by Stephen Orr
‘I’m not startin’ again.’ He showed me his claggy hands, glue and grout under his long fingernails. ‘Doug doesn’t really think there’s a reef?’
‘Course he does.’
He laid another tile. ‘You believe?’
‘I thought by the time he finds the spot, nothin’ there, he’ll say, Fair enough, gave it a go.’
‘But if he …?’ But then he just shrugged. ‘I’m lookin’ forward to camping out. It’s been years, remember?’
The tent in the backyard, Peter snoring, Davo scratching his arse, Val coming out and saying, You better get up now. Clem’s got school.
But we were in the jungle, swinging from tree to tree. Davo: Gentlemen, our food supplies are gone.
Val: Come on, you lot.
I’m just stepping out. I may be some time.
And Peter, Mr Burke, there seems little point in fooling ourselves. That was the last of the water. My eyes are done, I cannot see, I have not brought my specs with me, I have not brought my specs with me.
Come on, Clem, yer mum’s waitin’.
And together: My eyes are dim I cannot see …
Davo looked in. ‘Nice work.’
‘God bless Gary,’ Peter said.
‘And Ernie,’ Dave added.
Sometimes in life talking is the most important thing. Val believed it was all Ern was good for. Hence the soapbox speeches, the career in the union movement. Like Marx, Lenin, and the rest, you didn’t have to be smart, just persuasive.
Like Ern, at the Windsor. With Alan. He’d latched onto him right away.
What line yer in, Alan?
Steel fabrication. Cabinets, switchboards, whitegoods.
Steel, eh? And he’d thought about it. That stuff don’t come cheap.
No.
Unless, of course, it does.
How d’you mean?
Ern had looked around, made sure it was safe. I got this neighbour, friend, who’s come across a whole heap of steel.
Have, eh?
And now he has to get rid of it.
Why’s that?
Nothing illegal, it’s just in the way.
The next day, he’d approached Gary. They were both men of the world. So there was no point mincing words. The cops been around, eh?
What’s it your business?
Must be hard to offload so much stuff?
No reply.
The easier way’s to back in a truck, load it up … one night, when the street’s quiet.
Gary had been about to go in when Ern had said, I can get a good price, long as there’s … ten per cent for me.
Gary had waited, unsure. Ern had explained Alan’s offer: two grand the lot. Then, a few nights later, the truck had arrived, the steel was brought out, loaded, an envelope offered, money counted, two hundred slipped into Ernie’s hand, and all was good. Gary was an innocent man, again, and he’d learned his lesson, so no more foreignies. The company had taken a hit, admittedly, but it was doing well and wasn’t about to miss a few rolls of steel, and after all (Gary explained later), considering the hundreds of hours of unpaid overtime he’d put in …
The next morning when Peter pushed his brother out to the yard he found the envelope under the screen door. He picked it up and read the front. I reckon this should cover the bathroom.
All because of Ernie, and his ability to talk underwater. Alan, and a set of new switching units for the Railways, made for nearly a hundred per cent profit.
As I’ve said before, that’s the way it was done back then. People weren’t crooked—just practical.
I stood, stretched and made for the kitchen. Val had been rearranging photos. There was a new one. Our backyard, an empty paddock, before (even) Frontline Ford. Hills in the distance, blue sky, suburb-free country. Mum, glaring at the camera like she was saying, Go on then, take the bloody thing. A man in the mid-distance fiddling with what might have been a pipe. And at the back, in front of the new fence, the figure, I guessed.
Val came up beside me. ‘I found that one, too.’
I indicated the small man, his face turned away from the camera.
‘Wilf,’ she said.
The hair was the same. A slight wave. Right height, and broad shoulders.
Val said, ‘He’d just done yer fence, and ours. Sid helped him.’
No me, or Jen, but two little boys looking over the fence from number 33.
‘He came to our place,’ I said.
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Dad.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. That’s him.’ And I pointed again.
‘What’d he say?’
‘Wanted to see Mum. I said she was out, but he didn’t say who he was.’
‘Didn’t ask how you were going?’
‘No.’
‘That’s strange. Why he’d come back, after so long. You sure it was him?’
