by Stephen Orr
The forecourt (where Mr Gottl had brought us to sing to the shoppers) was filled with arcade games. Four years earlier it had been Space Invaders. Straight after school, bags at the door, line up. Half an hour later (if you were lucky) you got to put your money in the slot and blast aliens. Then Curtis would record your score, and some other kid would beat it, so you’d have to line up and try again. We all lost our techno-virginity in the Gleneagles Shopping Centre forecourt. Until the novelty wore off, and we returned to bikes and graffiti and, eventually, shoplifted pornography.
I passed the record shop (where I bought my John Lennon LPs) and waited outside the butcher as Pop talked to Bruce (the fritz-giver, the mum-chatterer), his team’s colours beside a poster of economical cuts. Artificial grass in the front window, and trays of rib eye resigned to their crock-pot fate. Bruce: who was always happy and smiling, probably because he knew people would always want meat, and Coles could never match his quality. Until they did.
Pop came out, handed me the keys and said, ‘Go on.’
To be honest, I’d let the driving slip. It was a lot of work, and there were songs to transcribe, personalities to describe, neighbours to watch. I couldn’t reverse-parallel, and there was always the bus. But Pop insisted. ‘The sooner you take yer test the sooner we don’t have to drive you around.’
Right. I got in, belted up and started the car. ‘Seatbelt, Pop.’
‘I don’t need to wear it.’
Maybe he was testing me. ‘If we have an accident, you could get hurt.’
‘Go on.’
I waited.
‘It’s my life. If I want my brains all over the road …’
I waited.
‘Christ!’ He put it on then lit a smoke. ‘Do you mind if I have one?’
‘Feel free.’ As I backed out, and someone else did, and abused me.
Pop put down his window. ‘He was first! You fuckin’ wanker!’
I navigated the car park. The 120Y was running rough and I said, ‘Sounds like the plugs.’
No reply.
‘We could buy some, replace them.’
‘Put it into Conte’s. Get it done properly.’
‘Spark plugs?’
‘Get him to do it. I couldn’t be bothered.’
‘But you said he was a crook.’
He took his time with his smoke. ‘He’s okay.’
It seemed final. He’d decided: no more cars. Even spark plugs, which were the easiest thing of all. ‘You know what he’ll charge?’ I said.
‘Watch the kerb.’
But I’d mounted it, and the Datsun’s shockers protested.
‘Less talk, more concentration.’
I turned onto the main road, indicated and entered the flow. ‘Can’t let things beat you,’ I said.
‘If I want a sermon I’ll go to church. Just drive. Look, he’s gonna—’
And he was right. The Mazda cut in front of me, and Pop reached over and sounded the horn. ‘Don’t be scared to tell them.’
‘Let me drive.’
‘People’ll shit on you if you let ’em.’
Again, the flow. I said, ‘I’m not preaching, but spark plugs?’
‘Conte’s a good man, he could do with the work. So we’ll give it to him.’
I didn’t believe him. Pop’d do anything to save a few dollars. He said, ‘You’re still riding the clutch.’
‘I am not.’
‘You’ll burn out the clutch plate. That’s always been a problem with Datsuns. Pull in here.’
I obeyed.
‘Reverse around the corner.’
Fine.
‘Three-point-turn.’
Easy.
‘Right, keep going.’
Back on the road, he fell silent for some time. I crept over the limit, but he didn’t say anything. I stayed in third too long, but again, nothing. ‘D’you reckon I’m ready for the test?’ I asked.
‘One way to find out.’
Then he returned to the road. After a while he said, ‘I’s readin’ about Lasseter.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Everyone thought he was mad.’ Again, he looked at me, as if to ask.
‘How’s that?’
‘He reckoned the reef was seven miles long, which is a stretch. But maybe he was prone to exaggeration?’
‘Maybe.’ Indicating, turning towards home. He saw this and said, ‘Go round the block a few times.’
I drove into the basketball stadium car park, found a gravelly hill and tried a start. It was shit, but he didn’t say anything.
