by Stephen Orr
We parked outside a row of shops and Pop bought a chicken. We sat al fresco breaking it apart. I got a drumstick, and Coke, and Peter settled for wings, and a little breast. Pop wasn’t hungry. He noticed a phone and said, ‘I s’pose I better face the music. Wish me luck.’
Ten minutes later we’d finished, and Pop was still talking, and a couple of local kids (shoeless and shirtless) had asked for money. Ernie had said, ‘Piss off,’ but Peter had given them some change, because you couldn’t afford to make enemies in a small town.
Peter said, ‘I wonder what she’s saying?’
‘She’s demanding we return, saying how worried everyone is, how selfish it was to just leave.’
We eyed Pop, who was poker-faced.
‘D’you reckon there’s any gold?’ Ernie asked.
‘Course,’ I said, dutifully.
‘You reckon?’
‘… perhaps.’
Another minute, Pop returned, sat down, but then cleaned up the chicken, put it in the bin, stood beside us and said, ‘Come on, let’s see this room.’
‘What’d she say?’ Peter asked.
‘Grizzled, of course. Come on, we got a lot to do.’
‘What else did she say?’ I asked.
‘Doesn’t matter. Grizzled. It’s all she does. But she’ll get over it.’
He brushed his pants, felt the new directions in his pocket then said, ‘Would you lot just bloody come!’
‘What is it?’ Ern asked.
‘It’s nothin’. If we don’t keep going …’
Ernie was driving, his seat back, one hand on the wheel. Pop said, ‘Pay attention.’
‘Fifty years of driving, not so much as a dent.’
Pop retreated into the landscape.
An early start, again. We’d emerged from our cave room with our bags, loaded the car, returned for the all-inclusive breakfast, but the woman (still in her nightie) had said, ‘Dining room’s not open till seven.’
‘We gotta make tracks,’ Pop had said.
‘Seven.’
‘But we only wanna bita toast, a cuppa.’
She’d shrugged, and he’d said, ‘Fuck me,’ and she’d said, ‘Language,’ and he’d said, ‘Not much for the tourists, eh?’
So we’d loaded our gear, found a servo and bought day-old pies and sausage rolls. All the time, Pop saying, ‘Coupla sticks of dynamite.’
‘Can’t believe we’ve come this far,’ I said.
‘Yeah,’ Pop mumbled. A sort of so what? yeah.
‘Be diggin’ soon, eh?’
‘Yeah.’ As he studied the desert, the last of the slag heaps and signs showing tourists what’d happen if they fell down a shaft.
‘How far to the border?’ Peter asked.
‘Three-fifty,’ Pop replied. But not a confident three-fifty.
‘That what yer map says?’
‘Yes, it’s what my map says. Listen, just read yer book or somethin’.’
Ernie tried the radio, and a man told us there might be rain, but probably not. ‘Long wait,’ Ern said to Pop.
‘What?’ Annoyed.
‘That day at the pub. The map.’
No reply.
‘We shoulda done it earlier, eh, Doug?’
‘Yeah.’
‘We coulda been livin’ the high life, eh? Clem coulda had the best schools. Best house, suburb. Wilf. Things woulda been easier.’
‘Stop rattlin’ on,’ Pop said. ‘Just keep yer eyes on the road.’
‘Trip to Europe every year. How’d you like that, Clem?’
‘Okay, I guess.’
‘Paris’d beat the coast. Still …’
I wanted to tell him there was nothing wrong with the coast. With Dad, lifting me, throwing me in the waves, laughing as I struggled. I said to Pop, ‘Do you remember Bob Jones?’
He thought about it. ‘Jones?’
‘Dad used to work for him.’
‘Yeah, I remember. How do you know …?’
I didn’t reply, for a while. ‘I went and saw him.’
‘Why?
I explained: my curiosity, the man at the door, the MWU, Bob in his little kitchen. ‘First time I heard much about him.’
‘Well, maybe there’s a reason for that. You weren’t there. You don’t know.’
‘Know more now.’
‘Don’t be smart.’
