This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  I woke to the smell of freshly mowed lawn. Neat, and Lanark respectable. Ready to be rolled on, ball-thrown on, sat on, with the abridged David Copperfield Peter Donnellan had remembered. Summer nights on Onkaparinga rugs, because the house was too hot. A tranny (on the end of three extensions) playing Sherbet. The last of Don’s lollies. As it got darker, and you couldn’t read, but you kept reading, because what else could you do? As Mum called, Clem, come in, the mozzies’ll eat you.

  I could hear our mower: Pop, out back, tackling the quarter acre of grass my dad had planted in the days of fresh fibro and Peter without his Catweazle beard. I knew I should get dressed, go help, but the smell was holding me down. The mower, reshaping garden, house and street, God’s voice promising a Paradise of all things orange, brown and Nana Mouskouri.

  Morning glory! But I rose, sat on the end of my bed and gazed out at the wire fence. Gary Burrell, of course. In exchange for a few slabs. Fences were important. They extended pride, but defined privacy. Still, nothing could keep the strays out, and you had to check for dog shit before you ran under sprinklers. The Donnellans were front-fenceless, but that wasn’t a yard anyone would want to enter. You could tell people by their fence. Les had built a wooden number, but it had rotted away, and leaned, casting Dr Caligari shadows on long summer nights lit by a cheesecake moon.

  And between fence and lawn, a path that Jen had once wheeled me around as I sat in the hot-steel barrow, burning my legs. Hurry up, I’d say, thinking she was doing it for my benefit. But no. The barrow would tip, I’d go tumbling and she’d cover me with the aluminium dome, sitting on it, laughing, as the temperature rose, and I shouted and kicked, wet with sweat, until Mum came out and pushed her off.

  A shirtless Les Champness came out, entered his aviary and sprinkled seed. He extended a finger and waited for a bird to settle before kissing it. More than Wendy ever got, I guessed. I thought of Nick Andrews, found a pad and started drawing the birdman. The stumpy legs, fat arse and belly that made him lean forward. Dozens of birds at his feet, pecking between his toes, as he talked to them. Man boobs, of course, bloodhound eyes and a bit of hair you had to get close to see. I stopped, examined him, and felt pleased. So on the second page, I continued. Wendy as Eve. This time from imagination: hair rollers and a net to keep them in place; black dress with apron, and a bowl to gather nectarines; slippers; and a plain expression that came from plain features.

  I examined my work and saw gaps in my Creation. Ron Glasson had come out to measure someone’s seat, so I drew him, arse view, but you could make out his Olive Oyl legs and long, scarecrow arms.

  And this is where I sat, sketching, waiting for victims, focusing on faces and slumped shoulders and June Sharpe with her unmistakable cleavage. As the mower droned, and I felt bad that I wasn’t helping.

  I studied the twelve images, and felt pleased. This was the world I’d made. It smelled of cut grass and tasted of stewed apricots. It had light and dark, seasons, pimples, corns, animals and hernia scars. The void had been filled. Water, even, in the form of the sprinkler with the high-pitched hiss.

  Pop wheeled the Victa up the drive. Then he disappeared out back and returned with a bag of clippings. I leaned forward and put my face to the flyscreen. ‘Wait on, Pop.’ I pulled on shorts and sandshoes and ran out, claimed the Victa and started. There wasn’t much to mow. It just stirred up dust and dead grass. Soon, I could taste it on my tongue, feel it in my nose and ears. Ernie went past with Fi-Fi and waved. More cars pulled up for seat covers and Ron came out and looked at me like I was spoiling business. ‘G’day, Mr Glasson,’ I said, and he managed a smile. Pop sat down on the verandah and I called, ‘In the shade.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘In the shade.’

  Push, conquer, turn and return. It was all very muscular. After a few minutes Mum came out with drinks, placed them beside Pop, tried to move him, gave up, and went inside. Moments later Jen came out, got into the 120Y and drove off after saying something to Pop.

  As I worked I watched my grandfather use a stick to move dirt in the garden. He picked up stones, examined them, spat on them, rubbed them, and threw them away. I switched off the mower, waited for it to die, and sat next to him. ‘Finished.’

  He handed me my drink and said, ‘Good job.’

  ‘You shoulda called me, I would’ve done the back.’