‘People reckoned he was mad. Some fella put up fifty thousand quid for his first expedition, but when they got out there, Lasseter was um and ah and they’re thinkin’, Christ, what have we done?’
‘They didn’t find gold?’
‘Eventually the whole expedition deserted him and he was left with these camels, and they ran off into the desert, then some blackies tried to help him, but they thought he was mad, so … he was left alone.’
‘What happened then?’
‘He walked around a bit, realised, I guess, he was in a heapa trouble, sat down and wrote a note.’
The car was running better now, and I cruised the back streets without indicating.
‘Watch fer kiddies.’
‘I’m always watching.’
Again, he was wandering the desert, determined. ‘He was right at the end, Clem.’ And touched my arm, so I understood. ‘He wrote: What good’s a reef worth millions? I would give it all for a loaf of bread. Then he died.’
‘Without finding the gold?’
‘He had another sheet of paper, and he drew a map …’
‘Your map?’
He waited, then said, ‘You’re still with me, aren’t you, Clem?’
‘Of course.’
‘Cos if I thought …’ He looked into his lap, mulling it over. Then back at me, ‘If I thought you thought I was … deluded?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘If you trust the map.’
‘I do, Clem, a hundred per cent. Nan didn’t believe anything unless she could see it. She kept me working … and I shouldn’t have gone along with it. But there were bills to be paid. She hated the thought of me going. That time I bought a tent and a camp oven and a compass, she got real shitty. And when I was working, she put the map in the bin, but she never knew I got it out again.’
I stopped at a light.
‘Lasseter was just a few miles short.’
Green. ‘But why hasn’t anyone returned? I mean, that was fifty-four years ago.’
He threw his smoke out the window and said, ‘How’d you think he felt, at the end, so close? But he had a son, and I suppose he thought he’d find the map and get the reef and all would be good.’
I pulled into the drive. ‘But wouldn’t this son have a claim to the reef?’
‘I’ve got as much right as anyone. Anyone who can find it.’
Mum came out and asked if we’d remembered the bread. I said, ‘I knew I was in there for something.’
It was an impressive toilet: fake-tile floor with a drainage hole; cold, catty smell; solid bowl with bakelite lid, so that it thundered in the night. A decent flush, too. I sat listening as Mum cleaned my room. You could stay, and she’d clean around you, looking at what you were doing (When’s that Biology due?), or you could cut your losses and retire to the toilet. She was making my bed. ‘Be nice if you could put yer socks in the wash.’
Pop’s reading pile on the floor. Last Sunday’s Mail. I checked. Teak swivel luxury on sale for $469, and upholstered PVC telephone tables for $29.95.
‘Clem?’
‘What?’ (I hated communicating while in officium …)
‘Your bed’s full of crumbs.’
‘Leave it.’
‘You wanna bring mice back into the house? Pop said he saw a rat in the shed.’
I sang: ‘Blah, blah …’ Loud enough for me.
‘Well, you come and clean it.’ As she muttered, ‘Rude
little shit.’
Three-piece teenage bedroom suite. $119. Nice. Although there was no point wishing.
‘You gonna stay in there all day?’
Yes, I thought, if that’s what it takes.
‘What yer doin’?’
Jen, laughing. ‘You better not ask. He might tell you!’
And a little chorus of giggles.
‘Get stuffed!’ As I fetched paper, to suggest otherwise.
Jen, again. ‘Hurry up, I gotta go. I don’t want to have to smell your arse.’
She knocked on the door. Code. The lock had broken years ago, so you had to give a thump, wait a second, and enter. Nonetheless, it wasn’t a foolproof method. I’d had a few doors open while I was on the job. Pop staring at me and saying, Didn’t hear you.
‘Carn,’ Jen said, knocking.
‘Fuck off!’
Then, a full-page ad from Datsunland. Second-hand 180Bs. We all knew it was time to trade up from the 120Y. It had 300,000 on the clock, and the CVs were shot. The suspension had gone and the steering was loose. Still, Pop wouldn’t hear a word. All of this, apparently, could be fixed.
