by Noel Beddoe
‘Yeah.’
‘This is most nights lately. Wake me up most nights, screamin’ out.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not about me. No good for you, nightmares, screamin’ out.’
Jimmy pulls back the covers and swings his legs off the mattress. He sits on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees.
‘It’s been since what happened to Abdul,’ he says. ‘Since then I’ve had the bad nightmares.’
‘What? You dreamin’ about what happened to Abdul?’
‘Nah. Is the funny thing. Not dreamin’ about Abdul. Dreamin’ about my father.’
He rubs his face, looks at his mother, sees the concentration with which her dark eyes study him.
‘What you dreamin’?’
‘Well, just now he was in the sea an’ his head was comin’ out of the water an’ I was lookin’ to see his face, but then when he got above the surface there weren’t no face, just his skull bones.’
‘Ah. You seen anythin’ else in that dream?’
‘Yeah. Grandfather. Grandfather’s there. He winks at me.’
‘Ah.’
She seats herself in a chair beside the bedroom window, crosses her knees, folds her big hands in her lap, watches her son.
‘You tryin’ ta know somethin’ you don’ wanna know. Or, maybe, to not know somethin’ you startin’ to know.’
‘Don’ make no sense, Mama.’
‘No. Well, either way, there ain’t no peace. Ain’t no peace for Jimmy, from what’s happenin’. An’ you got bad dreams cos of that.’
He snuffles, rubs his hands over his face.
‘Well, anyway, it ain’t no fun. It ain’t no fun about the dreams, I can tell you that.’
He’s got his legs out from under the bedcovers. He doesn’t wear pyjama pants so his legs get a strike of cold in the sharp air.
‘What time is it?’
‘Half after eight.’
‘Half after eight!’
‘Sure. Is Saturday. No cleanin’ for me. Sleep late day for me. You come in late las’ night, let you sleep.’
‘Half after eight! Well, coffee day, you know? Day I go drink coffee with Grandfather.’
‘Grandfather!’ The woman says the word as though spitting.
‘Yeah, he expects it, me comin’ for coffee. He likes it, he expects me come.’
‘Don’t gotta go.’
‘He expects it. He’d worry.’
It doesn’t take long for Jimmy to dress, wash, carefully shave his face, pat stinging cologne onto his cheeks. He finds his mother in the kitchen, kisses her cheek, gets out into the still winter’s morning.
His head sings a little as he walks. He blinks in the strong sunlight, shakes his head to concentrate. On the footpath that winds down Cringila Hill it feels as though the concrete falls away beneath his feet, so that he must press his footsteps down further to make contact. A car passes him, heading down the hill. A horn blares, he hears a call, ‘Hey! Jimmy!’ He waves without looking up. Down in the village of Cringila, he stands at a corner, looks a little way to where a woman is walking between people who are sitting at outdoor café tables. She carries a tray covered with steaming cups.
Jimmy has sometimes seen the woman carry the chairs and tables out from her shop, set them in place, then lift and carry them back inside in late afternoon. Sometimes, without words, he’s come and done the carrying. At first it surprised him that the tables were so heavy – she is a strong little woman, though she doesn’t look that. ‘You’re a good boy, Jimmy,’ she tells him when he helps her. ‘Well, you old Lupce’s grandson. Lupce good man, helps people.’
Jimmy watches the patrons of the coffee shop. There are now three groups at the tables. A woman, maybe of fifty years, is with her husband and they breakfast together on hot drinks and pastries. At a round table is a young woman, slender, nicely dressed, who smiles down at the tabletop looking pleased with herself. Her companion, a young man, wears jeans and a t-shirt; he leans eagerly towards the pretty, dark-haired girl, chats to her, grins. Probably they’ve been out the night before, Jimmy thinks, spent the night together. Things are going well for them.
Three men are seated down one side of a rectangular table creating the little cloud of blue-grey smoke that drifts from their cigarettes, expels from their lungs. They are old men, skinny, thin-faced, thin-lipped, hard looking. They wear suit coats and trousers that don’t match, ties; one has on a little fedora hat with a colourful bird’s feather in its band. The three chatter to each other, wave their hands for emphasis.
At the head of the table, silent, watching, is Lupce Valeski.
Jimmy approaches the old men. He sees them note him, end their discussion, nod at him, smile. As he approaches, one of the three old men stands, walks to the table of the young lovers, gestures at an unused chair, raises his eyebrows: okay? The young man waves the back of his hand – sure! Take it! The old man grins at Jimmy, carries the chair and places it up at the head of the table beside Lupce. Jimmy joins the group. Lupce doesn’t move. Jimmy leans to his grandfather, kisses the leathery old forehead.
‘Grandfather,’ he says in greeting.
Lupce narrows one eye, smiles up at Jimmy for a moment.
‘See,’ one of the group says. ‘Here’s Jimmy. Lupce be happy now!’
