This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  I turned, looked at the fly-wire.

  ‘You busy?’

  I went to Val’s door, and straight in, since I’d been invited. She welcomed me, smiled and showed me her cake. ‘I guess I should,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like you said, about Ida.’

  It seemed like a good idea. At any rate, it’d shut Ernie up for a while.

  Val picked up a bowl of icing and started spreading it on top. ‘I don’t know … after all these years.’

  I’d told her how Ernie didn’t care about Ernie, but Mrs Ernie—that was different. How he hated to see her left out, forgotten, when Donnellan and Whelan were together, babysat, front porch Hamlets, rides in wheelbarrows and the rest of it.

  ‘If it’s such a simple thing,’ she said.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I often watch her, trimming her edges. She gave up on Ernie doin’ it years ago. And when she’s finished she goes over them again, to make sure they’re neat. And I think, that’s too lonely. She hardly ever sees June.’

  ‘Didn’t she used to work?’

  ‘Years ago. Before your time. Myer. Every day, down the drive, dressed in black like she was going to someone’s funeral. Hers, I guess.’ She finished icing the cake and searched her drawers for a plastic message.

  ‘You’ve never had her in?’

  ‘Never. That’s terrible, isn’t it, Clem? Just cos you don’t get along with one person … I don’t reckon I ever seen anyone much in there. ’Cept the Avon lady.’ She found a ‘Happy Birthday’ and tried it. ‘Too much?’

  ‘It’s not her birthday.’

  ‘What about candles?’

  ‘I guess.’

  She kept searching. ‘When Peter and David were in scouts they’d bob-a-job, and they used to clean his car. And he’d give ’em a few dollars.’ She stopped, staring out of the window, seeing it, perhaps. The boys, their arms heavy with badges, Ernie saying, I don’t know about a bob.

  ‘Scouts are good for a boy,’ she said. ‘You liked it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Didn’t last long.’

  ‘No, you didn’t, did you? But you cooked good soup.’

  Best left unsaid, I thought. Although, thinking back, the Cohen Cup was my first and only trophy. The 1st Gleneagles Scouts always entered: a statewide cook-off for troops of seven. One for the entrée, one for the soup, two for mains, two for dessert, and a leader. Me as Mr Soup. Rising at six (it was a camp-out) to grate vegetables, boil bones, add peas, the rest, until I had a soup that would, in 1979, win us the cup.

  ‘Only thing I ever won,’ I said.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘True. I played sport a few times, but I always sucked.’

  Cooking soup wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Val had taught me. We’d done it properly. Peter and David had built the fire in their backyard. They’d set up the tripod, warmed the cast-iron pot, then got out a card table to work on. Val had shown me how to grate the vegetables so they tasted best. Flavour, so no one would complain. To cook, just the right amount, so you won trophies.

  ‘Best soup I ever tasted,’ Val said, settling on a ‘Best Wishes’. ‘The secret was the time you took to let it simmer.’

  Simmer. Like our own lives. Like Don, guessing it was probably time to say hello. Maybe, in a few years, he’d ask my name. But there was no rush.

  Val was looking across at the Sharpes’ front door, wondering. ‘It seems too late.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘After all these years.’

  ‘It’s never too late.’

  She sighed. ‘David chopped the wood, and Peter got the fire going.’

  I couldn’t remember. I wasn’t sure how she could.

  ‘Then the grass caught and Doug came running and shouting and got the hose and squirted the shed, and when it was out, cursed us for lighting fires in summer. Then I said it was for your soup and he said, Well, you need to be more careful. You remember that, Clem?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, if I think about it I won’t do it.’ She took off her apron, picked up the cake, smiled and walked from the kitchen. A few moments later I watched her knocking on the Sharpes’ door.

  Ernie answered. He just stood looking, waiting.

  ‘Ernie … Ida home?’

  He might’ve smiled, but I might’ve seen it wrong. But he called, ‘Ida.’

  Then they started talking, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying. Val handed over the cake, and Ida motioned for her to come in. Ernie didn’t say a word.

  Peter came in behind me. He handed me an essay and said, ‘More corrections. Redo it, get it back to me.’

