‘Right, slowly now,’ I call. They all bump up behind me like train carriages and in this way we proceed gently down the slope towards the Maribyrnong.
It’s not a bad river, the Maribyrnong. Salty at that point with the tide coming up from the bay and I have heard you can get the odd salmon or mullet at particular times. I once heard that a young lad pulled out a mulloway. It must have been lost.
I don’t know how but we make it all the way down, bumping along behind each other, and at last we see the wide parkland strip on the far side of the road and through the trees a glimpse of the river. ‘Waaaater! Waaaater!’ yells Craig. Pistol Pete is pissing himself laughing and I wonder about his catheter. Even though I have leaned on the wheelchair the whole way, my legs are paining like buggery, but no use going into that. We turn the corner into Kingston Avenue, then immediately out of a driveway and across the little road. A metal rail runs the length of the parkland but there’s a gap for pe-destrians and one by one we pass through it and onto the grass. We are only fifty yards from the water’s edge!
How did we do it? As I sit here now I cannot see how we got there without mishap and with not a single car passing us by. I wouldn’t try it again.
At that stage Bronson gets a bit excited and tries to surge ahead. Our first mishap. The wheels on Craig’s bed get stuck in the grass and over it goes. Poor Craig tumbles out of the sheets and onto the lawn, arms and legs everywhere. ‘Aaaaaah,’ he yells and a big toothy grin from ear to ear. He still has his slippers on and a dressing gown. We roll him onto the sheet and Bronson and I manage to drag him the last twenty yards to the river with Pete and Dooley doing what they can to help.
I go back to get Joe sitting patiently in my chair.
‘Camping Prohibited,’ he says. I’ve parked him under the sign.
‘We’re not camping, Joe; we’re fishing!’
It’s hard going across the grass. Pete urges us on. ‘To the water!’ he yells. ‘Forward men - to the water!’
‘And women,’ calls Pat.
‘Especially the women!’ yells Pete. ‘All or none! To the breach!’
Suddenly we are all on the bank catching our breath. It’s dead quiet. A blowfly buzzes me, a seagull glides over, a jet high up. Across the water on the other side a child on a scooter rides along a bike track, his father behind him. ‘I can catch you!’ he calls and the words float across the wide channel. Over their heads in the distance there’s a new development, a big crane swinging.
I look down at the steep river bank. The tide must be out. Large bluestone blocks shore up the sides, cluttered with sticks, plastic bags, bottles and drinking straws, chunks of styrene foam. Little crabs scurry out of sight when I approach. Bait! I used to collect them in Sydney when I fished at the wharf - soft-backed crabs are excellent for bream.
Dooley whistles. ‘Nice bit of water,’ he says.
‘Looks pretty polluted if you ask me,’ volunteers Pat.
Bronson’s legs are clearly playing up and with a bit of difficulty he manages to sit down on the river bank. He stares up the river. I wonder what’s going on in his head. I wonder what his old ancestors would think if they could see all this? Gas barbecues, drink fountains, clipped grass and bench seats fixed in concrete. Once upon a time they probably hunted kangaroo along here. Meanwhile, Craig is a bundle of pure joy, all teeth and obliquity. Pete takes off his shirt and his lily white, grey-haired torso is not a pleasant sight.
‘The rods,’ says Jim. ‘Let’s get the lines out in the water.’
‘First the bait, Jim,’ I say. He has a bit to learn.
With a lot of difficulty I clamber down the bank onto the rocks. They are still wet with the receding tide and slippery as hell. I have to negotiate a lot of plastic litter above the high water mark. I turn a couple of oily rocks and little sea slaters scurry away, but no crabs. There’s a real stink down there. I turn over a couple more rocks before I finally catch three little crabs in the black slime and put them in an old milk carton. I pass them up to Dooley.
‘Back up,’ I tell him. ‘You’re too close to the water.’
I then discover that I can’t get up the embankment myself. Bronson is sitting where the bank is lowest so I slowly make my way along the wet rocks towards him. When I get there he rolls on his side and stretches a long spindly arm out to me. For a moment I study it. I am surprised to think that in all my travels I have never had a black arm extended to me. I take hold and with much scrambling I am up the top.
