‘Ever seen an animal getting stuffed?’ I ask. Young Trent wets himself laughing. Of course it’s a legitimate question. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘the taxidermy.’
‘I have seen it,’ says Joe, ‘but you’d be surprised how little they do now. Most of the work in the natural sciences is collecting, preserving, storing, documenting …’
Trent says, ‘Ever stuffed a dead animal yourself, Joseph?’
Joe ignores him.
‘The weirdest thing I ever saw,’ Joe says to me, ‘is the dissection of a whale. It washed up near Wilson’s Prom and was on the beach ten days putrefying in the sun.’
‘Was it a hump back?’ says Trent. ‘They stuff pretty good, don’t they?’
‘That’s enough!’ says Lisa, jerking along in the traffic jam.
‘It was a Beaked Whale as a matter of fact,’ his brother says. ‘Quite rare. They got it into the museum and then it was slit open for tests to see what it died of. The worst smell you could ever imagine. Rotting flesh, guts and yellow slime everywhere. We all had to wear rubber gloves, rain jackets and waders. But even with a mask on you could hardly breathe for the putrefying, sloppy, disgusting, slimy gore …’
‘I think we get the message,’ says Lisa.
Trent leans forward. ‘Didn’t we have some of that with chips for dinner last night?’ Lisa ignores him. At least he seems to be engaging with us. He once went a whole year without speaking to an adult.
We finally get to the museum. I refuse to alight until a wheelchair is delivered. But Lisa points out she has parked next to a low fence and I will at least have to take a few steps. When the wheelchair arrives I do as I’m told and my legs hold up very well, I am pleased to say.
We get through the glass doors and Lisa says, ‘Do you want to go to the toilet, Dad?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Do you?’
Trent has wandered off and we have to wait until he comes back. The next thing I know I’m pushed through the crowd and parked under a 40-foot whale skeleton.
‘Imagine scraping the meat off those bones,’ says Trent.
I’m wheeled to a ramp.
‘Do they have a section to do with Quantum Mechanics?’ I say, but Lisa doesn’t seem to hear. After a few minutes of hustle and bustle I find myself at the Phar Lap display. Now we’re talking! That magnificent horse in a glass case is a sight to behold - what a champion! As a three-year-old, the only race he didn’t win was his last one in Australia, the Melbourne Cup. Because he had tried so hard in every race and won again and again, the officials decided to put an unprecedented weight on him, more than any other horse had ever endured. Other famous winners of the race had carried 58 kilos but that year Phar Lap had to bear a colossal 68 kilos! Of course he couldn’t sustain the pace over the course of two miles.
With that bit of absurdity, the owners decided to take him to America where he would not have to endure the crippling handicap weights. He was entered in the most important race of the year and still he had to carry the top weight and went into the field with little preparation and an injured hoof. But somehow that mighty stallion managed to overcome all the odds. He not only won the race but outclassed the best American horses in the country - and in track record time. Of course the industry got him in the end. Two weeks later he collapsed and died of a mystery illness.
There’s an important lesson in all that. Stick your neck out, win by a length, but they’ll burn you in the end. You can be the best in the country, have all the intestinal fortitude in the world, but you cannot overcome the opposing forces. Like John Lennon: shot down by a man who could not even think why he did it. And also like what happened to me and Kitty.
Joe and Trent charged around the museum from room to room like cats let loose. Hard to imagine they’re almost adults. Lisa tried to stay by my side, pleading that I should look at other things. But the Phar Lap display with the movie reels and the memorabilia was plenty for me. Lisa didn’t seem to notice the symbolism in it all, missed the whole point of the display. She’d choof off and every now and then return to find me just sitting with the great horse that was eventually eliminated from the race - forever.
On the way back in the car the boys were punching each other in the back seat. I decide to do a little test.
‘What was the most interesting thing you saw, Trent?’
‘Where?’ he says.
‘At the museum.’
He thinks for a minute. ‘That would be the chick at reception,’ he says laughing.
