by Stephen Orr
‘That’s the deal. My driving days are over.’
Pop examined the dash. ‘No gauges, leather’s gone, wiring’s shot.’ He stood back. ‘In fact, nothing’s any good.’
‘I guess not.’
‘And you want Clem, me, to …?’
‘Either that or I sell it for scrap. But it seems a shame.’
‘It’d cost thousands.’
‘I’ll pay,’ I said.
‘With what?’
‘I can help,’ Mum suggested.
‘Thousands! We could buy two new cars with what it’d cost us to do this up. All that lifting and bending and gettin’ down on the ground. Come on, Pete, I’ll give you a hand takin’ it back.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s mine!’
Everyone looked at me. I said to Pop, ‘If you couldn’t be bothered helping me …’
‘It’s not that—’
‘Then I’ll do it myself. It’s staying right here.’
Pop waited. ‘Righto, whatever you like.’ Before storming off.
Silence. Just the gal, expanding in the sun.
‘That coulda gone better,’ Peter said.
‘I can remember this,’ Vicky said.
‘No.’
‘I can. You and me used to come around.’
‘We did?’
We stood waiting for Don. He was taking a phone order, shouting down the line: How many? Salt? He finished, greeted us and I said, ‘Don, do you remember Vicky? She used to live round the corner.’
He shook his head. ‘What’ll it be?’
Minimum chips. Always. He should’ve known. Hated us, I guessed, because you couldn’t get rich making minimum chips.
As he worked, Vicky said, ‘He still doesn’t say much.’
I wanted to tell her about the wife and kid, the war, but now wasn’t the time.
‘Mum kept busy,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘His name was Frank, and he was a prick.’
She explained: the man who’d been coming in and out of their house since they moved north. Frank, with his PE teacher’s moustache, body hair and Ralph Lauren glow. ‘Every night: Frank’s coming over for tea.’
‘Bit of a wanker?’
‘Lots.’
Don stared at the cooking chips. He could’ve turned, asked what she’d been doing all these years, but didn’t. That was just him.
Vicky said, ‘When I was about eleven he’d say, Well, Vicks, what say we get you in the netball team? And I’d reply, What say we don’t?’
‘A PE teacher stepfather?’ I said. ‘That’d be about the worst thing of all.’
‘Well, Vicks, how about we go fishing next Saturdee?’
Don shook the chips and waited while the oil drained. His cleft was showing.
‘Then when I was in Year Nine Mum said, Me and Frank are thinking of getting engaged. I said, Over my dead body. And they sat me down for the talk.’
‘The talk?’
‘Mum said, Vicks (he’d got her started), me and Frank have grown quite close.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘And it’s been a long time since yer father … hush, hush, cos we never talked about it. Then Frank said, I reckon your mother deserves a bit of happiness, eh, luv?’
‘Luv?’
‘Vicks and luv and darlin’. I told them they could do what they want and Mum said, We wouldn’t do it unless you were happy.’
Don wrapped the chips, and said to Vicky, ‘I remember you, this big.’ He showed her. ‘You and Clem, kissy-kissy.’ And for the first time ever, he smiled.
‘No kissy-kissy,’ I said.
‘Long time,’ Don said, remembering, at last, the pair of us with bottles and mixed lollies.
We left, past Ford, ripping a hole in the bag and eating chips.
‘So, no Frank?’ I said.
‘He pissed off, and Mum blamed me. Then the lecture about love coming in different sized packages.’
‘But not with a bushy mo.’
‘Or hairy back, big, muscly legs and single eyebrow.’
‘Disgusting.’
‘I said, Frank, why don’t you shave the bit in between, but he said, Na, Vicks, this is how God made me. I didn’t mention that: he was religious, and everything happened for a reason, and that’s why Mum had run into him at the butcher’s, because God wanted them to be together.’
‘A religious PE-teaching stepdad. Shit.’
‘Don’t worry, he wasn’t around long. Look!’ She indicated a motorised scooter parked in front of a Housing Trust unit.
I knew the look, and smiled. ‘Vicks.’