Jim already has the rods out and the reels on.
‘Which one should I use?’ he says.
I suggest the boat rod. I tie on a good spoon sinker and a No. 6 hook. I thread one of the crabs over the barb.
Dooley stares at it. ‘Shouldn’t you kill it first?’
‘Live bait is the best bait,’ I tell him.
He takes holds of the line and studies the crab, its legs kicking. ‘I’ll be,’ he says. ‘I’ll be.’
‘I should cast,’ I tell Jim. I first show him how it’s done, how you click the guard back and hold the line. I take a pace or two and flick it far out into the river. All eyes watch. It feels good to have an audience. I rig the other line and cast it out as well.
‘I’ll hold it,’ says Pat. I pass her the rod. ‘Used to go with my father when I was a child.’
‘The Dark Ages, eh?’ says Pete. He should talk.
‘What do you think, Joe,’ I say. ‘Like it?’ He looks real comfortable in my chair.
‘I think it’s my birthday present!’ he says.
‘When’s your birthday, Joe?’ asks Pat.
‘Yesterday, though I will not say how old I am.’
Pistol Pete looks towards him. ‘You don’t look a day over a hundred,’ he says.
Pat settles in with the rod, holding the nylon line between her fingers like a true professional. She gazes across at Craig stretched out on the grass, facing the river.
Suddenly she says, ‘What were you talking to Craig about?’
‘When?’
‘The other day. In the sitting room.’
I look sharply at her. ‘What makes you think I was talking to Craig?’
‘I heard you, Jack. Something about the universe. Hearing’s the only decent faculty I’ve got left - hypera-cusis, they call it.’
She turns the handle on the reel and crosses her legs. I try to decide what to tell her.
‘I once wrote a theory, Pat. A meta-theory if you like, about the really big picture, about the true state of things.’
‘Published?’
Pat asks pointed questions - the quintessential interrogator.
‘Not exactly; no. Not for want of trying though.’
‘You still got it? I know a few academics who might take a look at it.’
‘What for?’
‘You got me out here in the sunlight, maybe I can get you published.’
‘That’ll be the day. Anyway I didn’t get you here; I didn’t get anybody anywhere.’
A sculler comes gliding down the river against the current and makes a wide berth around us so as not to disturb the lines. Behind it there’s the evidence of its tra-jectory and rings where the oars once dipped.
‘I’d still like to look at it, Jack.’
‘Can’t think what for.’
We all went quiet then. I put my face into the sun and perhaps half an hour elapsed without comment. Five in wheel chairs lined up, looking across the water, an empty bed on wheels, Craig on the grass wrapped up in a sheet and Bronson and me sitting on the bank. It’s a pity old Clem wasn’t there to see it.
I yell to Jim, ‘You get a bite, give it a yank, OK?’ Jim jiggles the rod up and down and winds the reel. His face has taken on a look of concentration. I see him check the locks on his wheels. Suddenly he says, ‘I think I might have one.’
‘It’s the current, Jim,’ says Pat. ‘Look how it’s pulling.’
But Jim starts to slowly retrieve his line. Finally the rig appears, the bait hangs
forlorn. I cannot stand up. Jim clicks the reel back and lets it fly - straight into a little boxthorn bush off to his left.
Pete bursts out laughing. ‘Got one!’ he says. ‘A bloody bramble!’
I’m forced to get up and go along to untangle the line. In so doing I lose the bait.
‘Last crab,’ I say. ‘Make it good.’ I cast out the line.
Matron Collier comes by, obviously checking to see that all are in their rooms. ‘Your son has been notified,’ she tells me, as though I should be alarmed. She thinks we are children. She’s disgusted with the bruise on my face.
‘What about my daughter,’ I say. ‘Have you told her too? I haven’t seen Lisa in ages.’ She stomps off to threaten the next inmate.
A few seconds later Pat shows up.
‘You’re taking a risk, aren’t you?’ I say. ‘Out of your room without a permit.’