‘I’m sure. Although Mum said it couldn’ta been.’ And I explained the letter.
‘Well, it mustn’ta been,’ she said.
‘I reckon it was. I reckon the letter’s wrong.’
She didn’t seem so happy talking about it this time. Maybe she knew what would come from his return. ‘Like I said, there was a lotta bad business.’
‘But he wouldn’t say what he wanted.’
‘Even if it was him, how’s it gonna help if …’ She seemed to put it out of her head. ‘Wanna cuppa?’
‘Please.’
‘Davo, Pete, wanna cuppa?’
And they said they did.
She went into the kitchen. ‘That coulda been a hundred people. If it was yer dad, don’t you think he woulda said somethin’?’
‘I guess.’
‘Couldn’t just stand and look at yer kid, all grown up, and not say somethin’. Probably just someone she called for a quote. I know you’re probably interested but … lotta fellas look like that.’
As the kettle started hissing I kept studying the photo. The neck, the cheeks, all black and white and blurred, but the same.
‘I gotta bita sultana cake, wanna bit?’
‘Ta.’
‘And you told yer mum?’
‘Yes.’
‘Pity. Just the thought’d upset her, I guess.’
I sat while she filled the pot, covered it with its beanie, set out the cups. Providence slept on the floor in the little bit of sun that had turned the lino white.
‘I should thank Ernie,’ she said.
She knew. Gary had told her.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied.
‘You don’t reckon?’
‘Na … that’s why he left it under the door.’
She thought about this. ‘Yairs.’ And more. ‘Coulda kept it for himself.’
‘I reckon he’s got plenty. Reckon when he dies they’ll find millions under the floorboards. Union money.’
She stared out of the window at number 35. ‘He reckoned he was gonna sell his Val Doonican collection, but he still plays them.’
‘Wouldn’t get much for Val Doonican.’
‘I dunno.’ She could hear him, as she’d been hearing him for years. ‘Only the Heartaches’. Or ‘O’Rafferty’s Motor Car’. They were her favourites. She’d stand, cooking her cakes, singing along to Ern’s records. Like they were one, dancing in his front room, while Ida looked on angrily.
I saw another envelope sitting among the brochures and bills and knitting patterns. And on the front: Clem. It was open, and a few strands of fine, blond hair poked out like she’d been looking at them, holding them, smelling them, even. She turned to me and saw I was interested. She sat, picked up the pot and started pouring. ‘Just a keepsake,’ she said.
I didn’t know what to say.
‘If I’s smart I’d throw it, and forget. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it?’
‘No,’ I said. The couple of photos of the stranger; his smell as he stood at the door; his voice. Small, real, knowable. ‘You can’t forget.’
She just looked ahea
d. She’d tried to explain about Wilf; that was something. But some things defied explanation. The jumpers. The lamb’s wool, soft on the cheek, and arse. The powder. I told her about it and said, ‘I reckon I oughta give it back.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s yours. I shoulda given it to you a long time ago.’
And we just sat, silently, drinking tea. In time Peter wheeled his brother into the kitchen, which was the heart of the house. He said, ‘Nother coupla days.’
Davo smiled. We were still feigning sleep, and Val was still saying, ‘We gotta get Clem to school.’
Mrs Masharin was our own commissar, Soviet discipline made word in the Gleneagles Steppes. Short skirt and unforgiving pantyhose, knee-high boots (always polished) and an industrious shirt; hair up (bun narrowly avoided) and a slight accent that could’ve been anything European, but we were so white-bread we didn’t know. She looked at me and said, ‘Nice big voice.’ Each word separate, in her usual permafrost accent.
The new radio studio (Mr de Weerd’s idea) had started broadcasting across the school grounds every Monday, Wednesday and Friday at recess and lunch. Light classics, mainly, courtesy of Ms Field’s expansive Comoesque record collection, but the powers that be had conceded, allowing a pop segment (Spandau Ballet, Boy George), an electronic music corner (there were other Kraftwerk fans) and Mrs Masharin’s literature salon.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘It will be fine,’ she replied. Not even it’ll, just it will. That’s what I was up against.
