This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘The history of capital, and how greedy bastards use it to better themselves.’

  Another photo showed a slightly older Ernie, this time in a suit and tie, speaking into a microphone at some sort of public gathering. ‘Here, I’m about forty. This is a few years after we migrated. That’s the Waterside Workers’ Hall.’

  ‘You were some sort of official?’

  ‘Again, Electrical Workers’ Union. Secretary … Comrade Sharpe.’

  ‘Comrade?’

  ‘Too right. Workers stick together, Clem. That’s where we got our strength. Of course, things are different now. The bosses have got the upper hand. And do you know why?’

  Ida came in with the coffees. She’d thought better of it, and put on a dressing gown. ‘Ernie, don’t bother him with all that.’

  ‘He wants to know, don’t you, Clem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  So she shook her head, and left.

  ‘I’ll tell you. The workers were too scared to strike in case they lost their jobs. See, you gotta stick together. One in, all in, or it doesn’t work.’

  There were dozens more photos, charting his rise, fall, and journey towards irrelevance. At the end he said, ‘You interested in politics, Clem?’

  ‘Sorta. We’re doin’ the Russian Revolution in history.’

  His eyes lit up. ‘See, one in, all in.’

  ‘But didn’t Stalin murder fifty million people?’

  ‘Well, that number’s always exaggerated, and he was trying to make a new sort of society.’

  He spent another ten minutes explaining how, if Australia was communist, Packer and Hancock would have to splash the cash, and we wouldn’t be living in fibro huts on the edge of civilisation. This seemed a bit dramatic. They were comfortable homes, and a lot of people in communist countries lived in worse. Still, there was no point bringing this up. Ernie knew best, apparently.

  He reclaimed his photo album, searched for another book and opened it. ‘The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms.’

  Communism seemed like a good idea. Sharing the goods. Gary Burrell did it; I’d seen the evidence in his back shed. And maybe that was justified.

  Ernie said, ‘You can borrow this,’ and placed The Communist Manifesto in my hands. ‘As true now as the day it was written.’

  ‘But Russia’s pointing all those missiles at us,’ I said.

  He sat forward, whispered, as though ASIO might be listening. ‘Well, they’ve got no choice, have they? We’re with America, and America’s all about the factory owners. But they’re closing down, and what’s happening to the workers?’

  ‘Sacked?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s what America stands for. That’s why the Russians are onto them. Makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  I wasn’t sure it did. ‘Pity if we all go up in flames.’ I noticed a Russian flag on the wall, hidden by a filing cabinet sprouting fifty years of papers.

  ‘Cost of living rises but wages don’t,’ he said. ‘Man can barely support his family now, but if you got capital.’

  I guessed education might lead to better jobs, and income, and maybe that was easier than starting a world revolution. But I supposed not everyone had the brains to become a doctor, so it was proletariat versus slave master.

  ‘Take your dad, for example. He’d spend ten hours a day laying bricks, and I remember, he told me, lucky if he brought home ten quid a week. Now, you—’

  ‘Laying bricks?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I never knew he did that.’

  ‘He was a sub-contractor. The fella that built the homes got paid, the contractor got paid, and your dad, he got whatever was over. Some weeks, he told me, he couldn’t afford petrol. Mortgage first, of course, then food for you lot.’

  Laying bricks sounded like hard work. But I’d always assumed he’d lost interest in domestic life, his family, me, Jen. ‘How long did he lay bricks?’

  Ernie backed off. ‘Not sure. Just at the beginning. Before he …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Left … or had to go.’

  ‘Had to go?’

  ‘I dunno, ask your mother, it’s none of my business.’ He sipped his coffee and gazed out of the window. ‘I was just saying, if he’d been in a union things mighta been different. Ten hours a day out in the hot sun, and not enough to support his family.’

  ‘Do you know why Mum doesn’t say anything?’

  ‘Her business.’

  ‘It’s like everyone in the street’s been warned off.’