Some four-cylinder cars claim more power, some claim bigger interiors, others claim some of Datsun’s built-in features. But we believe none of them put it together like Datsun 180B.
The pictured car was a stunner: fresh chrome, new tyres, and lamb’s wool car seat covers (as I wondered …).
… inertia reel seatbelts; reclining high-back bucket seats; the parcel tray extends to the full width of the interior; a centre console; arm rests on all four doors; the classic 180 grille …
Jen, again, knocking. ‘You’re not the only one!’
I threw down the paper and flushed the toilet, zipped up and exited.
Jen stood at the door, sniffing. ‘It doesn’t even smell.’
‘My shit don’t stink.’
The cleaning frenzy had stopped, so I returned to my room. Mum was still there, sitting on my freshly made bed, a pile of shoes at her feet. The wardrobe door hanging from its one good hinge. And, in her hand, the photo of Dad. She said, ‘You hid it?’
I thought what to do. It wasn’t like there was any explanation. ‘I didn’t want you to … I thought you’d be upset.’
Why had she cleared the shoes out? As though she was looking for it.
‘Is this the only one?’
‘Well, it’s the only one you didn’t get.’
Her face changed, like I’d gone from son to stranger. ‘Why did I do that?’ she asked.
‘You tell me.’
She sat up, confused. ‘The whole deal … cos I’m a bitch?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You don’t know what went on.’
‘Yes, I do.’ Shit! I’d said it. I shouldn’t have, but I had.
‘What?’
So I told her: the potted history I’d learned from Val. ‘See, I’m not stupid. You coulda told me.’
And the look: You don’t know why?
‘I’ve had to guess.’ And what I wanted to say: when other kids got their dad, not their pop, on the father—son camp; when I looked courtside and it was just you, filing your nails, or Jen, plaiting her hair; when I wished for even the dodgiest of dads (worse than Gary) but realised I couldn’t have one, any one.
‘Nasty,’ she said, standing, throwing the photo on the pile of deceased shoes, boots, worn-down thongs.
‘He couldn’t have been that bad.’ I wanted to say: You made him go. I knew I couldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to take it back.
‘There were drugs,’ she said. ‘Did you know that?’
I dared not move.
‘I put up with the rest, but I wasn’t going to put up with that. Not in my house, around you and Jen.’ She picked up the photo and showed me. ‘Would you have kept it?’
I waited. ‘I guess not.’
Then she sat on the bed, studying the photo. ‘He was a good man, Clem, and he tried. But he changed. When you got kids you can only have so much patience. I waited for a long time.’
I sat beside her and took the photo. ‘I can see, I mean, from what Val said …’
‘Val?’
Shit! Again. ‘It wasn’t her fault. I kept on at her.’
The toilet flushed and Jen came out, washed her hands and stood in my doorway. ‘What’s wrong?’ She noticed the photo and knew, I guessed, although she decided to stay out of it. She went into her room and closed the door.
‘It’s not like you think,’ Mum said. ‘I thought it best if we moved on. Nan and Pop agreed. It worked for a while until …’
‘Val didn’t mean anything.’
She stood, examined my shoes and said, ‘If you want to keep them, put them away. If not, pop them in the bin.’
And she was gone, leaving the photo on my bed. Out the front door, into number 33.
Pop had folded his shadow sheet, swept the floor and packed his tools in their box. Mum’d be happy, although she wouldn’t. Neat. Although with dementia, neat wasn’t always good. But he’d left a chair in the middle of the shed, and a small table with an ashtray, and smokes, and more magazines. The manuals had been packed away. I couldn’t see where. Maybe he’d thrown them. So now he just sat, remembering: the engines stripped and rebuilt; the radiators replaced; the thousands of litres of oil drained.
I could smell smoke, and checked over the fences. From the middle of the Donnellans’ yard, a grey haze filling the morning air, spreading low and settling in yards and the lane behind Frontline Ford. I heard Peter saying, ‘It’s goin’ everywhere, Mum,’ and Val replying, ‘Don’t worry, no one’s got their washing out.’
