Smythe's Theory of Everything

by Robert Hollingworth

  Chances of winning Tattslotto: six numbers drawn from forty equals 1: 2,036,265. Better buy two tickets.

  We now have a full complement at the dinner table - eight in all. The men are all obliged to sit at one huge laminex plateau while the women get to sit on tables of four. There are six, sometimes seven tables available for them and one big table for the eight men. I have asked for a table on my own, or at least with Jim Southall and possibly Joe, but to no avail.

  So here is our complement of geriatrics: Dooley ex-publican on my left. Next to him another new inmate - Bronson (as in ‘Charles Bronson’) of Aboriginal decent, very dark, possibly total or at least very close to full blood. Next to Bronson on the far end is Ivan Radisich. Thick glasses, ex-taxi driver, possibly Russian and the one who steals from other plates. My guess is they put him on the end so he can be watched. Next comes Joe or ‘Skeleton Joe’ doubled over. To his left is old Clem who speaks in riddles, then Pistol Pete opposite me, and Jim Southall is on my right at the head of the table. The new members have apparently come across from the other wing as Jim Southall did. New administration is my guess, and with that comes the need to change the existing arrangements, a ‘new broom’.

  Only other male in the room is the young bloke in the bed-come-wheelchair who cannot sit up. He gets hand fed in the corner. As this has been our table arrangement for several nights now, I can only assume it will stay that way. Could they possibly squeeze any more in?

  The latest antics on our table. Skeleton Joe loads the butter onto his bread with such alacrity that the butter dish is emptied. I did not think it possible to get that much butter on half a slice of bread. Clem on his left finds a big bone in his fish - that alone is criminal in a place like this. Clem picks it out of his mouth and finds it stuck by a bit of fish skin to his finger. He studies it, then tries to get it off, it gets stuck on his other finger. He keeps trying to release it from his fingers - who knows where he expects it to go. Dooley and I just watch in amaze-ment. Then he gives it a flick with his other fingers and it spears right into the butter on Joe’s bread. Jim looks at me, he’s seen it too. Now here’s the dilemma - do we tell Joe he’s got a potential disaster on his plate or do we just wait and see what happens? Well, the next thing we know Ivan the food poacher snatches Joe’s bread and aims it towards his own mouth. Joe goes to claim it back, a tussle ensues and the object in question goes face down on the floral carpet. Even then Ivan still wants to claim it. I think he is of some Eastern Bloc origin and might have been starved in Siberia.

  The Various States of Mobility: Starting with the young fellow reclining: zero per cent. Dooley 80 per cent, walks on his own but sometimes forgets which direction. Bronson the very feeble Aboriginal, walks on his own also but only 40 per cent (painfully slow). Not much eyesight either. Ivan in a wheelchair, quite mobile so 85 per cent. Skeleton Joe can walk but can’t look up so 60 per cent. Clem, wheelchair needs pushing so 10 per cent (reliant on others), Pistol Pete in the flash new wheelchair has learned to push it himself even though he has no feeling in his right side, 50 per cent. Jim, also in a wheelchair, can help himself sometimes (health varies) so 50 per cent. Me, quite dexterous with the wheelchair so 60 to 70 per cent and improving.

  Ages (at an estimate): Publican Dooley seventy-five, Bronson the Aboriginal seventy though appears much older, Ivan the thief eighty, Skeleton Joe ninety, Clem eighty, Pistol Pete high sixties, Jim the MP, eighty-five. Only a rough guess because health issues reflect badly on a man’s real age.

  This morning in the bathroom I was appalled to catch sight of Clem’s legs - a mass of the worst looking ulcers I’ve ever seen, which Dell says is a result of the diabetes. He’s got one on the back of his knee the size of a plum. No wonder he’s in the chair. It upset me so much I left my large tin of Johnsons Baby Powder behind. Went back to get it and it was gone. But later on in the morning, as I passed one of the old duck’s rooms, I saw it, or its twin, sitting on a table. I now have a large tin of powder again. I also lost my new cake of soap, except that I haven’t had the same degree of success in recovering it.