‘Come on.’
‘No.’
But she was off. ‘Once around the block. They’ll never know.’
‘She’s disabled.’
‘She’ll never know.’
I ran after her. She sat on the scooter, turned the key, and motioned for me to dinky.
‘No.’
‘Get on, you pussy.’
Why, I wondered, did I attract friends like this? Even Curtis wouldn’t hijack a scooter, although John would’ve stolen it. ‘You’ll get yourself in a lotta trouble.’
‘You comin’ or not?’
The eyes, the dimples. You couldn’t say no. I got on and she drove down Lanark III, over the mound, at maximum speed. I held on to what was left of the chips. The suspension wasn’t so hot, and every bump was amplified up my arse and backbone.
‘That’s enough, let’s take it back.’
But she wasn’t listening. Past the primary school, narrowly avoiding a man walking his dog (and the dog). Over a raised drive, and we nearly went flying, but held on, and passed onto the road, in the middle, left, as we were overtaken.
‘Okay, you’ve had yer fun.’
‘Where’s yer spirit, Clemmy?’
Back onto the footpath, across the basketball stadium car park, down Lanark II, past our homes (thankfully everyone was inside), around the corner, past the Colonel, Don, Ford, back across the car park. As it started slowing, and she worked the throttle. ‘It’s running out of electricity.’ She thought better of it, and returned. By the time we parked it was barely going. We ran off, and I said, ‘What happens when she comes out?’
‘She can plug it in.’
‘What if it’s an emergency?’
‘What are the chances? You need to chill out, Clemmy.’
She ate the cold chips.
‘What else did you get up to in your little country town?’ I asked.
‘My little country town?’
‘Did you have your own tractor?’
‘Fuck off. They had real men.’
‘Like?’
‘Daryl, a Year Eleven. Driving a tractor since he was seven. No scribbling novels in your bedroom. Real men.’
‘So, you and Daryl …?’
‘Yep. Every night, for a coupla hours, in the hay shed.’
God, she’d said it. We’d crossed some sort of barrier. ‘You and … Daryl?’
‘Yes, but he was smart, and funny.’
‘Perfect Daryl?’
‘Perfect.’
‘Imaginary Daryl?’
‘He was real, believe me.’
We turned into number 26, up the drive, the front steps, and into the lounge. Mum, busy painting, said, ‘Righto, break time.’
Pop got down from his ladder, stood back and said, ‘Couldn’t tell.’ The panels he’d replaced, the gaps he’d filled, sanded, and undercoated.
Tina came in and said, ‘Like new.’
Vicky opened the chips, laid them on the floor, and Tina said, ‘You’ve eaten them all.’
‘A few.’
Pop started picking at them. Mum said, ‘I’m not hungry.’ But she always said that when there wasn’t enough.
‘Ask you to do one thing,’ Tina said to Vicky. ‘Get some chips for lunch, and you eat them all.’ She sat down, tried a few. ‘And they’re cold.’
‘It’s Don, not me.’ She turned to me. Don�
�t say anything, Clemmy.
As we ate and drank weak cordial, Mum said to Vicky, ‘After they lay the carpet it’ll be like new.’
We admired the fresh walls, and smelled the paint.
‘New job?’ Pop asked Vicky.
‘Start next week.’
‘Excited?’
‘It’s money. It’ll be good to have some coming in, eh, Mum?’
Tina just smiled, searching for something resembling a chip.
‘Where did you learn to type?’ I asked her.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Really? That might be a problem. Just as well you’ve got shorthand.’
She sort of smiled.
‘No? Dear me, Vicks. I hope they don’t mind.’
‘They know. Maybe they thought I’d pick it up quick.’
‘You will,’ Mum said.
I said to Tina, ‘Vicks was just telling me about Daryl.’
Tina turned to her daughter. ‘Daryl?’
‘You know, you met him. We went to the movies that time?’
‘Did you?’
‘What movie was that?’ I asked.
‘How the hell should I remember?’
The conversation turned to blinds: venetian versus vertical, but all the time, Vicky just looked at me, pissed off.