  ‘Na.’ And he shooed me, along with the flies.

  He picked up another stone and examined it.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Quartz.’

  I knew what was coming.

  ‘You’re hot as hell,’ I said, as I drank.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Get your blood pressure up—’

  ‘I’m fine! Don’t need it from you too.’

  Mum must’ve been on at him about the family history. The little vessel that’d pop, and that’d be it. But perhaps he didn’t care, perhaps it would be better than dying forgetting. ‘You getta good line, it leads to gold,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I still regret it.’

  I didn’t reply; the story would come anyway. About his Croat mate, Arno, and how he’d gone to Coober Pedy and found a shitload of opal and made millions and returned to Europe and built a mansion, and a school for his town and blah, blah, although he knew it probably wasn’t true.

  Then he turned to me and said, ‘It’s not too late, you know.’

  I waited. Next, he’d say: You and me, we could do it.

  ‘For what?’ I asked, dutifully, as the mower cooled, as Ron returned to his shed, as Ernie passed carrying Fi-Fi.

  ‘The map.’

  ‘It’s a long way.’

  ‘Not so far.’ As he tried to convince himself, again. ‘Even if we hired a four-wheel drive.’

  ‘We’d have to, eh?’

  ‘Plenty of water, coupla of spares. Make sure it’s in good nick. We could do it.’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘Big adventure?’

  I waited for the word. Lasseter.

  ‘I worked it out the other day. Three days driving, coupla days looking, perhaps. Day digging, then home. Less than a week.’

  He waited for my approval.

  ‘Three days?’

  ‘Four if it’s hot.’

  ‘Where would we stay?’

  ‘Motels, or camp out. I’m not too old for that.’

  It all sounded so simple. As it had for years. Ever since that day, when I was six or seven, when he’d led me to the shed and opened the big toolbox he always kept locked, took out a piece of paper, unfolded it and showed me. ‘There … see?’

  ‘What is it?’

  The name on the top. Lasseter.

  He’d run his finger along the Stuart Highway, then the road west, into a blank of sandy dragons and hellfire. ‘Look!’

  More roads, with scribbled names, pictures of a mountain range, valleys, ‘NATIV PYNES’. Like some idiot pirate had drawn it.

  I’d asked. ‘Where’s this?’

  ‘Ah.’ And he’d tapped the side of his nose. Then, in a whisper, ‘But look.’

  At the end of the journey, a cross, and the words: ‘Lasseter’s Reef’.

  Then he’d said, ‘Years ago I was drinking in a pub and this fella comes over. Says, Son (I still had hair back then), I’ve only got a few days left. And I said, Till what? He says, To live. And I’m thinking, Why are you telling me? Then he says, You’re young, starting out, you could do with a break, couldn’t you? I says, I s’pose so, mister. He says, Well, could you or not? There are plenty of other people drinking in this pub. Well, I’m thinking, You stupid old prick, but then he puts this map on the bar. Says, Me and my dad found this reef of gold twenty years ago. Hundred yards long. Worth millions. I studied the map. He says, We left it there so we could go away and raise enough money to return, with machinery, take it all out, properly. But then me dad died, and I got sick, then better, then hit the bottle, then forgot about it, got sick again, better again,
now I’m really sick. And I looked at him and tried to decide. Worth millions? Could I get that lucky? Or was he just … mad?’

  I’d been amazed. I’d said, ‘Is it real?’

  He’d said, ‘Well, that’s what I had to decide. Then this old fella says, Son, you decide.’

  I’d waited. ‘Pop, if this is real, and there’s gold there …’

  ‘Exactly. So, I was thinking, one day soon …’

  ‘We could go look?’

  ‘Yeah, what d’you reckon?’

  ‘It’s worth a go.’

  ‘If it’s not there it’s not there.’

  Then I’d asked, ‘Pop, why have you waited so long?’

  He’d flattened the map and replied, ‘I’m not sure. But the thing is, Clem, now you know about it too.’

  We’d both sat in the shed, staring at the cross, like it was glowing, like it had chosen us, said, Come on, boys, you’ve had some hard times, but that’s all over.

