by Duff, Alan
‘Yes. But not if you didn’t mean it, and I think you had no idea. To explain: there’s a saying that those who can, do, and those who can’t, teach. Happens to apply to me,’ said Wilson. ‘I had dreams once, the talent too, so people said.’
‘Just didn’t work out?’ Johno was being polite.
‘No.’ Wilson said. ‘It did not.’ He was tall and thin; Johno couldn’t ever recall seeing him eat, even though the bar sold a lot of meat pies and toasted sandwiches, which Mavis prepared every morning once she’d got Danny off to school, and a chef did basic meals.
‘So what exactly do you do at the uni?’
‘I lecture in fine arts. Should have been head of department but that didn’t work out either. I’m an ordinary lecturer.’ Such could-have-been talk normally came from the mouths of perennial losers, but this was a university lecturer and he was a permanent tenant in this building — and he drank downstairs?
‘I’m honoured, mate.’
‘Please. Don’t be. It’s embarrassing and hardly an honour. I kept missing my boat, you could say.’ The shy personality wouldn’t have helped, the way he ended a sentence in a short, nervous chuckle and his eyes fled from Johno’s gaze.
‘You know something? I kept missing mine too. If it hadn’t been for Danny being thrust on me when his mother walked out, then I wouldn’t be here.’
‘I did wonder — about his mother.’
‘Now you know. Hope you don’t mind me asking, but why are you living here?’
‘Another missed boat, I guess. I’m a single man, so why would I buy a house? I’ve got my own bathroom now, thanks to you, and a bar in my backyard. I have a hot lunch at the staff cafeteria and that’s about my life. And I do like my work.’
‘Sorry again, but I never see you socialise …’
‘I have a few friends at the university. And since we’re observing, I’ve noticed you don’t spend time with anyone who could be assumed to be a close friend,’ said Wilson. ‘Male or female. Or is that a profesional distance?’
‘I’ve wondered that myself. Blame it on my son,’ Johno said.
‘You’re quite young to own a pub. How old are you?’
‘Low thirties,’ Johno said. Sounded better like that.
‘I had you as older.’
‘Thanks. Have I taken your money for the drink yet?’ Johno joked. ‘No. That one’s on me.’
‘Thank you. I meant the personality. You’ve lived a little.’
‘No. That’s the face I was born with. Maybe business grew me up fast,’ Johno said. ‘But not as fast as bringing up a child on my own.’
‘I’m assuming Mavis living with you helps,’ said Wilson. ‘You know, a consistent female presence in the boy’s life. Guess you’re aware every pub patron knows a publican’s intimate personal details?’
‘Especially details that are wrong or exaggerated,’ said Johno. ‘I know people talk. I prefer to listen.’
‘I wasn’t prying. He has potential.’ Wilson’s hand indicated Danny’s art.
‘Just potential?’ Johno was slightly miffed. ‘I thought he’d gone past that.’
‘Don’t get defensive. Frankly, I’m certain your knowledge of art could be measured in a few sentences, if that.’
‘How to make friends …’
‘Not by sucking up and telling a parent that his son’s a genius. Talent’s no use if it’s not directed and hours aren’t spent in study and perfecting the work.’ The man had suddenly come alive.
‘He’s got that part right.’
‘Do you think Danny would be interested if I lent him some books on artists? On drawing and painting techniques, construction, perspective and balance, tone, shading, light — the list is endless.’
‘Isn’t he a bit young? I don’t want to be forcing him.’
‘I’ve thought about it and think I have books he could start with. User-friendly, as they say. I’m sure he’ll get something out of them.’
‘Thank you. He’d appreciate it.’
The tweed-jacketed arm came up and rested lightly on Johno’s arm. ‘I have books that only a handful of specialists would know of. He won’t understand them immediately, but if he possesses true talent, then at some stage he will.’
‘He’s already left me behind,’ said Johno. ‘Maybe we can come to a new room rental arrangement.’
