This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Weight.’ He put them back.

  Ernie didn’t like this, and returned a single bottle to the trolley. Pop took it out. They stared at each other. Ern said, ‘It’s not just what you want.’

  ‘It’s what’s practical. You agreed.’ He showed him a list he’d made: water and sugar, flour, curry powder (everything tasted better with curry), gravy (as with curry), croutons, carrots, potatoes, turnips. Most of which could be used for stew.

  Ern said, ‘It’s not the Calvert expedition. We can still eat decent.’

  ‘I’m happy with stew,’ Peter said. ‘Long as we don’t go hungry.’

  Ernie hated this about Peter. Compromise. That’s why lawyers didn’t start revolutions: they didn’t believe in anything, except money, and even that had eluded Pathetic Pete. So the issue of Coke was avoided. We continued, Pop searching his list, saying, ‘Still alright to put this lot in your shed, Ern?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Fay’d sniff it out in five minutes flat.’

  ‘It’s alright.’ Short, sharp, Cokeless.

  I loved the Gleneagles Woolies, especially on weekdays (like today) when I should’ve been at school. Pop had picked me up after recess. He’d said I didn’t need to come, but I’d said I did.

  School days had their own pace. The government was taking care of the kids; grown-ups could get on with important things. A couple of old blokes standing in front of the newsagent checking their keno tickets; Clarrie and Ruth sharing a sandwich in the snack bar, the slow, no-rush cuts of the knife, the plate slid across the melamine, a single bite, chewing, as Clarrie wiped his chin with a napkin and said to Ruth, That ham’s nice, and she replied, Special, continental, and he nodded as if to say, Yes, they know how to do ham.

  Peter chose a few cans of tuna. Pop consulted his list and said, ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ but allowed it anyway.

  ‘I hate tuna,’ Ern said.

  ‘If yer gonna complain the whole time,’ Pop replied.

  ‘Do you like tuna, Clem?’

  Pop. ‘It’s not a council meeting. Tuna’s filling, and light, so we can take it.’ He turned and continued, refusing to argue facts. Cocoa. Milk powder. Peter said he’d prefer tea, so we bought bags, and Ern wanted coffee, and Pop said, ‘It’s not on the list.’

  ‘Bugger yer list. I don’t like cocoa, I like coffee.’

  ‘Well, you can bloody well drink cocoa. It’s not gonna kill you.’

  ‘Coffee relaxes you.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we take one of them machines?’

  ‘Now you’re being difficult.’

  ‘Am I?’

  We continued. In the next aisle, Ern selected beans and sausages. Pop said, ‘It’s dearer like that.’

  ‘Twelve cents? For snags? I don’t think they’re gonna weigh us down any more, eh?’ He held the can in front of Pop’s face.

  ‘That’s it, forget it.’ Pop turned, abandoned his shopping and walked towards the checkout.

  Ern called, ‘What, you havin’ a tanty?’

  Pop didn’t reply. We studied the trolley, the groceries forming a small mountain of canned everything. ‘Leave it,’ I said.

  We followed a few steps behind. Peter said, ‘Carn, Doug, we haven’t even left.’

  ‘We’re not gonna.’

  ‘We gotta get along.’

  He turned. ‘No, we don’t. It was my trip. I don’t gotta get along with no one. I’ll go by myself.’ He continued, past the butcher, into the car park.

  Peter said, ‘What about I shout us all a coffee?’

  ‘Piss off! Don’t know what I was thinking. Five minutes with him!’ And he pointed at Ernie.

  Leaving the car park, he crossed Blacks Road and headed down the back streets towards Lanark III.

  We stood beside the Datsun. Ernie said, ‘He’s got a two-second fuse.’

  I suggested we let him go, cool off, and tackle it later, but Ernie was determined. ‘Come on, we’ll pick him up.’ He held his hand out for the keys. I said, ‘You okay with a Datsun?’

  ‘For god sake, Clem, you’re as bad as him.’

  I surrendered the keys. We got in, and he reversed, straight into some old girl’s trolley, narrowly missing her. He got out and said, ‘Jesus, I’m sorry, missus, I didn’t see you.’

  ‘You didn’t look.’