  ‘Rubbish, we just say what we know. You don’t go sticking your nose in other people’s business.’

  I held the manifesto. I wasn’t sure that it was going to help me, or that I really cared. You had to work your own life out before you could worry about other people’s. I needed my own revolution, and John Lennon seemed more relevant then Vladimir Ilyich.

  ‘Ern!’

  Ida. Ernie jumped up, ran down the hall, into the kitchen. I followed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look!’

  Ida pointed to the kitchen window. A few metres away two cats stood on a fence strut going their hardest. Ida knocked on the glass but they didn’t care.

  ‘Dirty bastards!’ Ernie said. He ran into the laundry, found a bucket and started filling it with hot water. ‘Filthy bloody creatures.’

  Apparently his ideals didn’t extend to Val’s tabbies. He ran out, threw the water, and they squealed, and jumped.

  I stood on his back porch, watching, half-laughing, as the drama unfolded. I looked up to see Val, staring out of her kitchen window, seeing me and pulling the curtain.

  Ernie called, ‘Why don’t you keep them locked up?’

  No reply.

  ‘Place smells like piss.’

  Then he came in, threw the bucket in the trough and returned to kitchen. Again, I followed, and he said, ‘I wanna have a talk to your mum. It’s about time we did something.’

  I didn’t know what to say. The cats didn’t bother me. I guessed that Ernie was more a hates-the-boss than loves-the-worker sort of person. ‘I better get going.’

  ‘Righto. Read the book, get back to us. We’ll talk, eh?’

  Ida had started filleting fish. She had a pile of bones, heads, fins. She emptied them into newspaper, wrapped the bundle and presented it to Ernie. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Cosa them cats I gotta bury them,’ he said to me, going out the back door, picking up his shovel and digging a new hole.

  I watched him work, and realised we only ever know part of the story.

  Pop let the chain run through his fingers. It glided through the gears, and the engine started to lift. ‘Steady it,’ he said.

  I held the side of the block, positioned it so it would slip into its cradle.

  260Z Sports. Pop had developed a reputation for Datsuns, and people came from all over. This time, a man named Harper, who’d said, ‘I got her new, but she never had enough grunt.’

  A new engine. And although Pop hadn’t ordered it yet, he’d decided we should remove the old one first.

  ‘Righto, help me.’ We pushed the hoist from either side. The engine rocked, so I steadied it. There were holes where he’d unscrewed the oil and air filter, where the transmission and exhaust manifold had been removed. He’d bought another manual, sacrificed another bedsheet, laid it on the ground, drawn the outlines and positioned the parts of the puzzle.

  ‘Down.’ I held the engine in place as he worked the chains again. The block lowered, but he was in no rush. It settled into the cradle and the chains loosened. ‘Done.’ I helped him return the hoist to its spot in the corner. Then he said, ‘Good job.’

  He walked around it, wiped it with a rag, and said, ‘Still get a decent price.’

  If he could see it through, find a buyer, manage to mount a new block. Mr Harper was in no rush. Pop took out his papers and Port Royal
and started rolling.

  ‘What next?’ I asked.

  He surveyed the parts on the ground.

  ‘No rush.’ Like he wanted to enjoy each moment. Perhaps (I wondered) because it might be his last. Mum had already given him a lecture about the sheet. His was becoming a world of templates. If memory failed, it had to be helped. Like the list he’d made of every Datsun he’d ever fixed. Starting with the Fairlady 1500 (1967), through to the 720 (1984). In between there was the 510 Sedan, Roadster 2000, 240Z Sports and dozens more. He’d cut out their pictures, and made a calendar. Stuck each one to a board he displayed on his bench. A life in Datsuns.

  Mum came in with salad rolls, put them on the table, noticed the sheet and shook her head. ‘Bring in the plates when you’re done.’ Before turning and going in.

  Pop positioned his teeth, bit into the roll, and his falsies clunked. He used a finger to push them back in. ‘Soft rolls,’ he grizzled.

  I smiled, and examined the Datsun calendar.