‘Don’t be silly — sir. You insult me,’ Wilson said. ‘I’d be happy to spend time with the boy. Excuse me.’ Lifted his hand. ‘Ah, I am reading your expression, the shadow that passed across your eyes. Think I didn’t see? Well, Mr Ryan, my life pursuit is observing and studying. So let me tell you I’m no sexual predator. I don’t have a sexual bone in my body. Probably one reason I failed to make the grade as an artist. I lacked that passion, that bubbling, charged quality so necessary to produce good art.’
‘As a father it’s natural I’d have those thoughts.’ Johno held out his hand.
‘You have no worry on that count.’ They shook on it, and from then on young Danny spent a lot of time with Wilson Reed, always at the apartment, where Mavis was happy to include him in the evening meal.
Some months passed. At first Wilson’s influence seemed to produce only confusion as Danny tried new techniques, experimented with colours and perspectives. But slowly, a different style started to emerge and went even further beyond his father’s limited understanding. If Wilson said Danny was ‘coming along just fine’, then all was well with Johno. The unconventional boy in the little hat was being steered by the academic who didn’t quite fit anywhere either.
Chapter twelve
After breakfast on Sunday, Johno and Danny would either drive to Bondi Beach, or walk downtown to catch a ferry at Circular Quay, with a choice of Manly, Watsons Bay or Mosman. If it wasn’t swimming weather, then it was a ferry to Taronga Zoo, which Danny never tired of, and his father never tired of seeing the pleasure it gave him.
The boy didn’t do reproductions of big cats, bears or elephants. Instead he focused on a single aspect of each animal: a bear’s great girth, exaggerated lion or tiger paws and rippling, outsized back haunches, pearl white teeth with a smear of blood, glowing yellow eyes, whiskers like robotic probes, a head with no body attached, and always from an unexpected perspective.
At Danny’s behest they went down to Circular Quay via the Royal Botanic Gardens, walking through the well-designed park with its long-established trees, many of which reappeared in Danny’s paintings. Since Wilson’s mentoring and books, Danny hardly ever sketched in pencil.
‘Hi, Frederick.’ Danny’s face lit up and so did that of a large, bearded, scraggly haired homeless guy who looked to be in his sixties but could be younger. He wore a grey, herringbone coat that had seen better days, and on someone with money. At first glance he could be just another mentally ill, homeless person, but Johno thought he saw intelligence in the way this Frederick was trying to read him. Though he stank to high heaven.
‘You know each other?’ Johno surprised but hardly dismayed.
‘Haven’t seen you in a while, kid,’ said Frederick. ‘Gidday, Mister Father. He’s got a heart of gold, your boy.’
‘He’ll learn to pick who he’s generous to,’ Johno said. ‘Of course not saying—’
‘Frederick’s very nice, Dad,’ Danny cut in.
‘I told him off the first time,’ said Frederick. He had a smoker’s deep voice.
Danny said, ‘We met one time after school. He’s a poet.’
‘That I am not,’ said Frederick. ‘Merely a lover of poetry.’
Looking at his son, Johno said, ‘I didn’t know you liked poetry.’
‘Neither did I. Not till I heard Frederick.’
The familiarity between them started to trouble Johno. He took out his wallet and handed the man a ten-dollar bill. ‘I got my generosity from my son,’ he said, meaning it but more to indicate they were moving on.
‘I wish my circumstances allowed me to decline, sir,’ said Frederick.
‘And I’m glad my circumstances put me in the position,’ said Johno. He turned to Danny. ‘Do you two want to chat?’ In case he was ending something before he ought.
‘Not today.’ Danny’s eyes went from one adult to the other. ‘Another time, eh, Frederick?’
‘At your leisure, young man. And thank you, Mister Father.’ They watched Frederick shuffle off.
‘He wears that old coat like it’s a royal robe,’ Johno said.
‘He’s pretending. Wilson told me everyone is pretending to be what they’re not,’ said Danny. ‘What are you pretending to be, Dad?’
‘Me?’ Caught on the hop. ‘Well, maybe a publican? Why are you looking at me like that? You agree I’m a pretend pub owner, or what?’ Thinking he’d pretended to be a professional criminal for a brief period in a long ago life.
‘I don’t know,’ said Danny. ‘Wilson says we all know in our hearts what we are too afraid to be. Not sure I know what he means.’
