He gazes solemnly at the wall. I stare at him and I swear I’m looking at the saddest man in the universe. The right time to switch subjects.
‘You still getting the treatment?’ I ask.
‘Treatment?’
‘Yeah, the acid baths.’
He gives a wry grin. ‘No, I think our objections paid off.’
‘More likely the novelty wore off and now they’re dreaming up some other way to persecute the brave.’
‘What did you think of Pheona?’ he asks.
‘A bit of work alright. Not the kind of girl you’d introduce to the Queen.’
‘I should warn you; she’s back on Friday afternoon. You better make yourself scarce.’
I remembered Rex Hunt.
‘What were they catching?’ I ask.
‘Big silver things about two feet long. Out of the Caribbean.’
‘Probably mackerel,’ I say.
Jim opens my door and wheels his chair into the passage. It suddenly occurs to me that he must have an awful time trying to get himself into bed.
‘You … Everything alright in there, Jim? In your room?’
‘Good as can be expected,’ he says. ‘Cold in your room.’
‘Tell me about it.’
So now I’ve recorded the episode and I should get some shuteye myself. Too late to continue with Kitty. I need my beauty sleep.
Pistol Pete asked for a haircut. Of course I flatly refused. Do they think I run a fucking barber shop? He tells me that one of his ‘many girlfriends’ is coming to see him. In truth, I cannot see any woman being attracted to someone like that: a wheelchair-bound man in his sixties with one arm and leg hanging limp as a rag. I am certain a haircut will do very little to help and I have to get on with my story which takes all of my time. I feel sorry for the others in here who have absolutely nothing to do. Just sitting around all day, most of them confined to the bed or to wheelchairs, staring at the TV or out of the wet window pane.
July already. The coldest month of the year and my room is like Alaska. I expect a polar bear to cross the floor any minute covered in snow. Why won’t they come and fix my fucking heater? Luckily I have the woollen gloves Lisa gave me. In a lifetime I would never have believed I’d need them. I have been complying with all the requests. I shave. I watch my language. I try to be courteous. I keep my door open. I rarely smoke in my room. I pass up my washing and pay for it, apart from the occasional socks and undies which I can do on the quiet in the hand basin.
Monday morning and I am finding it hard to write my story. Went outside for a smoke. The shrub Collier has planted is a ‘gardenia’, though it hasn’t a single bloom. The gardenia of Eden. Has a nice ring to it. Now all we need is an apple tree, a snake and a wrathful God ready to pounce. I had two smokes as I am feeling very low.
I turned up at breakfast this morning without my tablets. Had to go back to my room to get them and got back just in time to see Clem spill a whole bowl of cornflakes down the front of himself. Then he pulled the tablecloth to his lap and upset cups of tea, the toast rack, other people’s breakfasts. Poor old Jim got a burnt hand. The vase fell and broke my cup. Why in God’s name do they put that thin and ugly vase there in the first place? With a single plastic rose. Of course it was eventually all cleaned up but the upshot was that I got little else for breakfast than my cocktail of pills. Again I quietly took the nurse aside and asked if I might be allowed to eat in my room - breakfast at the very least. Again I was flatly refused. Then Pete has the nerve to ask me for a haircut.
Now I find myself sitting at my little table with the bed blanket wrapped around and two pairs of socks. I will not sit with the others in the lounge and it’s hardly any warmer. On the upside, I have little choice but to smoke in my room as it’s raining now and minus degrees outside. Last night I had dreams about Kitty again. The sooner I write it down the sooner I can resume my peace of mind. Which is another reason to endure the cold of my room. Dell says they are waiting for a thermostat.
Much to my surprise that kind woman brought me a little desk to replace the sidetable I ‘borrowed’ from the lounge. ‘Pete needs a haircut,’ she said and I imagine the desk was to soften me up. She also brought me a chair though I find my wheelchair more comfortable. Still, it may be surprisingly handy as I can put my clothes on it at night. I think the furniture might have belonged to someone who is now a ‘ghost’ of their former selves.