  ‘I remember each one,’ he said, standing beside me.

  I pointed to the 300ZX (1980). He said, ‘Fella named Jones. Just around the corner. But he smashed it up a few months later.’ Then he sat on his stool.

  ‘Didn’t you do Ron’s car one time?’ I asked.

  ‘One time, but I don’t think he was happy. Never asked again.’

  I sat beside him. ‘Wonder what he gets up to in his shed?’

  ‘Makes car seats.’

  ‘What he really gets up to?’

  He continued working on his roll. ‘You’re too much like yer father.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  His falsies clunked again, slipped, fell, and he caught the uppers in his hand and replaced them. ‘You been thinking about our friend?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lasseter.’ He sat back against the iron. ‘We gotta stay focused. I don’t want it interfering with your studies. I was thinking the school holidays.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘When we get this one fixed we’ll have some cash, then we can buy supplies.’ He put down his roll and unlit smoke and went to the corner. Produced a crowbar, shovel, spade, and a pick. ‘All ready to go.’

  I noticed they were new.

  Returning, he said, ‘Metal detector, that’s what we need.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I need to make a few phone calls, do a bita research. Main thing is, you’re still with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We can’t give up now. People might laugh, but I haven’t told the full story.’

  I waited.

  ‘It was verified,’ he whispered.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘After I got the map I contacted this fella at the university and he said bring it in. So I went in and he examined it and said, Doug, I reckon you’re onto something.’

  ‘How did he know?’

  ‘He knew. I went home and told Nan, and said, You can choose to believe me or not. But before that, I want you to come and meet this fella. So, she gets dressed up and we go back and he tells her it’s not a fake. It’s at least a hundred years old—the age when the reef was meant to be discovered.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She tells me I’d believe anything. Then I knew I was on my own, and I have been, all these years. Which is why you gotta promise to help me, Clem.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He stood, walked around the engine and said, ‘I know someone’ll get me a good price.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ I said.

  He returned and sat down. ‘Hurry up and get your licence. It’s been a long wait. One time yer dad promised to help.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Before he …’ He thought about it. Obviously, some sort of memo had gone around the street.

  ‘He promised to help?’

  ‘He had a Holden, before your time, and he said, Doug, I’ll go, as long as you promise, seventy—thirty split.’

  ‘You agreed?’

  ‘Course I agreed. But then things went pear-shaped.’

  ‘Pear-shaped?’

  He must have remembered. ‘Doesn’t matter. As long as you’re still—’

  ‘It does matter.’

  ‘Just be grateful he …’ His head dropped; he lit his smoke.

  ‘Pop?’

  ‘Need the throne.’ He stood, and made his way back to the house.

  Missed, again. I walked over to the Datsun wall and studied the Fairlady, the Roadster. Ghost cars that no one talked about.

  The Rosies’ weeds had set seed, died and settled in a composted square full of cat shit and rubbish that had blown in from the road. But I could still remember when it was freshly mowed, Mr Rosie sitting on the step with me, telling me about high school. ‘One trick’s filling the head with paper and flushing.’

  I went in the back door: the laundry lino lifting, the rusted square where they’d had their trough, spilled toilet cleaners and bleach still colouring the floor. Tina, a few months after Mr Rosie had gone, telling the movers what to take, as I watched from my window and saw what was left of Oswald Rosie being loaded in the back of a truck.

  He was still there, looking out the back door. Did you read the Dickens?

  Yes.

  And?

  It’s okay, but a bit … unbelievable. Have you got anything else?

  He led me to his study, and the bookcase that reached to the ceiling. I said, All we got’s encyclopedias.

  That’s okay.

  Planet of the Apes?

  It’s about a world where the apes rule, and the people are in zoos.

  That sounds okay. I leafed through the pages. Can I borrow it?

  I stood where the bookcase had been and remembered the movers bringing out boxes of books, and thinking, if no one wants them … But you couldn’t say anything. Tina and Vicky standing in their driveway, and Mum sitting next to me, watching and saying, It’s sad, isn’t it?