But Johno understood. Just didn’t know what he was afraid of, what he avoided and what he denied. A serious relationship with a woman, perhaps? The mother he’d seen but once for a few minutes figured somewhere in the background too. But then he wasn’t the type for much introspection or self-analysis.
It started to rain. As father and son took shelter under the broad spread of tree they found they had company: two homeless men who obviously resented their presence. One was older, the other in his early thirties — maybe Johno’s age. Both hollow-cheeked and sallow, the same shifty eyes with a single desire writ large: where the money for their next drink was coming from.
Danny asked the older one, ‘Do you know Frederick?’
‘Sure we do,’ he said. ‘Know you, too. You’re Danny boy.’
‘You made my son a member of some club without asking his father’s permission?’ asked Johno in a slightly aggressive tone.
‘It’s a public park,’ said the younger, tougher guy. ‘Givvus some change will ya, Danny boy?’ he said, completely ignoring Johno.
Instantly Danny gave each man a two-dollar coin from his Sunday allocation. The older guy said thank you, but the second just stared at the coin, at Danny, finally at Johno.
‘Mate, can ya spare it?’
Johno was about to speak when Danny handed the man another two dollars, said, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t say sorry.’ Johno’s tone was harsh. ‘Can you spare a kid some gratitude?’
‘Not his bloody money, is it? It’s yours.’
‘Come on, Dan. Let’s get out of here before I slap this fool’s head.’
‘No, Dad. He’s right.’
‘I said, let’s go.’
This triggered an outburst from the drunk about it all being a conspiracy and that God’s coming judgement was going to be ‘terrible indeed’.
The rain now falling heavily couldn’t disguise the fact that Danny was upset. ‘You crying, son?’
‘I should have given them all of it.’
‘No. Or they’ll be waiting each time at the entrance and others like Frederick won’t get anything. And you know I don’t like it. Give any of them five hundred bucks a week and they’ll still want more. It never ends.’
But Danny just shook his head in confusion, a son who somehow had hidden his sadness beneath a hat without a brim, and that he was outgrowing.
‘I’ve got a right little sensitive one in you, haven’t I? Come on, let’s grab a cab and go change, then we’ll take Mavis and Wilson to Chinatown for lunch.’
‘What are the homeless people having for lunch? Where do they go when it’s wet or cold or too hot?’
‘Maybe they pretend to have what they don’t,’ said Johno. ‘We’ll ask the Prof what he thinks. Maybe he has some answers.’
His past again, like a couple of times when he’d had his restaurant, tough guys trying to muscle in on him or do the crim-talk, old-mates act. This one was on his own, heavily tattooed hands, prison workout muscles, no idea how he stood out in this bar of ordinary Joe Blow worker citizens. Could only be a bottom-rung criminal on the lookout for company — with no doubt a conspiracy to offer.
He kept staring at Johno, leaning there on the elbow-height table, his grin getting bolder with each schooner of beer, drinking fast, getting up some courage. Twice he went outside to have a cigarette.
Onto his fourth beer when he ambled up to Johno. ‘Now where’ve I seen you before?’
Johno said nothing.
‘Long Bay sound about right?’
‘Long time ago sounds better,’ Johno said. ‘Who the hell are you?’
The guy put a hand up. ‘It’s okay. I’m just one of those naughty boys used to walk round and round the exercise yard, hang out in the B Wing rec room. You know? We all see each other, faces meaning more than anything else.’ Grinning at this, making Johno remember how every criminal thinks he’s pretty hot shit.
‘You know? All waiting to get back in the race.’
‘A race?’ said Johno. ‘That how you see it?’
‘What would you call it?’
‘Let’s say I was in this same race?’ Johno hadn’t blinked. ‘We lost it, didn’t we?’
‘Win some, lose some.’
‘You read that in a book while you were killing time? You don’t look like a reader. More, I dunno, kind of ordinary, not interested in anything outside your own narrow little world. A bloke not up to much — that be right?’
‘If you were in the same residence, pal, then takes one to know one.’ The familiar smile became a snarl. ‘I was gonna say, “Here’s to old memories.” But now? Jesus, don’t let me make the mistake of asking you a favour.’