Peter was busy with a crossword; Ernie with the road, slowing every few kilometres for cattle grates, or the beasts themselves, sniffing the verge.
‘He reckoned he was a good worker.’
‘He was.’
‘Told me how when I was born he brought me to this building site, showed me to everyone. I never knew that.’
Pop turned to me and said, ‘Everything’s done for a reason. You didn’t see what he was capable of. Think about how your mother feels.’
This is how it had always ended: the censored photos, and memories.
‘It’s all in the past.’
‘It was Dad, at the door.’
‘Bullshit. Yer mother explained.’
‘That can’t be right.’
‘How do you know?’
Pause. Rubber on road, and a click in the back wheel.
‘Who was it then?’
‘Coulda been a million people.’
I, too, don’t like things staying hidden, I thought. You search; I search. You need to know, and so do I. ‘Maybe the letter was fake?’
‘Enough!’
At eleven am we made camp. A stick fire, the billy boiling beside the highway, and Peter opening the biscuits. ‘Why’d we get gingernut?’ As we worked, Pop paced up and down the highway. Ernie poured the tea and said, ‘Carn, Doug.’
But he wasn’t listening. Up and back, smoothing his hands on his pants, mumbling to himself.
‘Lasseter died looking,’ I said. ‘He tried to convince everyone but …’ It didn’t need saying.
Pop took the new directions from his pocket and studied them.
‘How we going?’ Peter called.
But he just kept pacing. A truck hurtled past, only a metre from where he walked, and the dust blew up around him.
Ern said, ‘He must be onto something. Maybe not like Lasseter said, but something. A chunk, big as your fist.’
‘You reckon?’ I asked.
Pop returned to the car, took his map from the glove box and came over to us. ‘I just worked it out.’
He tore the map into pieces and threw them into the fire. Peter sat forward, tried to brush them out, but then looked at Pop, and stopped.
Pop shredded his new directions, and tossed them to the wind. ‘I worked it out.’
‘What?’ Ernie asked.
But he just stood looking at the desert, turning a circle, his mouth wide open. ‘It’s not meant to be found,’ he said.
‘The gold?’ Ernie asked.
‘That too.’ He turned, walked to the car and got in the driver’s seat. ‘Come on, you lot. We can get lunch back in Coober Pedy.’
We drove back to town in silence. To Port Augusta. Home.
Each of the timbers burned beautifully. The roof, with its exposed wooden frame; the pine floorboards, crackling in the mid-morning sun. As the fire brigade unwound hoses, the Year Eights ran screaming, and White and the other teachers tried to hold the cheering students back.
Curtis couldn’t give a shit. ‘I was civil, after what she’s done. I coulda told her what I thought of her.’
We sat on a shaded mound on the edge of the oval, beside the water fountain. A great view of the fire.
‘You gotta move on, don’t you?’ Curtis asked.
‘I guess.’
‘So I said, I hope it all works out, Trace, and she said, I reckon, next time, look out for your woman.’
‘Stand by your man …’ I sang.
‘Though I reckon she’s going out with that Duncan guy in Year Eleven. You know, the state footballer.’
The art room popped and crackled; one of the walls ha
d already collapsed. The paint had blistered, and you could see a Bulljaw outline, and the remains of our mural. ‘I suppose it doesn’t matter that they painted over it,’ I said.
Another unit arrived and parked. More hoses, more men running around in search of hydrants, flame and smoke and small spray-pack explosions. ‘Pity, we had some good times in there.’
‘She seemed sorry.’
‘Who?’
‘Trace. Probably wanted to get back together.’
‘Perhaps she is sorry?’
The roof fell in, lifting a sea of embers.
‘Best teacher I ever had,’ I said.
‘Nick?’
‘Said it like it was.’
Miss White came over. ‘Clem, Curtis, you Year Twelves could help, keep the little ones back.’ She gave us a look, turned and ran away.
‘Fuck off, you old slag,’ Curtis said.
Another wall collapsed, crushing tables and chairs. ‘My sculptures,’ I said.
‘My paintings,’ Curtis added. ‘My charcoals of Trace … from the early days.’