  Now I wiped the sweat and dust from my forehead and said, ‘What d’you reckon, Pop? Coupla million?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He had the look. Like he’d once doubted but had overcome these feelings. But this belief, this conviction had come too late and now he was old and unable to go searching for the thing that might save him, and us, from a fibro existence.

  ‘I’m not getting any younger, you know.’ He picked up another stone, examined it, discarded it.

  ‘I know, Pop.’

  ‘I can still drive. And if it is there …’

  If, I thought. If. The glue that held everyone’s life together. If Les would just calm down; if Ron would come over and talk; if John would stop stealing.

  ‘If we found it and made a claim it wouldn’t do me much good but you and Fay, and Jen, and your kids. That’s what I’m thinking about.’

  Which seemed reasonable. All you had to do was go and look and if the old guy in the pub had been a fruitcake, so what? This is what I had seen in the shed that day, and what I could still see now. It wouldn’t do any harm to go and look.

  He said, ‘You still believe the map’s right?’

  ‘He wouldn’ta made it up, would he?’ I wondered if this was the wrong thing to say. Ever since I could remember, Mum had said, ‘That bloody map. Some old drunk gives it to you and you actually believe him? Dad, come on.’

  ‘Yes, I do believe him. Why shouldn’t I?’

  I was getting feeling back into my hands. ‘That’s very famous, Lasseter’s Reef. People have been searching for it for years.’

  ‘Too right. But the thing is, that day in the pub I got lucky, but I let it go, Clem. I let it go. We gotta reclaim it.’

  ‘Yeah, we do, Pop.’

  The map was still in his toolbox, and he still showed it to me, explaining where it was, and how we’d get there. He’d planned the route, the stops, the motels, the lot. It was all just a matter of faith.

  Luckily, Sunday morning was no longer Baptist. It had been, for years. Mum would drop me and Jen, Bibles in hand, hair combed, faces washed. Me in my best slacks, one of Pop’s shirts, cardigan, and freshly ironed hanky. You couldn’t spit in church, or anywhere near it, and hell awaited those who wiped their nose on the back of their hand.

  Val Donnellan had a cross on her wall, and I’d asked her, What do you think the chances are, really? She’d told me it was a sure bet. Jesus, apparently, had saved her. He’d jumped down from his cross and explained how there were worse things in life than crucifixion. But she’d told me, You’ll have to wait, make up your own mind.

  It continued, even in the Burrells’ lounge room. Curtis, the premature adult, lying on the couch in his pyjamas watching Songs of Praise. A village choir and an old man with an accent like Ernie’s saying how God had saved him from falling off a cliff. Curtis mimicked him. ‘I took one step back, to focus me camera, and I slipped …’

  Anne Burrell walked past and said, ‘Curtis, there’s no need to be disrespectful.’

  ‘Ah, then I was falling, doon, doon, I went!’

  We cracked up. Anne returned to the kitchen.

  I said, ‘Don’t ask Pop about the Catholics. He had a sister, and she went blind.’ I whispered. ‘His mum had the clap.’

  ‘The clap?’

  ‘You know, cos she had no …’

  The dishes stopped rattling, and I waited.

  Curtis listened to the old fella on the telly. ‘I reached up, and praise the Lord Jaysus, a hand!’

  ‘Curtis!’

  ‘It’s on the telly.’ He leaned forward, and said, ‘Had no what?’

  ‘Contraception. So she’d got the clap, and it got in his sister’s eyes as she was emerging and she went blind.’

  He sat back. ‘Catholics. I’ll put them on my list too.’

  It wasn’t just a mental list. An actual one, four pages long, starting with clumsy kiddy scribble (the mailman), progressing through his primary school years (Mr Gottl), high school (all teachers, principals, office staff), up to the most recent, a few days before (Les Champness). And now, Catholics.

  Curtis said, ‘So your aunt couldn’t see?’

  ‘I never knew her. She died before I was born.’

  He sat forward. ‘They’re no better, you know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Catholics. This AIDS thing. They reckon it’ll wipe out half the planet. The Christians reckon it’s some punishment from God. That’s what we’re up against, Whelan.’

  You could never quite believe him. ‘Half the planet?’

  ‘It can wipe out a whole village in a few days.’ Then he sat back, eager for the next testimonial.

  ‘Not much point doing matric,’ I said.