‘Peter’s been helping Clem,’ Mum said.
Tina said, ‘It’s a miracle Val is still alive. She used to get through a pack a day. I couldn’t believe she still lived there with her sons.’
‘Peter looks after his brother,’ Mum said.
‘He never practised law?’
‘For a time, but apparently he wasn’t very good. I mean, you gotta have a nasty streak to do that job, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘You do,’ I said, still looking at Daryl’s girlfriend.
‘Never thought either of them would make good lawyers,’ Tina said.
Then, I saw it. How her lips parted, and something resembling a smile emerged.
‘Vicks was telling me about Daryl,’ I said.
Mum just ignored me and said, ‘I think Val’s worried.’
‘How’s that?’ Tina replied, scraping the crumbs from the greaseproof paper.
‘You know, when she’s gone, what’ll happen to Davo.’
‘As long as Peter outlives him.’
‘Apparently Daryl was smart, and funny,’ I said.
‘Who?’ Mum asked, shitty.
‘Daryl.’
She couldn’t see what this had to do with the Donnellans, and the Donnellans were being discussed, so I should just keep my mouth shut.
‘Daryl,’ I repeated. ‘And, and, he was driving a tractor at eight years of age. When I was still playing with my toys, he was driving a tractor, ploughing stuff.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Mum asked.
‘I was just tellin’ yers. This Daryl (whom you’ve never met, Mrs Rosie) used to go out with Vicky.’
Tina looked at her daughter.
‘Not go out,’ Vicky said.
‘But you told me—’
‘Not go out, Clemmy.’
And that’s how it ended—me, and her, unlikely magnets, repelling and attracting at the same time.
I wasn’t about to buy into it, so I sat in bed and listened. Mum led him into her room, and I heard her say, ‘It was painted about five years ago,’ and he said, ‘Four bedrooms, that’s where the value is. Big families, you know?’
I didn’t get it. Why was she showing him through our house? Earlier, she’d said, ‘I got someone coming to give me a price on the place.’
Pop had said, ‘An agent?’
‘Just a price.’
‘But you don’t get a price unless you’re thinking of selling.’
She’d taken a moment, like that might or might not be true, and Pop had said, ‘I’m not havin’ no one through.’
‘Just for a look-see. I’m curious to know … if we had to.’
‘Why?’
‘If we had to.’
They were in Jen’s room. Mum said, ‘Ignore the colours, and the mess, of course.’
‘Don’t worry, I got my own teenagers.’
Piss off, I wanted to say. Don’t you dare come in here.
‘And this is my son’s room,’ Mum said, showing him in.
He stood smiling, playing with his mo. ‘How are you, son?’
I just glared at Mum, but she didn’t care. ‘Like the other room, nice view out the front. We hada coupla big trees but cut ’em down. Nicer that way, don’t you think?’
‘Of course. Brings light into the room.’
I guessed he’d agree with anything if it might help his chances. He checked the ceiling, walls, tried my window, the carpet with his shoes. ‘You got it nice in here.’
‘Of course, it’s a hovel,’ Mum said. ‘I asked him to clean it …’
‘I did.’
‘That’s okay,’ the agent said. ‘I got a bloke too. He’s growing potatoes in his room, I reckon.’
And then he was gone, up the hall, into the lounge room, and I heard Pop say, ‘We’re not sellin’ it,’ and the agent reply, ‘No, I understand the situation. Just givin’ yer daughter a price.’
Les’s car cruised into the drive of number 28. He and Wendy got out, and talked to each other. Him in a suit, like he’d just been to a funeral, her in a long frock, like she’d just been to the sales at Myer. He used his hands, but descriptively. Then leaned forward, held her arm, kissed her cheek. Like that. And she let him. Like he was saying, You wouldn’t be dead for quids, would you?
They went in, closed the door, and I was left wondering. Why we’d carried the esky across the road, given her the mattress, tea, milk and cold chops. If something was wrong, didn’t it stay wrong? John never got better; Dave didn’t improve. It was like the whole street was in a permanent state of decay. Soil shifted, houses crumbled, weeds grew, cats and rats bred; the arguments at dusk; the mowers at eight on a Sunday morning.