‘You sittin’ with a stiffy.’
‘Jealous.’
‘Of Tracey?’
‘Vicky?’
‘She’s classy. Intelligent. Motivated.’
‘Do tell.’
‘On Saturday she asked me to go on this bushwalk. Eight kilometres, gradients like this.’ I might’ve exaggerated. ‘Come on, Clem, keep up. See, she’s driven.’
‘Had any luck?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Bullshit.’ He studied the flames. ‘It was probably John. He hated this place.’
Two firefighters finished disconnecting gas bottles and rolled them away.
Curtis was caught in the orange glow. ‘Long way to go for nothing.’
‘Wasn’t nothing.’
‘No gold?’
‘Wasn’t about that.’
‘What?’
The water stopped, and the captain said, ‘Fuck it, let it burn out,’ and the firefighters stood watching the last of the flames.
‘We got home and Mum storms out and says, You coulda killed yerselves.’
‘I heard,’ Curtis said. ‘The whole street heard.’
‘She went quiet for a couple of days, then last night it all comes out. I’s sittin’ with Pop and I said, Maybe we shoulda kept going? Even if we looked, and it wasn’t there? Then he told me, his phone call in Coober Pedy, Mum telling him there were plenty of maps. The fella at the pub had sold dozens of copies—and she’d seen them. Eggers, round the block, had one, and the Irish fella, across from the stadium, him and his brother had one. Nan told me, but she wanted you to think … I asked him how he felt and he said, Not bad, Clemo. I wondered why he seemed so resigned, and he said, Least we got to see a bit of country.’
Down, down, she burned, our acrylic Valhalla.
‘So, Baby Burgess’ll have to do,’ I said.
Curtis smiled. ‘You can use it for one of your stories. Then you can show it to Masharin, and she can tell you how brilliant you are and make you get up in front of assembly again.’
Earlier that morning: me, standing in the wings, as Miss White said, ‘Of course, it’s not all about sport. Here at Gleneagles High you got artz: painting, music, and literature.’
I’d looked at Mrs Masharin and said, ‘Maybe you could read it?’
‘No, all sorted. Clem, you, please.’
I’d held my story, shaking; a thousand sets of eyes ready to follow me on. ‘People don’t usually read stories at assembly.’
‘You, first time, please.’
Eventually I was ushered on. ‘Arnold’s view of the world was complex.’
Strangely, they were silent. Maybe what I’d written was okay. I noticed Curtis was missing from the spot where we normally sat. As I progressed, I became confident. ‘Arnold knew he couldn’t tell her, but he could see it in her eyes.’
Applause, and I lingered, and White came over and held my shoulder and said, ‘We might see you in print soon.’
I stood, consumed by the eyes, and then sniffed the air. Something was burning. A door opened and one of the groundsmen ran in: ‘The art room!’
Classic schoolboy error. One thousand kids stood, screamed, and ran, and the little ones were almost crushed. Hundreds of Kennys and Narelles running for a squiz, as sirens wailed in the distance, and Curtis came up behind me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘The art room. Let’s go.’
We made our way across the school and settled on our shady mound. As the first unit arrived I said, ‘What did you think?’
‘Of what?’
‘My performance?’
Now, the fire had burned down. Unfortunately, it hadn’t spread, so the party was over. The school drifted away, to the oval, canteen, ignoring the bell and reclaiming lost recess. A few kids were already arriving for art, looking at the firemen and asking what to do. ‘That’s so fucking pathetic,’ Curtis said.
Round the block with Davo, pushing his chair over tree roots and lifted driveways. Peter, walking a few steps behind, carrying my notes, asked, ‘March 1949?’
I had to think. ‘The Elysée Accords?’
There was another car stripper in his driveway, wiping grease on his singlet. He said, ‘How are yer, gents?’ and Peter replied, ‘Good, you?’
‘It’s a pity,’ Davo managed.
‘What’s that?’ his brother asked.
‘Doug. What’s he gonna do now?’
‘Went to the pub with Ern the other night,’ I said. ‘First time in years.’