  ‘Guess not.’ As he listened to a teacher talking about her lambs. ‘Franger, eh? In everything we learn, Jesus. The way a flower opens, sends out its smell. It’s His design, isn’t it, dear Clement?’

  Anne came in and sat on the lounge. ‘Just don’t say a word, Curtis.’

  He checked his watch. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘No matter what he says.’

  A give-me-some-credit expression. ‘That’s it. He’s back for good?’

  Anne glanced at me, as if I shouldn’t be party to the discussion, but then guessed (I suppose) I’d heard and seen it all. ‘You staying, Clem?’

  ‘Should I go?’

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she returned to Curtis. ‘Even if he has a go at you.’

  ‘Okay! I get it. The way a number divides … that’s proof of His love.’

  The car in the drive, footsteps, then voices. The door opened and Gary entered with a bag, threw it on the ground and said, ‘I can’t stay.’

  Anne looked at him pleadingly. ‘Just for half an hour?’

  ‘I gotta pick up some gear.’

  ‘On a Sunday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a stop-asking yes, and Anne knew better.

  John entered, stood in the doorway and said, ‘Hasn’t changed much.’

  Anne approached her son, tried to embrace him, but he resisted. ‘How you feeling, John?’

  He barely acknowledged her. ‘Thought you were gonna get some new curtains?’

  ‘They’re coming.’

  He noticed his brother, and the television. ‘What, you gone all religious?’

  ‘The Lawd Jaysus Christ, Johnnie. He can be yer saviour!’

  ‘Still full of shit.’

  Gary held his son’s shoulder and said, ‘I gotta pick up a few jobs.’

  ‘Want me to come?’

  ‘No, you unpack. I’ll see you later. Mum reckons we should go out for lunch.’

  Curtis smiled at me and returned to his hymn. I knew what he was thinking: They’d never take me out to lunch. They’re scared of him, Clem. Scared of their own son.

  Gary left, and Anne seemed lost. ‘All done. Now we can get on with things.’

  John asked about Pop and I said, ‘He’s okay, but he’s forgetting more.’

  ‘That’s shit.’

  H
e had a soft spot for Pop. They’d sit and talk, and John would listen to all the stories: childhood, early jobs, Nan, and the thousand things he’d had to do to keep his family afloat. John would often help him with a car. And although he was a little thief, nothing went missing from Pop’s shed. As for me—I was too much like Curtis, the eternal pain in the arse. But he said, ‘Tell him I’ll come in and say hello.’

  ‘I will.’

  He walked down the hall, and the springs suggested he’d thrown his bag on his bed. Anne stood in his doorway. ‘Do you want me to wash any of that stuff?’

  ‘It’s done.’

  ‘What, before you left?’

  No response.

  ‘If you want it done again?’

  ‘Why would I want it done again?’

  Curtis had kept his promise and stayed quiet. The paradise of being an only child had finished. Now he was the silent son, the seeker-of-peace. ‘Hear us Lord, incredibly bored …’

  ‘Shut up!’ John called.

  ‘Curtis!’ Anne echoed.

  ‘Sorry.’ And whispering. ‘Popery on a ropery. For washing private parts, and the residue of farts …’

  ‘Did you think about what Dad said?’ Anne asked.

  ‘I’ll give it a go. When’s it start?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Fuck. Tomorrow? I just got home.’

  Curtis had told me. Gary had spoken to someone at work and they’d found a few hours sorting metal, and if John worked out they’d train him on the forklift, and one thing might lead to another.

  Anne said, ‘If you don’t feel ready, we can ask if—’

  ‘I’m ready. Didn’t say I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Those forklift drivers make good money. I been tellin’ yer father he should do it.’ She was trying her best. ‘Do you want me to get you a drink?’

  ‘Mum … just leave us alone, will yer?’

  ‘I just want you to feel … relaxed.’

  Springs, floorboards, and the door closed. Anne emerged. All in all, it hadn’t gone too bad. Curtis said, ‘Doon, doon I went, but not all was as bad as it seemed.’

  ‘Clem?’ A distant voice, possibly Jen. ‘Where are you?’

  It seemed strange. Jen never wanted me for anything, except to shout at, or sit on. I stood, went to the door, but she was already half up the drive. ‘What’s wrong?’ I said.