I pressed the buzzer that night in Sydney, fully resigned to making a complete idiot of myself. I am sure my brain was not functioning properly - I seemed to have trouble sorting out what was real and what wasn’t, what was rational and what was an imagination out of control. I was disoriented and probably still tired from the journey.
The same woman opened the door but oddly she didn’t seem to recognise me. Was I looking so strange? I calmed myself.
In the darkened passage I said, ‘I was here earlier.’
‘Yes. Of course you were, Love. Back for a second time?’
‘Yes … I mean no … I was wondering if I could have a word with … Kylie?’
‘I’m afraid we are not here to have words …’
‘Just a quick one, that’s all.’
All the while she didn’t really look at me. I had the distinct feeling she had trained herself not to engage with customers, not to see them as individuals. Perhaps she felt it put the men at ease.
‘Tell you what,’ she said ‘You tell me what words you want to say and I’ll pass them on.’ She looked past me. I thought hard. I had to get around her somehow. I decided to risk all.
‘Just go and tell her that Jack Smythe is here to see her, will you?’
‘And who would Jack Smythe be?’
‘A good friend. Just a friend that’s all. I mean her no harm.’ For the first time the woman glanced at me, and then disappeared into the darkness.
I realised I had stumbled onto a good strategy. If the young woman was not Kitty - as I was slowly beginning to realise - she would simply say, Who? Tell him to go away. Of course I would not leave and would insist on seeing her. And then she could tell me to my face, I am not the woman you think I am. All would be resolved. I thought about how long it was since Kitty and I last spoke and the real concern I had about trying to find her. It’s strange the way a tired and anxious mind can play tricks. In a moment my mind would be at rest.
‘Hello Jack.’ A woman was standing in the half dark in front of me. A white dressing gown, the red wig gone and short black hair surrounding a face I knew better than my own. I opened my eyes wide, trying to let in more light. I tried to swallow.
‘K… Kitty?’
She came forward and put her arms around me. I felt her warm, firm body, so familiar and comforting. I felt tears going down my face. I couldn’t speak. We just stood there holding each other for a long time. No-one came, no-one went. Then Kitty took my hand and led me through to the back, past a brightly lit kitchen with the door wide. For a moment I saw five or six women sitting around a table in their dressing gowns. They looked up; they were drinking coffee, playing cards, chatting. One girl was braiding another’s hair. The heat seemed oppressive. We went up a short flight of stairs to a small bedroom. Kitty shut the door, turned up the dimmer switch and a weak light illuminated the small room. Everything was dark pink and floral; the walls, the towels, the bedspread. A large mirror took up one wall. Kitty got down and undid my shoe laces and I took off my shoes. She lay down on the double bed and beckoned me to lie down beside her. We lay there staring at the pink ceiling. I remembered our bedroom at home when we were just teenagers; the globe hanging down, the stain on the wall shaped like a tyrannosaurus. Kitty was fifteen then. After a while she said, ‘I’m sorry you found me like this, Jack.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said.
‘No it isn’t really. I should have called. But what could I say?’
‘I’ve been trying to phone you,’ I said.
‘You have? I don’t have an answering machine. I ha
ven’t felt like being contacted.’
I sat up and took off my jacket. The room was overheated, but then I suppose it was not used to accom-modating people in clothes. As I lay back down a strip of condoms fell off the sidetable. Kitty opened her dressing gown and took her arms out of it; she was hot too. I tried to start a conversation.
‘How … Why did you … When did you start coming here? I mean when did you start …’
‘I was out of work, Jacky boy. More to the point I was out of work with a mountain of debts.’
‘How come? I thought you had a very good business?’
‘It’s a hard industry, Jack; too much competition. Anyway, it wasn’t my business. I was manager. But Limelight was going through a crisis and it was pretty clear my job was on the line. So I took the chance to quit. I got the idea I could go off and start my own agency - in opposition. Took a big lease on some good offices, bought a car, office furniture, typewriters, the works. But it was all a bit stupid really. First my old company sued me for poaching clients - which wasn’t fair if you ask me. But what can you do? Then this bloody recession. I’m left with a big overdraft and no business.’