  ‘That’s the third draft.’

  ‘It’s still not right.’

  He noticed the scene on the Sharpes’ porch. ‘She did it?’

  ‘She reckoned that mighta been the problem.’

  We watched as the three went in, the door closed and a cat wandered across the Sharpes’ porch. Then, a van pulled up out front. It passed the side window so we couldn’t see it. ‘No,’ Peter said.

  We went to the front, out the door, and saw it: Gleneagles Council Pet Control. Two men got out, checked some paperwork, went to the back of the van and took out two nets. One of them saw Peter and said, ‘You Donnellan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Righto.’ He came onto the property, stalked a cat, netted it, and returned it to the van. It squealed and clawed, but it didn’t matter. After he’d deposited it, he returned for another. Meanwhile, the second man had caught a few kittens, and put them in the van.

  Peter approached them. ‘You can’t do this.’

  The first man said, ‘Look at the regulations. Three cats, registered, desexed.’ He kept hunting, around the side of the house. Peter followed and said, ‘At least wait and I’ll collect them.’

  ‘This place smells like piss. You gotta stand back, or we’ll call the cops to help.’

  He returned to me. ‘Mum’s gonna be …’ He watched the Sharpes’ place. Ernie was standing in the doorway, his face cold, hard.

  Another tabby, twisting itself in the net, extending its razor claws and baring teeth. But it didn’t matter—he was soon in the back with the others.

  Then Val came out. She pushed past Ernie, but then turned back to him. ‘You happy?’

  He didn’t reply.

  Ida was close behind, standing with a saucer with a slice of Val’s cake. But I guess she knew it’d be her first and last slice.

  ‘I tried,’ Val said to Ernie. ‘I’ve always tried, and this is how you repay me.’

  ‘I called, did I?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should check yer facts.’

  But Val wasn’t about to listen. She hobbled down from the verandah, the drive, towards the first man. ‘Aren’t you meant to send me a letter or something?’

  ‘This many cats ain’t fair to yer neighbours. They’re wild. They’ll attack kiddies. I’ve seen it. If they’re hungry, they’ll have a go at anyone.’

  The men continued their hunt. They sprayed under the house and the rest of the cats came running. Soon they were all in the back of the van, as Val stood watching. At one point she turned to her son and said, ‘They allowed to do this?’

  ‘Probably,’ he answered.

  And she looked at him like she’d wasted money on a useless education.

  ‘What you gonna do?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘We can try get them back. But we’d have to fix them up … three of them, anyway.’

  Val turned to the first man. ‘Tell me they won’t put ’em down?’

  ‘This many, it’s hard to give them away. People want dogs.’

  To Val, this was the worst thing of all. People want dogs. Therefore, they put cats down. Again, she turned to Ernie. ‘Hear that? They’re gonna put them down.’

  He didn’t respond.

  ‘Put ’em all to sleep. But they didn’t hurt no one.’

  Peter took her around t
he shoulder and tried to lead her in. She fought him, but eventually yielded. But as she went she said, ‘You wanna go see … when them little things are falling asleep?’

  And then, she was in, and the door closed.

  Ida was still holding her slice of cake.

  Ernie just said, ‘You wanna bit, Clem?’

  I showed Pop the picture of Nan’s sister. She was standing muddy-kneed in a black-and-white swamp, talking to someone out of shot. ‘I forgot her name.’

  ‘Started with S, I think.’

  Jen said, ‘Sue.’

  ‘Sue,’ Pop agreed. ‘Nan’s sister.’

  I made a note in the book in my lap.

  Sue Gould (Nan’s sister). Tried, but couldn’t remember.

  Jen started her clippers. She worked her way along Pop’s already shaved-down collar line. ‘How do you want it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nice and short,’ Pop replied.

  ‘She died young, didn’t she?’ I asked.

  ‘Did she?’

  Fell off a ladder, 1968, but he had no idea.

  I opened the album again, laid it on Pop’s lap, and he pushed it away. I indicated another photo and said, ‘I remember this fella. He lived at the end of the street. He used to sell sausage from his shed.’