‘He should get back to fixin’ cars.’
‘We tell him, but he’s lined up at midday for the movie.’
A regular, but depressing sight. With his Coke and chips, saying, ‘This one looks okay. She murders her husband.’
‘April 1954?’
‘Nixon says America should send troops?’
‘Nice work. We’re ready to try a practice essay.’
‘I guess.’
‘Maybe you shoulda made him continue?’ Dave said, as I pushed hard to get him out of a crack.
‘We tried,’ I said. ‘Didn’t we, Pete?’
‘He was determined.’
As we described the trip towards Coober Pedy. Pete saying, ‘What’s happened, Doug?’
Nothing.
‘I reckon we oughta keep going.’
‘I don’t, and it’s my trip.’
Then I’d had a go. ‘Come on, Pop, what’s there to go home to?’
‘I don’t wanna talk about it.’
‘So we get home, switch on the telly, that’s it?’ Ernie had asked.
‘Do what you want.’
‘But you said—’
‘Do what you want! I’m not responsible for you, Ernie.’
Who’d said, ‘That’s not the point. We been planning this for months. We believed what you said, Doug, and now, in the middle of nowhere, you change your mind and don’t even think it worth telling us why.’
Dave was listening carefully. ‘I never could work Doug out.’
‘What?’ Peter asked.
‘Gets something in his head …’
Back on the highway, Pop had said, ‘The map was unreliable.’
‘How do you know?’ Ernie had asked.
‘Was it Mum?’ I’d asked.
‘No!’
Although I knew it was. Mum would’ve found a way to get him home.
‘Has she called the police?’
‘No.’
Although I reckoned she might’ve. Said, He’s convinced half the street there’s a reef of gold in the middle of the desert. I’m worried they’re gonna end up in an accident. My son’s only seventeen.
Back on Lanark III, Dave said, ‘Pity. I seen him moping in the garden yesterday. Asked if he was goin’ back. He said it was time to move on.’
‘He’s pissin’ Mum off,’ I said. ‘She reckons, if it continues, he might have to …’
‘What?’
Peter asked.
‘You know, a nursing home.’
People in Gleneagles didn’t use nursing homes. Firstly, no one could afford one, but mostly, you looked after your own, as long as you could. I said, ‘He got upset when she said it, then she said sorry, but if someone says somethin’, then it’s in their head, eh?’
Silence, as they agreed. There was a bit of a hill, and I let Davo roll.
‘Later, me and Jen told her we reckoned it was a pretty rough thing to say, and she said sorry. But she’d said it.’
Peter looked at me strangely and asked, ‘How’s the novel going?’
‘Good.’
‘I was thinking, why wait?’
‘What do you mean?’
But he turned, and headed home. ‘Follow me.’
He parked Davo in his spot and said, ‘Come on, before he grizzles about this too.’ A minute later we were in the shed, admiring the Jag. Peter walked around it, wiped the bonnet and said, ‘This’ll be great.’
‘I can have it now?’
‘Why not? Encouragement, to get the book finished.’
He got behind it, tried to push, and said, ‘Come on.’
I helped. It moved a bit, but wouldn’t budge.
‘More muscle!’
Again and again, but the flat tyres weren’t helping.
Peter went out, called, ‘Mum!’
A few moments later Val joined us, and we all got behind it. Heave-ho, two, three times, then it moved.
‘Keep going,’ Peter said.
We rolled it down the drive, narrowly avoiding Providence, past Dave and onto the road. Then into 31. I ran ahead, opened the shed, and the Jag rolled in. Val and Peter stood admiring it. Val said, ‘What you gonna do with it, Clem?’
‘Like new,’ I said.
‘Give Doug an interest, anyway.’
‘What will?’ he said, appearing at the side door, Mum and Jen following.
I approached it. ‘Look, Pop, our next project.’
At first, he didn’t say a thing. Just walked around it, looked inside, then turned to Peter, ‘What, you reckon …?’
‘I’ve given it to Clem,’ he said.
Mum seemed happy enough.
‘You’ve given it to him?’ Pop said. ‘To keep?’