‘Just thought I’d borrow that paper of yours. The big theory,’ she says.
‘No Pat, it’s not worth it. I wrote it ten years ago.’
‘Come on - I didn’t take this chance for nothing. Let me have a look at it at least.’
I dig it out of from under my other valuables in the wardrobe.
‘It’s my only copy, Pat.’ I pass across the battered folder of typed pages and I can see she’s not impressed.
‘If it’s any good I’ll organise a copy for you.’ She places it on her lap and wheels off up the hall.
Ten minutes later Phe shows up again.
‘Hello,’ she says.
I’m sitting in my wheelchair, trying to rehabilitate my legs.
‘What happened?’ she says, observing the rash down my cheek.
‘Long story,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s Sunday. You don’t come on Sundays.’
‘Wow, I’ve broken the rules. It’s my birthday, Jack. Thought I’d come here to celebrate.’
‘How old?’ I say, though I already know.
‘Mind your own business.’ Then she seems to reconsider. ‘Seventeen,’ she says.
‘Anyone making a cake?’
Phe looks away.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Never really had one myself and just wondered what they look like.’
Silence.
‘Hear about our fishing trip?’
‘Pop just told me. You’re wounded and his face is sunburnt.’ A brief smile appears. It suits her.
I smile back.
‘First time his old head has seen a good dose of Vitamin D in a while.’
‘Maybe. It might be bad for his psoriasis, though,’ she adds.
‘Is that what he’s got? He said something about eczema. At first I thought it might be the pox.’ I glance at her. Should I be talking about the pox to a seventeen-year-old?
‘Bet he’s never had an STD in his life,’ she says. ‘He’s spent his whole life being careful. It’s what he does best.’
I study her harder.
‘What the fuck are you staring at?’ she asks, but there’s no animosity.
‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I was just thinking about my sister Kitty.’
And I was. I was thinking about her at seventeen. I was thinking about what she was like then, the way she looked - her beauty, both inside and out - and how I hoped that when she was old enough she’d meet a man who would respect her just the way she was, as I saw her. I was yet to learn about my father’s assaults. In a strange way I felt that Kitty’s entire being and mine were entwined; I did not separate our lives at all.
I think of the Kitty I knew so well and I believe I know what’s going on in the young girl before me. I know her because I know Kitty. But of course I do not know her - she is not my sister and never was. Kitty is not coming back.
Phe is the product of different genetics raised in a different era. I shudder to think there are forty-five years between us and that we see each other across the gap of two generations. Yet what exactly is that gap? It is the ordinary passage of living in the world. And we like to mark it off with months, years, decades, for all sorts of good reasons - when you are allowed to drink at the bar, for instance. But without that measuring, what is the difference between us? We are just two breathing, feeling organisms that look out through ordinary eyes and appraise the world as best we can.
I must be honest and say that in front of Phe, I’m nervous. I sense something that disturbs my peace of mind. And I think it is desire. But it’s not quite the sexual kind; I think it’s more about a time that’s far behind me. I am ashamed to admit it, yet I have the most terrible urge to hold Phe’s hand, take her delicate fingers with the dark nail polish carefully applied and hold them. Chris the guru wants to pass his energy to me. I sense that such a thing under certain conditions might very well be possible.
Of course, Phe does not feel what I feel and I would perish with embarrassment if she ever saw these words. But what is a man to do with desire? Put it to some useful task like building a patio? Compose poetry; write sonnets? Can emotions really be channelled as easily as that? I look at Phe and I see Kitty the same age, well beyond puberty. I would not ask but I am sure she has had her experiences, as we did in Sydney. At what age, at what particular measurement of time, is a woman - a girl - allowed her sexuality? At what age is a man supposed to abandon his?
Phe goes over to my little window and looks out at the gardenia.
‘Poor old Matron Collier,’ she says, almost to herself. It’s exactly what Kitty might say.
‘Your sister still alive?’ she asks, almost as if she’s read my mind. I suddenly realise that Phe sees Kitty as a sixty-year-old, I see her as a vital young woman. We see the past differently.