I lifted a sheet of iron to see what was going on: Val, carrying the dead weeds from the shed, depositing them on her fire, poking them with a fork and going back for more as Peter continued clearing around the Jag.
I was about to go in when Val said, ‘I didn’t mean anything by it.’
Peter was too busy working to respond.
‘I told you, they shoulda said something to them years ago.’
She dropped her fork, picked up a pile of old newspapers and hobbled across her yard. She threw the lot on the fire, which flared, catching her dress. She patted it, and didn’t seem to care that it had taken a chunk of polyester. The grey smoke whitened, rose, spread, and I ducked to avoid it. Then she returned and gathered more weeds.
‘It’s not like I told him much.’
‘He had to know some time,’ Peter said. ‘He’s old enough. What’s he, seventeen?’
‘I didn’t tell him the worst, about that time you spoke to them fellas out front of the house. Standing with their tattoos and cars and dirty-lookin’ faces.’
‘I remember.’
‘And you said it was a quiet street, and one of them told you to mind yer business or else he’d …’ She stopped, frightened by the thought. ‘There’s a lot more I coulda told him.’
‘But she wasn’t angry?’
‘She stood with that look and I knew, right away, and I said, It’s about Wilf, isn’t it? And she was about to let loose when she said, Well, if he knows he knows. Not here to blame you, Val.’
‘But she was?’
‘Too right. Never seen no one change so quick. That’s when I asked her in for a cuppa, and she was quite apologetic. Like it was her fault, makin’ me promise to stay quiet all these years.’
‘About time,’ Peter repeated. ‘You can’t make sense of the world if you don’t know where you’re from.’
‘Too right.’
I sat down against my side of the fence and listened. I could tell everything about them from their voices.
‘Poor, Fay,’ Val said.
Bottles. A box, perhaps. Peter saying, ‘We could get money for these.’
‘No, put ’em in the bin.’
‘Could keep them, just in case.’
The home winemaking he’d been promising to start for years.
‘Just chuck them, you’re never gonna do it.�
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‘Might.’
Weeds. Fire. Silence.
Val said, ‘Then she ends up havin’ a good cry and sayin’, Yer right, Val, it was mean to keep it from them.’
No reply.
‘You been so good to me, she says. And I say, Anyone would’ve done the same, and she says, No, remember, all them days you’d babysit?’
Me and Jen playing on Val’s rug with Val Doonican drifting in the window from next door, Peter reading Dylan Thomas aloud, hoping (somehow) to inspire us, as Val made cupcakes for our after-school treat.
She said, ‘I told her, It was a privilege, Fay. Then she was crying again, saying sorry. I said, There’s nothin’ we can’t say to each other. I bathed ’em, remember? When you couldn’t get home in time? I put ’em in that rotten bath of mine and scrubbed them and dried them off and put them in David’s and Peter’s old jarmies till you got home. Remember me doin’ that, Peter?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
The fire flared. I imagined more weeds, more shit they’d left in their shed too long.
‘That’s what I told her, Peter. I mighta let it slip, but it was cos I cared, cos I couldn’t help myself.’
‘Look, Mum, we still got this.’
Silence, as they examined whatever it was.
‘Should give it to Fay,’ Val said.
‘Righto.’
I peered through the gap. It was the cast-iron pot we’d cooked the soup in. Five, six years of cats and rats. Keep it, I thought. Then Peter handed her a few lengths of wood and she made her way to the fire, lowered them in, like an offering, and stood watching. ‘Lonely,’ she called.
‘Eh?’
No response, then: ‘Some days … though I dunno if I’m ready to start again.’
‘Once Clem sees it, ready to go, he’ll be motivated.’
Now it was a reliable fire, red flames and clear smoke, rising straight up.
‘Don’t know,’ Val said.
‘It’ll need a tonne of work, but I reckon it’d be just the thing for Doug.’
Doug?
‘Get him interested again. Nothin’ worse than when you lose interest, eh, Mum?’
She returned to the shed. ‘Who d’you reckon then?’ she asked.
‘What?’