  We examined the scratched paint, and Ern said, ‘That’ll buff out.’

  A few minutes later we found Pop walking past the primary school. The kids were out kicking balls, shouting, and Mr Gottl was half-asleep on a bench. Ernie slowed, told Peter to wind down a window and said, ‘Carn, Doug get in.’

  He ignored him.

  ‘Come on. I promise, I’ll keep my trap shut.’

  Nothing.

  ‘You and me can work things out. We have before.’

  Peter said, ‘He paid for the tiles, Doug.’

  Pop said, ‘So what? It didn’t cost him anything.’

  ‘I needn’ta.’

  ‘So what?’ He kept on.

  A small boy followed him along the fence line. ‘Youse havin’ a barney?’

  Pop told him to go away.

  Peter wasn’t finished. ‘You could go by yourself, Doug, but that’d be a big trip. Clem’s only young.’

  I kept my mouth shut. The kid said, ‘My dad’s got a Datsun.’

  Pop ignored him. Peter said, ‘Well, that’s okay, if you wanna go by yourself. We can stay here. But it might be nice, the four of us.’

  Pop stopped, like something had occurred to him.

  Peter continued. ‘I didn’t wanna come for me, but I thought, us blokes from Lanark Avenue. I reckoned that’s what it was about.’

  The car idled. I guessed Pop agreed with him, but couldn’t agree. The kid said, ‘Youse got any money?’

  ‘No!’ Pop said. ‘Piss off!’ And the kid ran away.

  Ernie said, ‘You got a short fuse like me, Doug. We gotta know our limitations.’

  ‘I know mine.’ He kept walking.

  We started after him, but I said, ‘Go home, Ern, he won’t be far behind.’

  So we drove home, parked in our drive, and I said, ‘I suppose I better get back to school.’

  ‘What’s the rush?’ Ernie asked. ‘Come on.’

  He led us into his backyard, and a fire pit he’d dug in the middle of his buffalo. He’d set up a camp oven, and lit a fire, and it had burned down to embers. ‘What cher reckon?’ he asked.

  ‘All ready to go?’ I said.

  ‘Wait here.’

  He went inside. Peter and I sat on stools he’d set out. He’d made it like it might be in the desert. A sort of 1:72 scale adventure.

  We waited, and Peter said, ‘Years they drank together, down the Windsor.’

  It seemed hard to imagine.

  ‘Doug’d wander down to Ernie’s, they’d watch telly together.’

  Ernie came out with a handful of dough. He opened the camp oven, plopped it in and nestled it in the remains of the fire. Then he covered it with the glowing embers. ‘I thought we’d have a dry run.’

  Ida wasn’t far behind. She had water and tea in the billy, and put it in the fire beside the damper.

  ‘Once he smells it,’ Ernie said. He sat down.

  In the Ford dealership, the wheel-nut machine whirred, and someone dropped a spanner, and the radio murmured with talkback.

  Peter said, ‘Just tellin’ Clem about you and Doug.’

  ‘He knows, don’t yer, Clem?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Doug just needs half an hour.’

  Ida said, ‘Call us when it’s ready,’ and went in.

  I told them how Pop had changed, and how, of a night, he’d sit reading the encyclopedias out loud, as if this might help him remember. ‘I reckon if you fellas came down and sat with him and had a talk it might help.’

  They thought about this. Ernie said, ‘Encyclopedias?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I guess I
could.’

  ‘It’s a shame, when he just sits there all afternoon.’

  ‘It’s always better, isn’t it,’ Ern said, ‘if there’s someone with you? Even if they don’t say nothin’.’

  ‘Makes Mum sad, I reckon.’

  Ida brought out five mugs, and Ernie filled them. He took the damper from the fire, tore it into pieces, and left some. And we ate, without talking. Eventually Pop appeared, sat down, picked up his mug and rescued the damper from the oven. ‘That’s a new scratch,’ he said to me.

  I turned to Ernie, and smiled, and he said, ‘It wasn’t me.’

  And we laughed, and Pop said, ‘Jesus, y’ didn’t let him drive, did yer?’