‘No,’ I say, ‘she isn’t.’
‘Too bad.’ Unselfconsciously, she sits on my bed.
Seventeen, what an excellent age to be. It is about the length of time I have left on earth. But sixty-two can be alright. As my own theory proposes, we can only live in the present.
Desire: Unsatisfied longing. Oxford p. 224.
We’re by the water for no more than an hour when Craig starts up. ‘Haaaangry, haaangry.’
He’s beside Dooley. ‘We only just got here,’ Dooley says.
‘Haaaangry.’
‘Time to pool resources,’ says Pete, working his wheelchair along behind the others. ‘Let’s break out the rations. You can live for a month on a strip of bully beef.’
‘We don’t have bully beef,’ says Joe. ‘I got bread and jam.’ Out of his pocket he brings something that more closely resembles the wad of a snotty handkerchief. It sits lumped on his palm.
‘That it?’ Pete says.
‘Yeah.’
‘Better eat it before the gulls snatch it up and choke to death. Anyone else?’
Between us we come up with some pieces of toast, half a bar of chocolate, some lifesavers and a box of Weetbix. It’s Dooley’s Weetbix.
‘What about that?’ he says as he produces his prize.
‘Good-oh, Dools. Now what are we gonna mix it with?’ says Pete.
‘What’s wrong with ‘em like that?’ says Dooley.
Then Pat proffers a packet of sweet biscuits.
‘Now we’re talkin’!’ says Pete. ‘Look at that! Knew you sheilas were good for somethin’.’
We cluster around. Except for Jim, who refuses to let go of the rod. I notice Pat trying to get more comfortable in her wheelchair.
‘What happened to your legs, Pat?’ I say. I thought it might lead onto a telling of what happened to me.
‘Not too much, Jack. I fell down the front steps and broke both my hips. Both hips in one go. Something of a record.’ She hesitates. ‘They never healed very well.’
She pulls out a little flask.
‘Whisky!’ says Dooley.
Pat shakes the empty flask. ‘What we need is some water.’
‘What about some whisky for the water,’ says Dooley.
‘Wish I was back at the taps. I’d pour everyone a pot and put a good head on it - on the house!’
I
see the council tap over near the BBQ.
‘Now we got a problem,’ I said. ‘The tap’s over there and we’re over here.’
‘That’s alright, old sport. I’ll get it.’ Pete goes to head off.
‘Hang on,’ I say. I reluctantly get to my feet and hobble towards the tap.
And that’s where I am when there’s a wild, high-pitched yell from Jim.
‘Got one!’ he yells. ‘Look at her go!’ And sure enough his line is off upstream.
I try to hurry back, trip and fall right on my face. I see stars, my head spins, the side of my face is on fire. I look up and no-one has noticed - all eyes are on Jim and his line. I manage a crawl. I work myself across the ground on all fours like a wounded fucking deer, my spindly limbs not used to the stress of it.
‘Hang on to him, Jim,’ I shout. ‘Reel in your line, Pat!’
Jim is shaking the rod around all over the place. He’s got the added pull of the current and he slowly winds the handle, the rod arches alarmingly.
‘Take it easy,’ I yell, ‘you’ll lose it!’
Jim’s almost out of his chair.
‘Good on you, Jim, hang onto the bastard!’ Pete shouts and slaps his thigh with his good arm. Bronson edges along the grass with me. We all gather around Jim’s chair.
‘There it is!’ calls Pat, and a large pale flash suddenly rises, banks and dives again.
‘Christ, it’s a white pointer!’ yells Pete.
‘It’s a piece of flake!’ shouts Dooley.
Suddenly I see it rise through the turgidity, then down.
‘What is it, Jack? What sort have I got?’ Jim calls.
‘Take it easy,’ I say, ‘don’t jerk the rod. You want me to take over?’
‘No, I’ve got it,’ he says, ‘I can handle it.’
The line moves close to the rock embankment and away from the current. Suddenly his catch seems spent. Jim keeps winding, and finally up it comes!
Smythe's Theory of Everything Page 23