Dwayne Schuit had been made producer. He sat at a control desk outside the studio. Dwayne of the Komputer Klub (‘Fun Programming in Basic’), debating and chess club. Dwayne, who’d missed out on a private education, but wore a tie and jacket to school anyway. Quoting Python ten years before anyone else; topping Year Eleven Latin (narrowly beating Curtis) and Classics, making it clear he wanted to study arts. He said, ‘Nearly ready, Mrs Masharin.’
I clutched the pages of my new novel. She’d read the first few chapters, declared them genius and said, ‘I insist, a reading for the Wednesday salon.’
‘No, I don’t reckon.’
‘This week, you see, everyone will hear and love.’
Maybe she thought I was some sort of Black & Gold Gogol, but I knew this couldn’t help my reputation, what there was of it. Curtis sat beside Dwayne, looking in, grinning. I mouthed a fuck off and he bit his lip. A strangely out-of-place Rachmaninoff vesper played to a yard of 1100 Darrens and Kerrys as I thought, Please, let it be over quick.
Mr de Weerd was a marvel. Back in Holland, apparently, every school had its own radio station. When he’d arrived at the beginning of the year (on an exchange) he’d told Curtis’s class, ‘I don’t understand where the culture lies.’ They’d got a big laugh out of this. Curtis had said, ‘It doesn’t lie anywhere,’ and (I guess) de Weerd had wondered what the hell he’d got himself in for. Then (so I’ve been told) he’d caught Wendy going her hardest behind the hall with a Year Nine. Sports day: a muscle-fest in the century-plus sun. The change room fire (two burned down). A teachers’ strike. George Bullock’s Torana through the school fence. By which time he would’ve known exactly where it lay.
Not to be put off, he’d decided the transmission of culture would solve everything. He’d spoken to the principal, who’d loaned him a room for six months, and the school council, who’d given him a few thousand dollars. Next, a whole-school egg carton drive to insulate the walls. Carpet, desks, chairs, microphones and reel-to-reel wired into the school’s PA. Then, in March, he’d brought us culture. Mr Thorpe making a little speech on the first day of transmission. ‘Welcome, students, to Radio Gleneagles. Thanks to the hard work of Mr de Weerd we have a suitable medium to provide entertainment during breaks.’ Then he’d said how it was only a trial, and how they’d need the room back when the typing class moved. A cultural disclaimer, like this music and poetry stuff was all well and good, but don’t get too used to it. Remember who you are, children of the proletariat. Deep down (I guess) he didn’t think we’d appreciate it. Someone would cut some wires, or steal some equipment, or piss on the carpet. He’d said, ‘To get us started, Mrs Masharin will read from Prowst.’
But, with the help of Dwayne, and the suffering of our own audiophonic-Gogh, Radio Bogan was still on the air. Mrs Masharin was there every week, reading student work to the masses. Some of the ball-kickers had complained to Thorpey (Why d’we gotta listen to that shit all day?) but he’d kept on keeping on.
The vespers faded and Dwayne indicated to Comrade Masharin. She said, ‘And now we have an excerpt from new novel of Clem Vhelarn …’
I could hear the distant jeers.
‘Clem, what is your novel to be called?’
‘This Excellent Machine.’
‘And to what does that refer?’
‘It’s a bit hard to explain but, you know, like life’s a machine, and we go in one end and come out the other, changed.’
‘So without further ado, This Excellent Machine, by talented Year Twelve student, Clem Weeland.’
Dwayne gave me the thumbs-up. He shared the delusion that this place could be improved. The food scattered over the ground after lunch, the crows picking at old salami; the girls tattooing their legs with stolen markers so the grunters would look at them. Mr Hunt, on yard duty, studying the form for the Harold Park trots as he scratched his arse and shouted, Youse kids piss off outa there. Dwayne was wandering Datsunland in search of a new Volvo, but there’d never been a Volvo, and anyway, he couldn’t afford one.
I thought it best to get it over with. ‘Barry Ruge looked at his grandson, Arnold, and said, I remember you. Arnold was surprised. Barry said, You used to deliver the milk, didn’t yer? Arnold said, No, Pop, I never delivered milk.’