‘I won’t,’ said Johno. ‘That’s asking or doing it.’
‘Sheesh, so how cold are you, mate?’
Johno made an act of looking around at his bar getting busier. ‘Not with people I like. They come in here because they feel welcome.’
‘Lucky them.’ The guy was starting to get the hurt look that usually preceded the eruption of an emotional volcano. ‘I used to see you and your pal Shane in there.’
‘One of my customers saw the prime minister once,’ said Johno. ‘I don’t think he walked up to him and tried to be mates.’
‘Hey? Come on now. I ain’t gonna tell no one.’
‘So it stays where it belongs then? Back in the fucking irrelevant past.’
‘I get it. You’re in denial.’ The stupid grin was back. ‘Nothing to be ashamed about.’
‘Do I look like I am?’
‘If you don’t then you sure sound it. The name’s Duke—’
‘I don’t care what your name is.’ Johno wasn’t waiting for the surname or the supposedly funny or interesting explanation for why he was called Duke. ‘Door’s thataway, buddy.’
‘Well, I’ll be fucked, an ex-con who’s gone all born-again? Selling booze?’
‘Not selling you even that anymore. Giving you a free walk out the door before I think of more reasons I don’t like you.’
‘Is that right? Something about my character you don’t like, perhaps? Or do I remind you too much of— Stick your joint. Okay?’
‘More than okay. I’m delighted.’
‘Smartarse, eh? I’ll put the word around that an ex-con by the name of Johno Ryan, who used to run with Shane McNeil, now doing time in Melbourne — Barwon maximum security, I believe — has turned on his own kind.’
If it hadn’t been for the mention of Shane, Johno might have had something to say about Duke’s implied threat. But hearing Shane was back inside and at a maximum security down in Victoria?
‘You do that, pal. And tell them no ex-con gets a welcome in my joint. Save me a lot of aggro.’
The guy turned and left, Johno close behind to make sure he wasn’t coming back.
He’d thought of Shane occasionally but more often had dreams about him. In these they were usually in prison and trying to escape, or get away from an inmate mob attack. Worst of all was the dream where he was sentence
d again — to life.
He could have gone to see Shane’s parents years ago, find out what he was up to. Johno’s father Laurie, once close to Bobby McNeil, hadn’t mentioned him in years so they’d probably drifted apart, or had a row, more likely. He did write Shane a letter, at least began one, but couldn’t think of what to say.
He tore it up without asking himself why.
Chapter thirteen
Danny lay on his bed, Johno sat on the edge, summoned home from the bar after a call from Mavis at four on a weekday afternoon.
Speaking softly as he stroked his boy’s head, Johno said, ‘Mavis says you were bullied. Some kid hit you?’
Danny stared into space, like someone stunned at life betraying him. ‘Just because of my painting and drawing.’
‘I wondered how long it would take to bring out bad behaviour in some kids,’ Johno said.
‘Why? People used to like my art. I never got bullied before. Everyone knew I preferred being on my own, but now some of them are calling me a no-mates, and other worse stuff.’
‘Your talent will make some kids jealous. A wonder it didn’t happen earlier,’ said Johno. ‘Do you know the boy? Is he in your class?’
‘It’s three, not one,’ said Danny. ‘And they’re a year older — twelve.’
‘Older, bigger and not even from your class?’ Johno could feel the anger rising. ‘So, what happened? How did it start? What did they say?’
‘That I’m a pretty boy and my art is shit. I don’t know how they heard about it.’
‘The whole school will know. You have a rare talent.’
‘Am I pretty — like a girl?’
‘No, but you’re one handsome kid. That’s how you were born.’ But Johno could see that his son might be perceived as slightly effeminate — the silky skin, the trusting eyes, the perfectly sculpted features.
‘They said I spend half my life looking in the mirror and the other half doing my dumb drawings. But I don’t.’
‘I know you don’t, or not the mirror thing.’
‘And arty-farty? Like it’s shameful, or I blew off in class? A pretty boy?’ Danny gave his father an imploring look. ‘I’m not pretty like a girl, am I, Dad?’