  Cleaned out one of the boxes and found Epsom salts spilt everywhere. At least I have discovered the missing green cardigan that I bought at David Jones. And also my Melways which has turned out to be a very interesting read. For example, the inner suburbs of Melbourne. Does anyone know where Seddon or Kingsville is? Both near West Melbourne. Ever heard of Dallas or Jacana? Near Broadmeadows.

  We named the baby Lisa. We thought it was quite original, having gone through a hundred different monikers. It wasn’t until a few years later that we discovered half the girl babies born around then were Lisas. How does that work? Think of an original baby’s name and it is somehow already in the psyche of half the population.

  We moved into a nice little flat in Rosebery. Not a stick of furniture or an object for the wall but we were very happy in that flat. Lisa slept in the room with us so that Kit could come and stay. Kitty even moved in for a while and paid rent, but she got sick of a fridge full of formula and nappies in the laundry - and as I said, she never really warmed to Heather.

  And Kit never really went for the modern jazz movement whereas Heather craved it. Even with a baby, she dressed the part and tried to live a life that on the surface looked free and easy.

  It was around that time that Heather met Bryan Wallace, a DJ at an alternative radio station (now defunct). On many nights when I got home from work Heather would be heading out the door, which left me looking after Lisa. I didn’t mind so much; Heather needed her freedom and would go mad without it. The upside of Heather’s friendship with Bryan was that we had the best record collection in Sydney - all free - some albums before anyone else: Miles Davis, Billie Holiday, Dave Brubeck, Carmen McCrae, you name it. Ricky Mae.

  Meanwhile Kitty went for a slightly different scene. She liked Jimi Hendrix, Bo Diddley and The Kinks. She liked to dress down rather than up. She was interested in the American Civil Rights Movement and she read Catch 22.

  Around then Kitty turned twenty and one afternoon she turned up out the front of our place astride a big, shiny Harley Davidson.

  ‘Bloody hell, Kit, where’d you get it?’

  ‘Found it under a tree. Where do you think I got it?’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit … big?’

  ‘It’s just a baby, Jacky boy. A kitten. Come on; hop on.’

  I put my leg over that bike behind Kitty and I have to say it felt impressive - kind of primal and heroic at the same time. I can imagine the day the first human being sat astride an animal more powerful than he. I had no helmet but Kit just chucked that big bike into gear and throttled up the street. A few minutes later we were heading south down the Princes Highway, well over the speed limit, the wind tearing at us, the people and houses zipping past in a blur. In my mind’s eye I saw us leaving everything behind, jazzers and rockers, Heather and Bryan, me and the baby holed up in a little flat. I saw Kitty and me leaving it all standing.

  I held fast to her. I could smell her hair and I felt her hard body tremble when she let out a crazy scream as we streamed on and on. I was grinning from Bondi to Burke. In everyone’s life there are highlights, maybe three key moments that stand out. That day travelling down the coast on the back of Kitty’s bike was definitely one of mine. We went on and on, I cannot think how far, how long.

  Hours later we were back and Kitty dropped me again on the footpath out the front. She grinned at me and just kept the big bike revving. ‘See yah,’ she yelled and took off up the street, engine roaring, the neighbours’ heads turning, Mrs Henson’s dog barking in the window.

  Suddenly the air was still. I looked in the direction Kitty had gone but she’d already turned the corner. My legs felt heavy and useless, rooted to the concrete; my body had no more mobility than the power pole beside me. A strange vacuum seemed to form and when I turned my head I nearly fell over. In my entire life I have never felt so completely and utterly immobilised. I stood there in the stillness collecting my b
earings and over the tops of houses I could still hear Kitty changing gears, disappearing into the future on her Harley Davidson.

  It was some time later that I realised she was trying to tell me something. Something about the way I was living my life and the way she was living hers. Kitty wouldn’t be tied down, she wouldn’t be doing what’s expected, and perhaps for the first time she seemed free of the spirits that had always haunted her.

  That same year Heather became a hairdresser. Unknown to me, she had once done an apprenticeship. She was good at it and before long she was managing the shop - some nights she even slept over. Then the roof caved in - she discovered she was again pregnant. Once more we talked about abortion - this time it was Heather’s idea. But where? How did you go about it? It wasn’t legal, of course, but clinics existed. Various celebrities were rumoured to have used them, but we just weren’t in that league and had no idea who to turn to. And what reason could we give? Christopher popped out in February 1963.