  We put the Datsun on the lawn and hosed it. Pop started with a bucket of sudsy water. Every square inch of its fading red metal and caramel-coloured duco. I told him I’d been reading about Lasseter’s Reef. ‘These three fellas made a pact when they were ten. Every year they’ve gone to look.’

  ‘Well, they don’t know what I do.’

  ‘They’ve used special maps, remote sensing, satellite images, the lot.’

  ‘You could get ten thousand men, but unless you know.’ He finished his scrubbing and I hosed it down.

  ‘Quartz, with lumps of gold as big as plums?’ I said.

  ‘That’s what he reckoned.’

  ‘And he just stumbled across it?’

  ‘That’s what he reckoned.’

  He refilled the bucket with water and wax, then handed me a chamois. ‘You practised your parks?’

  ‘Coupla times.’

  ‘I’m relying on you.’

  ‘Don’t need a licence to drive.’

  ‘Helps.’

  He sat on the front verandah, deciding, perhaps, if the old girl looked any better.

  ‘They reckon it’s near the WA—NT border,’ I said.

  He almost laughed. ‘No wonder they haven’t found nothin’. Too far west.’ He stood. ‘You alright to finish off?’ And went in before I could answer.

  I hosed the car, emptied the bucket and parked in the drive. When I got out I smelled smoke. Ron, perhaps, at his incinerator, burning his wool scraps. No—it was coming from number 28.

  I thought I’d risk it. I crossed the road, walked down the drive and saw Wendy, alone, beside the incinerator, feeding a jumper to the flames. And beside her, the others. I approached her, but she didn’t acknowledge me. I could see she’d been crying. ‘I thought you were gonna hold onto them,’ I said.

  No reply. She picked up another, let it drop into the flames, and watched it.

  ‘All those years,’ I said.

  She didn’t even turn and look at me. She was intent upon destruction; the wool flickering and flaring and glowing before becoming smoke, making a column that rose above the house, street, suburb.

  ‘Wendy?’

  She wouldn’t reply. I took it to mean I should leave. I turned, headed for the drive, but Les was standing at the back door. He motioned for me to come in.

  He dropped into his recliner, and I sat beside him. He said, ‘Look.’ He handed me a letter. Three folds, on white paper. Black and blue ink.

  Dear Mrs Champness

  Thank you for your letter. The request was considered, and approved. The young man, now eighteen, was contacted. Although unable to provide specific details, I can say that he presently lives interstate.

  Mrs Champness, I am sorry to say the young man declined your invitation. He explained that he has settled, and is happy, and believes any contact would upset his adoptive parents, whom he holds close. He did say, though, this was not a reflection on how he feels about you and Mr Champness. He understands the circumstances, and wishes you well. He says he is curious about those days, and might, in time, change his mind.

  I understand this is difficult news. It might be some consolation to know his adoptive parents have been honest with him, and explained his earliest days. I have left an ‘open invitation’ for him to contact us, and you, so, for now, all we can do is be patient.

  I returned it to Les. ‘That’s bad luck.’

  ‘I guessed it’d happen. Wanna drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I put myself in the same position. If yer happy, it’s a loada baggage to have to open.’

  The smoke was coming in the door.

  ‘I helped her with the application,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’

  The television was on, but the sound was turned down.

  ‘I hope that’s okay?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I stood, and walked away. Les said, ‘You couldn’t turn it up, could you?’

  So I did.

  I emerged into the sun. Down at the back fence, Wendy was nearly finished. She picked up the second-smallest, and dropped it in.

  ‘We tried,’ I said.

  Now, she looked at me. ‘That’s the main thing. And he said he wasn’t angry with us. That’s a good sign, eh?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘And, later, maybe a year or two …’

  She picked up the last jumper. So small. Dog-sized. ‘This was the first. You can see where the silverfish got to it.’ And she showed me.

  It was beautifully knit, cable pattern, unlike the shit you bought in Target. ‘Maybe you should keep one,’ I said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Six months, he might change his mind.’

  ‘I don’t reckon.’ She went to put it in, but I held it, tried to take it.

  ‘I reckon if it were me, and I was living somewhere, I’d wanna know.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Cos you’d think, Maybe she had to … and maybe she felt bad, all this time.’

  She let go, and I took it.