  What?

  What happened.

  What happened?

  Well … Mr Rosie’s gone.

  I know, but what happened to him?

  Nothing.

  I felt the walls, the window frames, as if Ossie might still be there, somehow. As if I could say, I saw you the other day.

  Where?

  Sitting on your front step.

  And what I wouldn’t say: staring at the ground, for an hour, like you were looking at something, although you weren’t.

  I’s getting some air.

  The master bedroom. There was a hole in the floor and you could see the ground. Like he’d fallen (Curtis’s theory—explained in Cantos II). But I knew how it’d got there. Kids breaking in, a year or so after they’d moved. We’d heard them trashing the place, and Pop had rung the cops, and when they’d arrived you could see them scampering, climbing the back fence into other people’s yards. So now Mrs Donnellan’s cats had a way in, and their piss and shit was everywhere. (I wouldn’t tell Ernie, cos he’d just use it against her). There was a built-in wardrobe, and Tina had left a few rugs that sat folded, ready for use. Oswald (I imagined) placing one over his wife, kissing her, saying, It’s okay if you find someone else. Before going out, finding a rope and choosing the tree.

  Just make sure you stay away from Mr Sharpe, he said to me.

  Why?

  You don’t wanna hang around gloomy people.

  Why’s he gloomy?

  Cos things didn’t work out the way he wanted, so he’s still … shitty.

  But he’s funny.

  When he’s drunk.

  He’s a communist.

  No, he’s a misery guts.

  I just play with Curtis.

  That’s okay.

  Are you a communist?

  No, but I have the book. And he found it, and showed me, seven years before Ernie.

  The toilet, as I remembered it. A ballerina for the paper, a scum ring, although it still flushed okay. The kitchen, stripped clean, and back to the laundry. The
screen door, and me knocking, and Mrs Rosie answering, Vicky clinging to her leg. Is Mr Rosie home?

  No, Clem.

  Oh … Although I knew he was. I’d seen him walking up and down the drive in his pyjamas.

  I was gonna get a book.

  Can you come back tomorrow?

  That you, Clem? The voice from the bedroom.

  Go on, then, Mrs Rosie said, as Vicky stuck her tongue out at me.

  I went into their bedroom and Mr Rosie was in bed, still in his pyjamas at two in the afternoon. He said: You finished those already? And I returned my pile.

  Come on then. He took me into his study and filled my arms and said, How you feeling?

  Strange question, cos there was no reason not to feel okay. I noticed he hadn’t shaved for a week, although it was term time, and his eyes were red, like he’d been crying. I’ll get started on these now.

  Good-o.

  I went back outside. Walked around the yard. The empty shed, with its cracked slab and oil stains, the beams that held up the roof. The louvres, cracked, diffusing the early autumn light. There’d been a Torana, and Pop had serviced it. The car Tina and Vicky had finally climbed into, before driving off. As we watched from the lounge, and wondered.

  I went outside and studied the branches again. That was Pop’s explanation—although how he’d known? A few months after Vicky and Tina had left, me, lying in bed, listening through the walls. Pop saying, Hung himself.

  Mum: Rubbish.

  Went off his medication. She found him hanging from the lemon tree.

  But I checked, and there was only one lemon tree, and the branches all poked up, although there were a few that’d been chopped off.

  ‘That you, Clem?’

  It was Mrs Champness, peering through a hole in the fence.

  ‘Just having a look,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a disgrace, isn’t it?’ she half-sang. ‘There could be snakes in that grass.’

  ‘Do we get snakes around here?’

  ‘Yes, we do. Les found a brownie in the aviary. It was after the birds.’

  It was Lanark Avenue, and everyone was close, and you could smell them and hear them, and every day they got a little closer, if you weren’t careful. I could hear Jen, Depeche Mode (again), and Mum mixing cupcakes. I could smell Wendy’s powder, and someone had permed her hair like pavlova.