‘Why didn’t you phone me? I could have …’
‘What, Jack? What could you have done? You recently won a lottery? Heather has the house and you have the kids to pay for.’
‘I don’t pay much though, Kitty. They’re old enough to pay something themselves now.’
Kitty made herself more comfortable on the bed and said nothing.
‘How … how long have you been here then?’
‘About a year. It’s not bad like you think, Jack. It’s just a job like any other. Except it pays three times better. We’re not a bunch of drug addicts, you know. There are mothers, housewives, students …’
‘I know that but …’
‘So what are you doing here then? Why did you come?’
‘I don’t know. I have no bloody idea …’
‘Did you think you were doing anything bad?’
‘Not bad exactly, but a bit … immoral.’
‘Immoral? What the hell is that? Is sex immoral? Because it’s with a stranger? How well did you know Heather when you first did it? How well does anyone know someone the first time? It’s not a big thing, Jack. As long as it’s consensual …’
‘Is that really how you see it?’
‘It’s just a job, Jack. And the men who come here aren’t criminals; they’re students, party boys, migrants - and husbands with a very poor sense of themselves …’
‘But there must be a danger element?’
‘You see any danger element? Sure, you get the drunks and abusive ones. We don’t have to let them in and no girl has to go with a man they don’t like the look of. You mightn’t believe it but the men are mostly just lonely and afraid.’
‘Afraid? Afraid of what?’
‘Everything. Their own feelings, feelings in general. Maybe they’re afraid of failing, or missing out - or not measuring up. Afraid of me.’
‘Afraid of you?’
‘You might think the men start out all macho, Jack, but they don’t. And afterwards a lot of them feel guilty about the whole thing, as if they only came here by accident.’
I heard a shower start up, the rush and shudder of water in pipes.
‘What about me then? You think I came here because I was afraid - I mean originally?’
‘You’re always afraid, Jacky boy. But don’t worry, it’s not necessarily a bad thing and you share it with most of the population.’
There were footfalls in the hall and hushed voices. Someone laughed.
‘I still don’t like you being here, Kitty. It’s not right. It’s not right for you.’
‘I know, Jack. I understand.’
‘Where are you living?’
‘With a girlfriend in Paddington. A really nice old house on Carlisle Street. Very sweet.’
‘Are … are you going to stay … on the game then?’
‘Course not, you silly duffer. This is just so I can get back on my feet. I’m getting there, don’t worry - and I want a day job! As a matter of fact I was thinking about getting another bike and riding down to Vic.’
‘Kitty, that’d be fantastic,’ I said. We were still lying side by side and I reached for her hand.
‘Remember when we used to hold hands in bed at home?’ she said.
‘I do,’ I replied. ‘I loved you so much then, and even more now.’ I heard a door close.
Kitty put a hand to her face. I pulled a tissue from a box on the sidetable and gave it to her. I thought about what our mother had said, about our father’s assaults on Kitty as a twelve-year-old. I would not say a word about it now; I would not cause any more upset. But I’m sure she was thinking of it.
‘I love you Kit,’ I said. She sniffed loudly and blew her nose.
‘God, I’m tired,’ she said. I heard a man’s voice outside the door, low and subdued. The boards creaked as he moved down the passage.
‘Have you seen Debbie?’ Kitty said at last.
‘Yeah, yesterday. She’s in fine form. Moved again. Into Clovelly Road. She likes Bruce Springsteen.’
‘I really should see her. I’ve been so slack.’
‘You and me both,’ I said. ‘Let’s fix that, Kitty. Why don’t you come down to Melbourne like you said. I’ve got a room at the Ceswick Pub. It’s not much but it’s a start. And I’m not broke; I still have a job. We could support each other.’
I thought for a minute and said, ‘We’re good for each other, Kitty.’
Then I remembered the name she was using.