Lisa crisps up. ‘Would you mind answering your grandfather in a respectful way?’
‘I don’t want a respectful answer,’ I say. ‘I just want to know what he liked in the museum.’
Trent sobers. ‘The spears,’ he says. ‘I liked the wooden spears on the ground floor.’
‘What did you like about them?’
He looks out the window. ‘I don’t know. They’re pointy, I guess.’ He cracks up laughing.
What a waste.
Have just witnessed the strangest event. The big boss head Matron Collier has just appeared outside my window. She dragged a huge plastic pot to the wall opposite and began filling it with bags of potting mix. What on earth is she doing?
Perhaps I should describe what the staff very generously call our ‘courtyard’. It is a strip of concrete about 3 metres wide and about 20 metres long running past some of the rooms, including mine. Anywhere else it would be called an easement or a setback from the boundary - flanked by a concrete wall about three metres high so no-one can escape.
Collier gets down on her big fat knees and rams that potting mix into the pot like a pile-driver. Then she goes away and comes back with a shrub of some kind and plants it in the tub. She pours in a bucket of water. Then she just stands back, hands on hips and stares at it for a long time. Don’t tell me she has a grain of care in her? So now we have a single green shrub growing in our ‘courtyard’. What an amazing transformation! With a bit of luck a shaft of sunlight might land on it around midday and the whole grey area will turn into a rainforest.
Also Jim’s granddaughter has just left and I see exactly what he means. It was pure accident that I should meet her. I stuck up my Phar Lap poster and then I thought I might trundle outside for a fag to see what the hell it was that Collier has planted. The sun was at last shining and Jim was out there in his wheelchair with the girl standing nearby having a smoke. She was slumped against the concrete wall, hair under a kind of beanie and what looked like skin-tight black jeans inside black boots up to her knees. I was about to turn around when Jim saw me and called me over to join them. I hesitated but then I could see there was no way out of it. The girl didn’t look at me and even when introduced she just puffed on her smoke, barely giving me a glance. Jim introduced her as Fiona, a name I quite liked. Lisa might easily have been Fiona. Then came the bombshell.
‘But Fiona spells her name differently, Jack: p-h-e-o-n-a.’
Pheona; can you believe it? Tell me what’s going on with that? Tell me what difference it makes in normal conversation. The only difference is that she must spend her entire life spelling her name for every form, certificate and application that officials insist on filling out. The girl must have caught the look on my face.
‘But you can use Phe, if you like,’ she says. ‘Easier to get your mind around.’
‘That’s enough, Pheona,’ says Jim. ‘Remember where you are.’
‘In a loony bin?’ she says.
I don’t waste any more time.
‘See you later, Jim,’ I say. ‘Good luck!’
I cannot remember what I did on that second day in Sydney. I recall that I decided not to bother Debbie two days in a row, but that is all. I must have slept in, walked around and probably bought some lunch. I never eat properly when I travel. Sometimes I think I might sit down at a restaurant and order a proper meal but after peering in the window of a few places I end up buying some rubbish on the street. I always assume that the takeaway I choose will be good. Then I buy it - French fries
, a hamburger or a chicken roll - and it’s greasy and salty and sits in your stomach like a trowel of wet cement. The idea is always much better than the fact of it. I think it’s because the takeaway we had in the sixties was much better. In those days we’d die for a piece of fish and minimum chips wrapped up in a sheet of newspaper. Tear a hole in the end of that package and pull out real chips, cut thick with a knife.
That second night in Sydney I think I just got some more takeaway. Then I walked up Oxford Street towards the movie theatre again. I must have gone quite a few blocks; I had no idea what I was going to do. Suddenly I caught sight of a red light over a door on the other side of the street. I knew exactly what that red light meant. I stood there and stared at it for quite a while and then without thinking I crossed the street towards it - to this day I don’t know why. I had never been near a brothel in my life (at that time they were called massage parlours). Of course, I was feeling very low; the trip had been a big let-down, I had not found Kitty, I’d spent money than I could not afford and soon I’d be going home again, empty-handed, to nothing more remarkable than the Ceswick Hotel.