‘Is good you come,’ says another. ‘Is good he gets happy. Sometimes he’s cranky!’
Jimmy glances at his grandfather, sees that the old man does not seem to find this joke funny.
Quietly, Lupce says to Jimmy, ‘How you doin’? Had food? Want the woman make you somethin’ to eat?’
‘Nah, just got up. Not ready for eatin’. Up late last night.’ Jimmy knows that the old man is aware of how he spends his nights. The boy lowers himself into the plastic chair. Lupce reaches a big hand to steady it.
‘Sure,’ says a companion. ‘Lupce always takes good care of Jimmy.’
Jimmy watches the men grin and nod, one winks at the others, and Jimmy has a moment of remembering a wink in a nightmare. He thinks, they know more about my life than I do.
Then all conversation outside the coffee shop stops. A new-looking Mercedes Benz has turned into the street, moved slowly along it. A face peers out of a window, examining the tables. Jimmy sees the narrowing of his grandfather’s eyes, the pulling down of the corners of the mouth.
The car is parked further along the street. The driver emerges, comes back towards the coffee shop in a little swagger. He is short, swarthy in the face, clean-shaven. His hair is dark and thick, swept back from his brow. He wears jeans, a t-shirt, riding boots and a stiff-tanned waist-length leather jacket.
Above Cringila Hill a green sweep of land runs away to the west and rises up into a ridge. Atop this grassed slope is a grey cement water tower. Jimmy can see that his grandfather is staring at it, ignoring the newcomer.
‘Lupce,’ the Mercedes driver says.
Lupce lifts his coffee to his lips, sips. After a good, long pause he replies, ‘Guido.’
‘I went to your house. No one there.’
‘I know there’s no one there. There’s only one person lives there, is me. I’m here.’
Jimmy looks from Guido to Lupce. He can see that Guido doesn’t like what’s been said, and that Lupce doesn’t care whether he likes it or not.
‘Be good I can talk to you,’ Guido says. ‘Got something for you.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yeah. What? I go to your place, wait for you?’
Lupce permits himself a little smile. ‘You must do what you think best.’
Guido looks uncertain. ‘I’ll go and wait,’ he says at last.
Guido walks back to his car, executes a three-point turn and drives up Cringila Hill.
‘Now see, Jimmy,’ Lupce says. ‘I got a proble
m now. Got an issue. Time my lady comes to clean my house. She likes me be home when she does the cleanin’. I know she’s never gonna steal nothin’, is an honest woman, but she likes it I be there when she’s in the house. I go round there now Guido gonna think I come back to please him, not come because I gotta, about the lady. I don’ want Guido gettin’ that idea, that I care about pleasin’ him. Don’ wanna upset the nice lady cleans my house. So, what’s you old Papa gonna do.’
Jimmy takes a long swallow of the coffee that’s just arrived. It’s good, very hot, and, despite what he’s told his grandfather, he’s thirsty and hungry after his cold start to the morning. He smacks his lips. ‘You gonna go to your place, for the lady. Otherwise that worthless piece of shit be decidin’ for you what you gonna do, an’ you not gonna have that.’
The three old men give a fierce shout of laughter. One slaps a thigh. There are words in Macedonian and Jimmy can remember enough of the language to know it’s been said, ‘Lupce’s grandson!’
‘Enjoy your coffee,’ Lupce says to Jimmy. ‘Don’ rush.’ When Jimmy has emptied his cup, Lupce says, ‘Walk with me, Jimmy? Come roun’ my house? Best go, be there for the lady.’
No bill is presented – Lupce will settle his account with the proprietor at month’s end. ‘Gentlemen, thank you for your company,’ Lupce says. ‘Please give my finest regards to your wives.’
The three smile, bob their heads as the old man and his grandson set off up the Hill. Jimmy can see his grandfather is taking laboured steps. At the corner of Lupce’s street they stop, to let the old man steady his breathing. The black Mercedes is parked on the street beneath the steps to Lupce’s verandah.
‘Stupid!’ Lupce says, ‘Stupid he talk to me like that, everyone seein’. Italians! This town, you gonna do business you gotta do business with Italians! When is your time, don’ work with stupid people. Stupid people cause the trouble.’
‘All Italians stupid?’
‘Nah. This Guido, he’s the worst thing – Italian an’ stupid. Nah. Is one thing worse. Worse thing is stupid an’ Greek.’
They slowly walk towards the car. Lupce reaches his left hand, touches Jimmy on the left bicep, says, ‘Is good you come. Was late. Thought maybe you not comin’.’
‘I’m sorry, Grandfather.’
Lupce flicks his hand. ‘Got some things to say ta ya. Got some things tell ya.’ He frowns, concentrating. ‘Three, four, five things, I think. Yeah. Five things. Thought about it all this mornin’, wake up, couldn’ sleep, there inna dark, thinkin’. Gonna tell ya today. Maybe you know some of it. Gonna tell ya be sure you know.’