  Pop studied the face. ‘Giuseppe.’

  Giuseppe Palmieri. Moved out (according to Mum) in 1973. But he remembers. Maybe he liked the sausage.

  ‘What was his surname?’ I asked.

  He seemed annoyed. ‘Why you asking me all these questions?’

  ‘Just trying to remember.’

  ‘Palmieri. Giuseppe Palmieri. Used to make red wine. Shit awful.’

  I had a method. I’d assigned everyone in the street one point. Then, I’d gone through the album, working out who was who, and assigned each of these people their own point. That made forty-nine. Problem was, that’d be forty-nine questions. And Pop wasn’t stupid. Nonetheless, I had to continue. ‘Now this one,’ I said, showing him, ‘is one of mum’s nephews, isn’t he?’

  ‘Why you asking?’

  ‘Well, I’s thinking, we’re studying Australian history, and I don’t even know half my own family.’

  Jen put down her clippers and started snipping his fringe.

  ‘None of that,’ he said.

  ‘I can get it nice.’

  ‘I don’t want it nice. I want it gone.’

  ‘Right.’ As she picked up the clippers and continued.

  Pop returned to the nephew. ‘Well, if you must know, he was …’ I watched his eyes studying the young man’s features. ‘A nephew.’

  ‘Was it Joseph?’

  ‘Yes, Joseph.’

  He seemed happy with that, although his name was David.

  No spark of recognition for number seven.

  Jen said, ‘How about I leave a bit and you can push it over to the side, like this?’

  ‘All of it.’

  ‘But you’ve had the same haircut for years.’

  ‘I once paid this fella to pussy about, but six weeks later I was back, and he was the most boring bastard I ever met. Telling me about his kids. So I said to Nan, Clippers. And she did it, for years. Now you get the privilege.’

  ‘Just seems a waste. I can do colours and perms.’

  ‘What do I want all that for?’ He closed his eyes, breathed the Saturday morning pea soup and let the sun warm his face. This was his spot, in the middle of the backyard, at the end of three extensions. Far away from the house and all of its disasters.

  I whispered to Jen, ‘Is he asleep?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘You’re lookin’ relaxed.’

  ‘I would be, if you weren’t rabbiting on.’

  ‘This one,’ I said, showing him a picture of a backyard birthday, on this lawn. ‘I remember this was my sixth birthday. See, you, Nan, Jen, me, and this kid, remember?’

  He squinted to see.

  ‘Wasn’t she Ida Sharpe’s niece?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘I remember, she stayed with them for a few months when her parents were overseas, and she’d always be in here playing. She was a real pain, going through our stuff. Remember, Jen?’

  ‘Little bitch.’

  ‘Wasn’t she called May?’

  ‘How much longer?’ Pop asked.

  I noticed a toy in the picture. ‘Look, that Tonka truck. It was a fire truck, wasn’t it, Pop?’

  ‘Wasn’t it, wasn’t it, wasn’t it? Can’t you keep quiet?’

  But this wasn’t about Alzheimer’s. I’d loved my Tonka truck. I could remember lighting fires, putting them out, incinerating plastic cowboys and policemen and watching them turn to glob on the concrete. It’d had an extendable ladder and lights that flashed and bells that clanged, and it was just like the real thing, when you were six.

  ‘Rabbits,’ Pop said.

  I looked at Jen; we stopped ourselves from laughing.

  ‘Rabbits,’ he repeated, eyes closed, head rolling, mouth open.

  ‘What rabbits?’ Jen asked.

  ‘Heap of them, gettin’ about everywhere … that’s what the fella said.’

  ‘What fella?’ I asked.

  ‘Rabbits.’

  Babbled about rabbits. Triggered memory. Sixth birthday? Tonka truck. Or was it the haircut?

  Jen pushed his head forward so she could trim the edges.

  I could remember the cab: the three or four firefighters. The little black hose you could undo, although it was solid and you couldn’t squirt anything. Still, you could incorporate your own hose, or a spray-pack, Mum’s, from the bathroom, or Jen’s, used in early attempts at hairdressing to simulate Agnetha’s do. An all-metal Tonka. So you could punish it. Or play with it in conjunction with Evel Knievel.