  Kitty was twenty-two by then and the bar manager of a very flash club in Darlinghurst. I saw her every Sunday - we met at the Syrius Cafe, just the two of us. She still had her bike and rode it everywhere. But under the leather jacket she wore the labels of Paris and New York.

  One Sunday I arrived and Kitty was already seated with a cappuccino in front of her - everyone drank cappuccinos then, not long blacks or skinny lattes or flat whites with soy. She had her head down and was reviewing some paperwork from the night before, her bracelets jangling in the sunlight. This was not the same person who once slept with pigeon shit on the floor of an abandoned factory. Her shining black hair was tied back to reveal perfect makeup, her clear blue eyes accented with mascara, her bright red lips leaving traces on the coffee cup. She packed up her papers the moment I came over. ‘What’s doing, Jacky boy?’ she said. She’s the only human on earth I would allow to call me ‘Jacky boy’. I kissed her cheek; she smelled beautiful.

  ‘Lots, Kit. Me and Jeff just won a contract with the Navy. Going to paint the serial numbers on the frigates and battleships.’ She didn’t seem impressed.

  ‘You thought anymore about that flat in Redfern? It’s still on the market. They might be getting desperate.’

  ‘It’s pushed to the backburner now, Kit. Now that I’m a dad again. Other things to worry about.’

  ‘How’s the baby? … Christopher?’

  ‘Yeah, Christopher, or Chris. He’ll probably get Chris.’ I thought for a moment. ‘It wasn’t my idea to call him Christopher; Heather wanted it. I would’ve gone with John, the same as me. Or Bill.’

  ‘She still pushing you around? Even from the hospital …’

  ‘She doesn’t push me around.’

  ‘She does.’

  ‘Does not.’

  ‘Does so.’

  ‘Does not.’

  We smiled at each other.

  Then a wave of seriousness passed through me.

  ‘Something’s troubling me, Kit.’ The waiter arrived with my coffee.

  I could feel Kitty’s eyes fixed on me.

  ‘This baby. Christopher. He has bright blond hair … He just doesn’t look like a son of mine …’

  ‘A lot of babies start out blonde, then end up as dark as you and me.’

  ‘But it’s face-shape and everything. I know it’s only a week but I look at the baby and I look at Heather. It … it seems like someone else’s child.’

  I felt Kit’s blue eyes piercing me the way they do. I have always had the distinct feeling that she can go inside people, lick her mind around all she needs to know and send it back to them in a new and unexpected way. She ordered another cappuccino.

  ‘You know Lisa isn’t yours, don’t you?’

  My hand shook violently - where did that come from?

  ‘What makes you say a horrible thing like that?’

  ‘You do know, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know any such thing!’

  ‘Jack, the baby was born eight months after you met.’

  ‘I know that! You weren’t even there. We had sex on the very first night - and every other night after that!’

  ‘Eight months, Jack.’

  ‘It was premature. Heather said it was a premmie, by at least a month.’

  Kitty drilled me with her eyes.

  ‘But you know the truth, don’t you?’

  ‘Christ, Kitty. You’re trying to put a slur on my family. You’re trying to suggest things that are just … just … You can’t just go around stating things without knowing the facts.’

  ‘Heather told me that Lisa wasn’t yours.’

  ‘What? She did not! When did she say that?’

  ‘When I came over last. When we were talking about her going in to have the new baby.’

  ‘I was there.’

  ‘You were in the shower.’

  ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘We were having a few heated words. I told her that after the baby she’d better go on doing the right thing by you; be a proper wife and mother. She flipped out and said she always had. Said she’d always been a good wife even though Lisa wasn’t even your daughter. I’d already guessed that much of course but I never said anything.’

  ‘Why not? Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘None of my business.’

  ‘None of your business? Since when do we hold stuff from each other?’

  ‘Since when do you lie - to yourself ?’