Going to a brothel is not on my radar. Yet that night, down in the dumps, I also felt strangely foolhardy - I was anonymous, far from home and if I could waste money on a futile trip why not splash the rest of it, do the job properly? And I was curious - maybe I could learn something. What happens? What would the sex be like? I conjured an image of some beautiful girl showering me with love and attention, no questions asked. Like in the movies.
I walked up to the door expecting to walk straight in. It was locked. I pressed the buzzer. I began to feel very uncomfortable standing on the street under a red light. People passed but I turned my back. Then I was aware of a presence on the other side of the spy hole. The door opened and a moment later I was standing in a very dark passageway. The woman called me ‘Love’ and ushered me through to a waiting room, much like a family lounge.
‘Wait here, Love,’ she said, and then she was gone.
The room smelled of stale perfume and deodoriser. It was lit by a couple of red scented candles and gradually my eyes got used to the dark. I saw a couch and sat down feeling nervous and rather stupid. What did I think I was doing? Why was I here? Did I really want to take my clothes off in front of a stranger and expect her to have sex with me? How should we do it? Should I ask or would she suggest? What if my penis refused to rise? Minutes passed. Sitting there in the half dark I started to think about all the others who sat exactly where I was sitting and each one expecting sex from the same woman I would soon meet. Suddenly I stood up and made for the door.
Just then, right in the doorway, a young woman appeared out of the darkness wearing what seemed like next to nothing. I tried to see her in the half light. She was short, rounded and seemed to be wearing an alarming amount of makeup. I could not see her eyes at all, just two dark recesses in a pale face.
‘Hi, I’m Cassandra,’ she said and put out her hand.
‘Hello,’ I said. Her hand was limp, cool and clammy. Was this the one chosen for me? Suddenly she just turned around and left! Was I to follow? I was just making up my mind when in walked a second woman. She was around thirty, taller than me and wearing what seemed to be a transparent negligee over a red or maroon bra.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Deedee, is there anything special you want?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘No, nothing really.’ She just stood there in the half dark.
‘Well I do most things,’ she said, ‘and I kiss on the mouth for a bit extra.’ She gave me a big smile and left. Almost immediately a third woman came into the room.
At last I understood what was happening - I was to meet all the girls and then I was to make a choice. The third woman had what appeared to be a huge mass of bright red hair, not naturally red but neon red which was obviously a wig.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Kylie.’ I took her cold hand for a brief second.
‘Hello,’ I replied. Then she turned quickly and left.
When she first entered I thought she seemed a little nicer than the others and I felt she’d be the one I’d choose - if I was going to stay. But up close she didn’t seem friendly at all and her eyes seemed to glare at me, disdainfully. With that, I completely lost my nerve, went into the passage, out through the front door and down the steps.
I breathed the night air deeply. For the life of me I could not imagine why I had chosen to go there. The dark look of that last woman, those accusing eyes. I walked up the street and her cold stare stayed with me. And yet if I’d had the nerve I knew she’d be the one I’d choose. For all her sudden indifference I somehow felt she was my type; the right height and the right build. The right look.
Suddenly I stopped dead. My heart froze, and then almost as suddenly it began pounding wildly. My body went cold and my legs felt weak under me, I felt my hands trembling. Sweat appeared on my skin. No! It couldn’t be. No! It was impossible! I began to breathe deeply. I felt nauseous. No! It was impossible, I told myself. That woman. That young woman. Something about her …
I started to walk and felt the weakness in my legs, the dizziness. Could I get back to the hotel? The more I marched the more I saw the woman’s face. Take off the wig, what have you got? Kitty? It could not be Kitty! But she turned. She turned so quickly and left. Had she recognised me in the half dark? It was totally absurd and I told myself so out loud: Get a grip, I said, snap out of it. I looked up and realised I had no idea where I was going. I glanced around disoriented. There was nothing familiar; it felt like a confused dream. Then I remembered that earlier I’d crossed the street which meant I was walking in the wrong direction.