  ‘Evel Knievel, you remember him, Pop?’

  ‘Rabbits …’

  ‘Pop?’

  ‘Lasseter’s Reef …’

  ‘Pop?’

  ‘If you follow the directions in the sand …’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘The rabbits are at the reef?’

  He came out of it. ‘What?’

  ‘You said rabbits … and the reef.’

  ‘Did not.’ He watched Jen, worried she might have heard. ‘What did I say?’

  ‘Something about a reef.’

  He glared at me, annoyed that I’d let this happen. ‘Great Barrier Reef, eh, Clem?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Something about rabbits became Lasseter’s. Strangely, no mention of the trip for the last few weeks. Hard to know what he remembers.

  ‘I hate rabbits,’ he said. ‘Disgusting animals. Worse than cats.’

  ‘Cats are nice,’ Jen said.

  ‘Stinkin’… anyway, won’t have to worry about that no more.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘I rang the council. Told ’em we’d had enough.’

  I couldn’t believe it. He’d been putting up with cats for years. He was good at ignoring them: on the shed roof as he worked, in season, outside his window at three am.

  ‘They came and took them,’ I said.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Val was upset.’

  ‘She’ll get over it. Enough’s enough.’

  I could see Ernie’s face, hear him, telling me to get my facts straight.

  ‘That was mean,’ Jen said, although she didn’t like Val’s cats. Not the sort you saw playing with wool on the back of toilet doors.

  ‘You shoulda said something,’ I added.

  ‘No point muckin’ around. That’s what you pay your rates for.’

  Ernie, going inside, content to let me think what I wanted, but disappointed, perhaps, the cake idea hadn’t come off.

  Jen turned off her clippers, offered Pop a mirror and said, ‘Twenty bucks, ta.’

  ‘Take it outa your board, when you start paying some.’

  ‘I gave Mum twenty bucks.’

  ‘Likely story.’

  ‘I did.’

 
‘Righto.’ He stood, brushed himself off and said to me, ‘How did I do on yer quiz?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Good. Tell your mother. She can tell that shrink.’

  Ellman Street wasn’t so dangerous on a Wednesday afternoon. Probably never dangerous, although you could see in the door at the Crazy Horse, men at a bar, and girls with T-shirts that covered way too little. Black footpaths, because they’d waited too long to hose off the vomit. Anonymous doors with steps leading down to basement tatt parlours, with handwritten offers of masage by the ½ hr. There were Middle Eastern joints with shishas on the footpath, and an old toothless guy selling newspapers. I went into the Loussier Café and ordered a coffee. There was a boyfriend/girlfriend combo in the corner, he in a sort of Gandhi, no-salt-tax pullover, her in a jumper and poncho. I sat, waited, listened, as he said something about her mother’s cooking, and she agreed.

  I took out one of my photocopies. Fight Dementia. And started reading. The importance of a controlled, unstressed environment …

  The boyfriend raised his voice. ‘You’ve never once said anything good about her.’

  The girlfriend, laughing. ‘You’re so full of shit.’

  I glanced over, but realised I shouldn’t have, as they both glared at me.

  … in which the person with dementia follows a familiar routine …

  I’d visited the library, taken out a pile of books on dementia, and read. I’d told Mum I was going to study meiosis and anaerobic respiration, but this seemed more important. I’d marked pages, then copied the bits I guessed we’d need to know.

  … the frustration caused by being unable to meet other people’s expectations may manifest …

  Mum needed to know; we all did, despite the fact there was no discussion, meetings in Pop’s absence, even statements of outcomes of doctors’ visits.

  He said, ‘You’ll never move out.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘If she said jump under a truck, you’d do it.’

  Good stuff. I wanted to write it down, but couldn’t. Ellman Street, it seemed, could furnish enough material for years.

  The girl placed my coffee on the table and I tried to look hip. ‘Hey.’

  Then he came in. I stood, motioned, and said, ‘Mr … Nick.’

  He saw me, came over and sat down. ‘How are yer, Clem?’

  ‘Good … good to see you.’