  Kitty stared hard and of course I knew she was right. I think I must have known about Lisa all along. But I can’t say it really made any difference, especially in the beginning. But with Christopher it was harder. I was a bit older and a bit wiser and this was after the fact. The fact of our marriage. I knew Heather was out a lot of nights and stayed over at the salon and the boy didn’t look like me at all.

  And then there was the night I came home late and found Bryan Wallace coming out of our toilet stark naked, his penis withered as though it had been thrashed with a large stick. He just scratched his hairy gut and said, Well, I better get going, I suppose. No apology, no excuses. He could have said he needed a shower. He could have said there’d been an accident and his clothes were in the washing machine. But I knew exactly where his clothes were, shucked on the carpet next to our bed.

  I never raised any of this with Heather; I was never in the mood. I think of myself as easy going and at that time I had no intention of confronting anyone about anything. What would be the point? There’d be no more ‘Heather and me’, she’d be stuck with the kids and I’d have to go off and live somewhere else. A carbon copy of my own father. I had to show some ‘intestinal fortitude’ and the only thing to do in my book was to be a husband and father. Was Lisa mine? I loved her for who she was. And Christopher? What difference would it make either way? Would we raise him differently?

  What do you call a collection of people in a nursing home? After careful consideration I have decided upon ‘a muddle of geriatrics’. At lunchtime today I arrived to find a muddle of geriatrics in the lounge-cum-dining room. Higgledy-piggledy the chairs and wheelchairs are scattered about like sheep in a paddock. Although in this case there isn’t a bit of movement, not a bleat. White fuzzy fleece in all directions like a recent snow storm, faces staring into space, others with chins resting on breastbones or lolling back in a soporific state of pill-induced coma. The troubled ones, caught in a constant nightmare, are medicated while others are naturally comatose and need nothing to keep them in that eternal state.

  I wheel up beside Jim and he informs me that the tables were not arranged as there has been ‘an accident’. He says one of the old dears complained of a smell and it was discovered another was sitting in a pool of her own urine. The nurse did not respond straight away so the complainer grabbed her pocket and would not let go. The old lady got dragged right out of the chair.

  ‘Which nurse?’ I ask Jim.

  ‘Guess,’ he says.

  Just then Collier crosses the room like an icebreaker.

/>   Suddenly the young man with the brain disability catches sight of me and starts up. He tries to talk, a loud bellow that is only slightly intelligible. ‘Laaaaaarncch naaaaaart raaaaaardaaaay,’ he bawls which I think translates to ‘Lunch not ready.’ It’s directed at me but I pretend not to notice. No point encouraging him. His name is Craig, I believe, but when he says it, it sounds like ‘Raaaay’ or ‘Graaay’. But Jim says it’s Craig. They really should have special arrangements for these poor individuals.

  I start to wheel back to my room when a woman gets right in my road. ‘Hello,’ she says, in a high-pitched, senile sort of way. ‘Where’s Chris?’ she says.

  For a second I think she’s talking about my son. ‘Chris who?’

  ‘You know, Chris.’

  ‘Don’t know anyone by that name,’ I say.

  She jumps in front of me again.

  ‘You look just like him. Same hair and same lovely eyes.’

  Just then another woman comes to the rescue, trundling along in her own wheelchair. I’ve noticed her before.

  ‘Don’t worry about Iris, she won’t hurt you.’

  ‘Never thought she would.’

  ‘Why don’t you lead her to a chair?’ the new one says. I can’t believe it. Lead her to a chair? Now I’m supposed to be the nurse? As far as I can see the old dear is quite capable on her own - she bailed me up, didn’t she? I look again at the one in the wheelchair - she doesn’t seem to be much older than me.

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ I tell her, ‘but I’m having enough trouble getting around myself !’

  On the better side, the old bloke Pistol Pete who sits opposite me is turning out to be a bit of a character. Comes from some pub in the city - the Wynyard, I think. He says he’s got more girlfriends than Hugh Heffner and manages to ‘keep them all happy’. He has ended up in here by accident as well. He is becoming a very welcome and refreshing change from Dooley and the others, even if he is a bit of a rough diamond. If it wasn’t for his bad arm and leg, I bet he’d be out there enjoying the favours of all those women he talks about.