ve got time and energy left for. Not year ten English I’m afraid. The spark’s fading, and the kids know it.