What was her name … Kylie? It starts with a K. Same number of letters as ‘Kitty’. Ridiculous! What on earth had that to do with it? It definitely wouldn’t be Kitty.
By the time I got to Forbes Street I felt sure it was her - or someone so like her it was worth going back. How did I know; what had I recognised? I had not seen anything clearly. A presence, a gesture, a slight tone in the voice - that look. I passed a grocery shop with flowers out the front. On impulse I bought a bunch - I had no idea why or what they were - and then I headed back up the street. Out the front I looked up at the red light and stopped dead. What on earth was I doing? Kitty? Ridiculous! I threw the flowers into a dark recess near the steps. I turned away. But for the life of me I couldn’t leave. I turned again to face the door. I was about to become the biggest fool in history, but I had to know; I had to know whatever the cost. And what did it matter? Men were going in there and making fools of themselves every night. I stepped up and pressed the buzzer again.
Another interruption from Jim! ‘What do you want?’ I say, almost shouting.
‘Sorry young fellow,’ he says. ‘Saw your light on and thought you must have watched the fishing show.’ I had forgotten all about it. I am so absorbed in getting my story on paper I have forgotten everything else. I have even forgotten how cold this room is. They still haven’t fixed my heater. The technician came in yesterday, took one look at it, gave it a couple of taps and left. Haven’t seen him since.
‘I’m trying to write,’ I tell Jim, sternly. I need him to get the message.
‘Of course, of course,’ he says.
‘What did you want?’
‘It can wait, it can wait,’ he says.
‘Get it out, man,’ I say. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. I was just wondering if I could take a look at those rods of yours. I’m not a fisherman, mind, but watching that Rex Hunt character … I just wondered what it might feel like to hold a fibreglass rod with a bit of weight on it.’
‘Well you’re out of luck, Jim. I haven’t got them yet. Lisa keeps saying she’ll bring my gear over but not a rod, hook or float has appeared this side of the door.’
Jim looks dejected. ‘Oh, OK then,’ he says. ‘Maybe another time,’ and he turns his wheelchair towards the opening.
‘Hang on, hang on. How c
ome you like the idea of fishing but have never held a rod? Are you saying you haven’t fished since birth, or only since you went into parliament?’
‘Forever,’ he says. He looks at me with those little eyes, his wet eyelids hanging red and droopy like one of those dogs.
‘Come in and shut the door,’ I say.
He trundles in and closes the door quietly behind him. I put down my pen and turn my own wheelchair to face him.
‘You like the races,’ he says, spying my Phar Lap poster.
‘That horse died in 1932, Jim.’
He studies the picture.
‘Just thought you might have been a racing man. You know, a …’
‘I put my first bet on a horse when I was a teenager. Haven’t lost a cent since because that was my last bet as well.’
‘I’ve never been to the races,’ he says.
‘What did you do as a kid?’
‘It was a time before you were born, Jack. Things were different then. You couldn’t just go off to the races or fishing or gallivanting all over the country. I had certain responsibilities, things that young Pheona wouldn’t even dream of.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I took care of my responsibilities.’
‘What kind of responsibilities.’
‘Well, study for a start. These days kids hardly know what study is. Back then we had to learn and I’m talking weekends as well as nights - Latin, languages, everything.’
‘Well, it got you a good job I suppose, Jim.’
‘A good job, but I never had a go at fishing.’
‘What about you father? Surely he …’
‘My father wasn’t around.’
‘That’s funny, mine wasn’t either,’ I say.
Jim looks at me. ‘You had a nanny too?’
‘A nanny? No I didn’t have an “anything”. I just had a sister and we up and left home. We just walked out and hit the road.’
‘You couldn’t hit the road in my day. You did exactly what you were told, nothing more, nothing less.’
Smythe's Theory of Everything Page 14