‘I’ll just give you a look in the shed,’ Mum said.
‘No, that’s private,’ Pop growled.
‘Just a look,’ and I heard her and the agent disappearing out the back door, Pop following, saying, ‘If you don’t mind.’
Too good to miss, I followed them out, and waited at the shed door. The agent said, ‘Beautiful Jag. My Pop had one.’
I could see Pop’s face.
‘As you can see,’ Mum said, ‘plenty of room. My father’s been fixing up cars for years. Like a business.’
‘Yes, I can see that. You’re well-stocked, Doug.’
I could see him, fuming.
‘Good concrete floor,’ Mum said. ‘My husband laid this.’
Suddenly it was my husband. Suddenly he’d come back to life.
They stepped out, and Mum seemed surprised to see me. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
She showed him the yard. ‘Plenty of room for the kids to run around.’
He made a note.
‘You and Jen, eh, Clem, you’ve had plenty of good times out here?’
She said it like they were about to come to an end.
‘But you got this factory?’ the agent said, as some machine started whirring.
‘Yes, but you don’t notice it after a while.’
He examined the lifting concrete paths, and Pop said, ‘It was never mixed right. Not enough gravel.’
Mum was a volcano, building.
‘You could rip it up, start again.’
‘And what about the neighbours?’ he asked.
Pop told him. Gary the klepto and his criminal son on one side, Catwoman, and oh, of course, Ron, across the road, works from home, so every Saturday morning you got cars coming out yer arse.
Mum said nothing; she looked pissed. I stopped, because I didn’t want to be anywhere near the eruption.
‘Course, these places,’ Pop said, ‘weren’t built to last. The soil cracks, so you can’t build in brick unless y
ou can afford the footings. No one round here could, so we stumped, and had fibro. But they’ll all be coming down soon. See it starting.’
We went in, and Mum showed him the kitchen, with its lack of modern features, but explained, ‘The lino’s only a couple of years old.’
They settled in the lounge, and I returned to my room. He was doing the numbers. Mum was waiting anxiously. Pop was watching the news.
Les and Wendy had come out, sat on the porch, drinking coffee. I checked with the TK25 as she stood, noticed something on his jacket, picked it off, went in, and returned with her knitting.
The agent said, ‘I’d put it on the market for eighty-five, Mrs Whelan.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Market’s down. Hard movin’ anything these days.’
‘Might as well give it away,’ Pop said.
‘Right,’ Mum said. ‘We’ll have to think about it.’
‘What?’ Pop asked. ‘You said—’
‘Alright!’
Silence, as they retreated.
‘Course, if you painted it, got in some modern furniture, you might get ninety.’
‘That’s a bit disappointing.’
‘Lotta stock on the market, Mrs Whelan.’
Mum showed the agent out to his car, and I came out to the lounge, watching them through the blinds. ‘Why d’you reckon she did that, Pop?’
‘We’re being punished, Clem.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Me and you, for crossing her.’
I sat down. Sport on the telly; questionable hamstrings. I noticed Mum waving to Les and Wendy, and Les calling back, ‘Sellin’ up?’
‘No, just gettin’ a price.’
And the agent getting in his Danny Moore: We Sell for More BMW and driving off.
The moment Mum came in the front door, Pop was ready. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘I’s just curious.’
‘No, you weren’t. You haven’t been curious all these years.’
She sat, folded arms, watching the telly.
‘I don’t wanna go nowhere,’ I said.
She ignored me and turned to Pop. ‘In the future, you might need more than we can give.’
‘Me? Cosa me?’
‘If you—’
‘Nothin’ wrong with me. I’m not going to some nursing home.’
‘Never said—’
‘You did.’
‘If.’
‘No,’ and he turned to her. ‘Cos I got in that car and—’
‘You wanna know? I got responsibility for everything. The kids, you, this place. So someone’s gotta think logically.’