Curtis had settled back. He was talking to Dwayne. Dwayne who would’ve and should’ve been Head Boy at St Andrew’s Grammar School. Curtis had put him on his list (number 41), with the comment: Pretentious twat who hasn’t accepted his lot in life. Cicero will save him apparently.
I finished in a sprint, and Masharin started a book review.
Curtis and I wandered the yard. There were a few comments. Loved yer stuff, Clemmy. Gotta getta copy when it comes out. But even the bile didn’t last. Netball practice was underway, and a dozen short skirts were some consolation. Curtis said, ‘Ah, a bear in its natural habitat.’
‘A Studebaker.’
1979. The Blacks Road drive-in. Mum had taken me, Jen and Curtis to see The Muppet Movie. It was a hot night, so we’d sat on the bonnet, and I’d said, ‘Not bad, Kermit,’ and Curtis had said, ‘It’s not Star Wars, Fozzie,’ and Jen had told us to shut up and Mum (sitting in the car reading) had said, ‘Any arguing and we’ll go straight home.’ Then we’d sang, ‘Opportunity knocks once let’s reach out and grab it, together we’ll nab it …’
Twelve years old, under the stars, thinking it would go on forever. As it had, in a way, the short skirts flying up, revealing California’s promised palm trees.
‘How’d it go, Fozzie?’ Curtis asked.
‘Movin’ right along …’
And it was like it had been, and not so long ago.
Crackle. Mrs Masharin’s voice trailed across the car park. ‘And now for our final book review of the day.’ Then there was a more familiar voice. Tracey. Mrs M asked her what she’d been reading.
‘Glory Days,’ she said. ‘It’s about a young girl, and she stupidly falls for a boy called Curtis.’
Curtis’s mouth formed a little o, and his eyes narrowed.
‘Anyway, it’s quite involved, but eventually she falls pregnant.’
‘Please, begin.’
‘In today’s world a girl needs to be careful. As this book shows, many boys care only for one thing. Curtis Durell is such a boy.’
For once, he was lost for words.
‘Glory Days?’ I said.
‘She’s not gonna give up.’
So it seemed. I’d given him the newspape
r clipping. He’d screwed it up, threatening to march around to her place and have it out, get a lawyer, call the police, but decided he was only giving her oxygen.
He was off across the compound, the library verandah, Home Economics and the bike quad.
‘In a way, it’s not Curtis’s fault. He was never taught right from wrong. But the girl, Kerry, suffers from his selfishness. Her mother threatens to throw her out.’
He arrived, opened the door and said, ‘Turn it off.’
Mrs Masharin came out and said, ‘What is it?’
‘That’s not a book, she’s made it up.’ He approached Dwayne and started flicking switches.
‘Out!’ Masharin demanded. ‘Clem, take him out.’
Curtis just looked at Tracey.
‘We are left with the feeling that some boys will never become men. Never grow up, learn responsibility.’
‘It’s about me!’ he said to Masharin.
‘Out!’
He just stared at Tracey. She finished, came out, and walked past. ‘Thanks, Mrs Masharin.’ And exited the control room.
A shopping date. Jen was at work, and Mum out to lunch with some of her friends. Ernie and Peter arrived, and we climbed into the 120Y. Pop drove us, parked over two spots (crooked) and we went in. Peter saw the photo machine and said, ‘We should have a record.’
Pop said, ‘Don’t be stupid.’
But Peter insisted. We dragged Pop into the box and arranged ourselves—me on my knees, my head popping up between the three stooges. Flash, and four copies. Peter promised to chop them up, share them, and Pop said, ‘Don’t worry about mine.’
Aisle four. Ernie put two bags of flour in the trolley. ‘Who’s cookin’?’
‘We can take it in turns,’ Pop said. ‘I’ve been doin’ some research.’
He told them about the file he’d created: a collection of easy-to-cook recipes, courtesy of Margaret Fulton. ‘Lotta pork.’
‘Pork?’ Peter asked.
‘Keeps best in the esky. Spare ribs, sweet and sour. You two like pork?’
‘Fatty,’ Ernie said.
‘Bad luck. Chicken doesn’t keep.’
‘Bita beef?’
‘Pork’s best.’
Ern left it there. The details could wait. He put a few bottles of Coke in the trolley and Pop said, ‘We can’t take those.’