  ‘What d’you reckon, six months?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe. Maybe a bit longer.’

  Wool burns quickly. So the flames had died, and the smoke had slowed. She reclaimed the jumper, walked over to the tap, and rinsed it under a slow stream. Turned off the water, held the jumper up and said, ‘Hard to imagine anyone being that small.’ She pegged it on the line.

  The smoke seemed to have quietened the bees. That’s how it was in nature, especially with bees. They all assumed their home was burning, so they flew back, to see. But now, they started up again. And Les came out to look.

  Wilton wasn’t the flashest suburb. The bus ride had been a descent into Curtis’s Latin hell. A couple of kids sucking each other’s face, saying, ‘What’s your fuckin’ problem?’ when I looked around. The bus driver wasn’t about to buy into it. I got off and walked past a row of empty shops, the doors boarded up, VapoRub signs from the fifties when (I guessed) it was still safe to bring your family shopping. The streets were dirty, the footpaths, too—some sort of vomit—claret—urine mixture.

  Thomas Street. I studied my mud map, walked past yards full of washer bodies and crates of empties, stumped cars and stuffed water features. You could see down hallways, into dark kitchens blaring finals footy and fuck-the-reffos talkback. Like any moment Virgil would step out from behind a fuse box and say, Come on, I’ll show you the way.

  I wanted to turn, retrace my steps, get on a bus and head for the city, but couldn’t. Something was pushing me, saying, You’ve come this far.

  Gould Street. Easy, I told myself. He’ll know. And anyway, what’s my choice? I’d looked up the Maritime Workers’ Union, called, and said, ‘My name’s Clem Whelan. My dad used to be a member, I think.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I have his membership card, but it’s pretty old.’ I explained how he’d been a builder (probably), then stopped, worked on freighters (or some other type of ship), stopped in Callao and then …?

  The woman said, ‘We can’t give information over the phone.’

  ‘This was a long time ago.’ I told her how I hadn’t seen him since I was a kid, but how I’d found his membership card, and how there didn’t seem any other option. And she said, ‘You checked Births, Deaths and Marriages?’
<
br />   ‘No.’

  ‘If he’s dead they’d have some record.’

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. ‘I could, but I was thinking, if you had some sort of record?’

  ‘Right … what was your name?’

  I told her. And Dad’s. How it would’ve been the late sixties, early seventies, judging from the age of the letter. She asked, What letter? I told her. From a shipmate he’d been with on the night. She said, ‘If that’d happened there’d be some sort of record. Newspapers, even?’

  ‘I guess. But I thought, for a start, if I could find out?’

  She’d taken a deep breath, thought about it and said, ‘Hold on.’ Putting down the phone and walking away. I’d waited two, three minutes before she returned. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘You’re the son?’

  ‘Yes. What’s it say?’

  ‘Wilfred Albert Whelan. Joined September 1971.’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘Signed up, paid his dues, that’s the last we heard.’

  ‘So there’s no way of finding out?’

  ‘There’s a referee: Bob Jones. Wilton.’

  ‘Wilton?’

  ‘It’s a suburb, down the Port.’

  And that was it. I looked him up: Jones, B 34 Gould St, Wilton. I spent the next few days wondering what to do. Call? It was a hard decision, but I made it, and waited until Mum took Pop to the shops, then sat, dialled, and listened to the voice: The number you are calling has been disconnected. So, then, whether to bite the bullet. What could he tell me?

  Thirty-four. Per square inch, the neatest house I’d ever seen. I opened a little gate and walked down the path. Old concrete, but clean, swept, sinking into the perfectly clipped lawn with its six or so gnomes. The screen door vented roast beef into the afternoon. I knocked. ‘Hello? Mr Jones?’

  The races, of course, from the back room. ‘Mr Jones?’

  A chair scraping on floorboards. ‘Hold up.’

  The silhouette of a stooped man, emerging from the darkness, claiming a halo and approaching from the kitchen. ‘Hold yer horses.’

  He opened the door and said, ‘None today, thanks.’

  ‘I’m not selling anything. I’m Clem Whelan.’

  His face screwed into a little ball. All shaved, of course. ‘Whelan?’

  ‘I think my dad used to work with you.’