‘Where did you get Kylie?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t you like it? You should meet some of the others. We’ve got Deedee and Bobo and Ginger. And Queenie, but she’s really a boy.’
We lay there on the brothel bed a few more minutes, me in my trousers and white skivvy, Kitty in her transparent top, short skirt and fishnet stockings. Then came a tap at the door.
‘Time to go,’ my sister said.
7
Jim’s sixteen-year-old granddaughter arrived again as expected. I did not see her come in but I got a glimpse of her pushing one of the old dears around the common room. At about 11 a.m. I rolled out to the courtyard for a smoke. Unfortunately I ran into Matron Collier who keeps going out to check her plant, as if it might somehow have changed since the last time.
‘Mr Smythe. Had your shower?’
‘Yes, thanks. On my own too.’
‘Good. Let’s hope you’ll be walking soon, eh?’
My comment was to suggest that, for once, I didn’t share the experience with a nurse. Of course she interpreted it as me being proud to have achieved such a remarkable feat without assistance. I was going to clarify but she’d already marched off.
As to my walking, my legs are really no better; I think it’s the cold weather. When I wake they’re as stiff as broom handles. I work on the circulation, bend them up and down but it’s still a good while before I can make it to the wheelchair. A person walks about 65,000 miles in a lifetime, though that average has been severely reduced by the likes of me. Meanwhile Osborne says I should get more exercise. I look at her fat arse and wonder what she’d know about it.
I round the corner of the concrete yard, look up, and there’s Pheona or ‘Phe’, leaning against the brick wall again with a smoke.
‘Thought you’d be gone by now,’ I say.
‘Thought you’d be gone years ago,’ she replies.
I suddenly realise I have left my lighter in the room. I cannot go back. I’m forced to ask for a light. She passes me a pink plastic lighter with a cupid on it.
‘You enjoy being a sook, don’t you?’ I say.
Pheona blows a puff of smoke. I blow one too. Silence.
She’s what you might call a ‘new generation’ teen. Tattoos, pins and rings in her ears, nose and eyebrow. She’s wearing black tights and zebra striped shoes, a black fur-lined jacket with a zip and a hood,
short on her waist but the sleeves going right over her hands. Bluish lipstick, black nail polish. What’s with all the black? She’s actually quite pretty, underneath it all. She knocks the ash off her smoke and gazes straight ahead. I had the idea she was supposed to be here to do some penance and look after her grandfather.
‘Where’s Jim?’ I ask her.
‘Fucked if I know.’ She blows some smoke.
‘Don’t you think you should find out?’
She glares at me. ‘What’s your problem, grandpa? What’s it got to do with you? Would you keep your mind on your own business?’
I study her and for the first time I think I see her. She’s angry. A very angry sixteen-year-old. But there’s something else in her eyes as well, something like disappointment. She’s pissed off, pissed off with her lot, her friends, her life, who knows what. I study her profile. Her short black hair is messed up and spiked just like a million others that look exactly like her, right out of some teeny magazine.
‘You put gel in your hair.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Breaking news: old man comments on girl’s hair.’
The reason I said it is because of a recent observation. I have determined that five out of ten young women on the fashionable streets wear their hair in a pony tail. The other five wear their hair severely chopped and messy, as though they’ve fallen into the blades of a ride-on mower. When I was the same age, women’s hair was long and wild - it was a symbol of freedom and anti-establishment. Tell me what these new styles are a symbol of ? Also, these days a lot of young women are large, if you catch my drift. What’s going on there? Don’t they care anymore? At least one thing in Pheona’s favour; she’s slim like Kitty was, though she’s nothing like Kitty as a person.
And I have also noticed that a high proportion of young men now shave their heads - or crop it tight to their skulls. Perhaps it marks a new age of sobriety -
in the sense of being resigned to the meaningless and ordinary. What happened to creativity and the use of the imagination? What happened to free thinking?
‘You probably think it’s original,’ I say, ‘but look around you. All the other smart young girls have spiky, gellie hair too.’
Smythe's Theory of Everything Page 15