Guido has seated himself in one of the chairs on the verandah. Lupce frowns, goes to occupy the other chair. Guido has placed a manila envelope onto the plastic tabletop. Jimmy can see it is packed with money. He seats himself on the verandah floor, stretches his long legs down the steps.
‘Got something for you.’ Guido reaches out of Jimmy’s line of sight to give the envelope a push.
‘Ah,’ Lupce says. ‘Yeah, nice. A donation! Yeah, tha’s good, is kind … nice thing to do. You see that, Jimmy? Guido makes a gift to the Macedonian Welfare League.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Guido says. ‘It’s what I said. It’s what I told you before.’
‘Good. Is nice. You a nice man.’
Lupce stares down the Hill towards the yards of the steelworks.
‘Well?’ Guido says. ‘Is it gonna be alright?’
‘Not up to me. I’m gonna tell our people on the council about you donation, you a kind man. I know they gonna help you if they can.’
‘Well, when will I know?’
Lupce frowns as though wondering himself. ‘Not sure. Not sure when they gonna decide.’
‘Well, that’s it.’ Guido angrily prods the envelope out of Jimmy’s sight. ‘Don’t go asking me for any more.’
Jimmy watches to see what Lupce does with his left hand. He knows that if Lupce places it palm down on the tabletop and taps once with his index finger, he’s angry. Twice, he’s furious. He expects that to be spoken to this way will make Lupce angry. Jimmy sees the hand move, can hear the tap of a finger, a second, a third tap! Shit, three taps! Be careful, Guido.
‘I told you what you gonna hear. Don’ like it, take the envelope an’ piss off.’
‘No need for that. No need for that sort of talk.’ Guido stands, hands on his hips, looks out at the bright, still morning. ‘Well,’ he says at last. ‘They know where to find me.’
‘Sure. An’ I’m gonna tell people about your kindness. Generosity. Don’ do you no harm, I can assure you of that.’
‘Yeah, better not.’
Lupce smiles expansively. ‘Guido!’
Jimmy gets up to let Guido pass, watches as the vehicle is driven away. He sits in the chair beside the table.
‘Is he gonna get what he wants?’
‘Sure. Good idea, what he’s sayin’. Do a bit of good. Good builders, the Italians. No worries.’
‘You’re makin’ him sweat.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yeah. Don’t like Italians?’
‘Nah, not too much. An’ don’ like Guido especial. The Italians? They was here before us, got here first, think they own everythin’. Didn’ want to move to one side a little bit, make a bit of room for us, give us some chances. Nah, I don’ like Italians.’
Jimmy stares at the old man’s deep brow, the tight, short hair brushed back from the forehead, high cheekbones, dark eyes, eagle’s beak of a nose.
Lupce says, ‘What?’
‘What ya mean, “What”?’
‘You lookin’ at me. You lookin’ like you never seen me before. You watchin’ me like I’m a strange animal.’
‘Am I?’
‘An’ another thing – what’s this “Grandfather”? When you was little, you used call me “Papa”. Now is “Grandfather”. Why you do that? Been thinkin’ about this when I can’t sleep. See, I liked it you called me Papa.’
‘Funny you ask me that. I’m thinkin’ the other day about that myself. I guess when I was little Mama would say to me, “Your papa”. Then, later, she would say, “Your grandfather”. So then I said what she was sayin’. And I guess that started just after my father …’
The sentence hangs, unfinished.
‘Went away,’ Lupce says at last.
Jimmy looks hard into the unmoving, dark eyes. ‘So is Grandfather now,’ Jimmy says.
‘Ah.’
‘So. Five things,’ Jimmy says. ‘Let’s get them over with.’
Lupce holds Jimmy’s gaze, removes a handkerchief from his pocket, gives a little cough. ‘First, time you joined the union.’
‘Can’t. Don’t work doin’ nothin’.’
‘My problem. Don’ worry ’bout that. I fix that up. An’ you join the Labor Party.’
‘Yeah? Why I’m gonna do that? Stupid, boring meetings. People all talkin’ Macedonian, which I don’ understand too well no more. Don’ think so.’
‘Now, you listen to your papa. Gonna tell you ’bout that.’
He settles himself lower into his chair, shifts his legs into the sunshine. ‘Gonna tell you somethin’. Maybe somethin’ you already know. Gonna tell you what we was in Macedonia, before we come out here: in Macedonia we was the shit. We got our bits of jobs. I was a shepherd. Make our little bits of money. An’ that was the way things was gonna be for us, you know, forever. No way to change what you was, what you had. Then a man comes to the village. Come to Australia, he says, work atta steelwork, make money. Says how much. Fortune! Couldn’ believe it! Tell you what he said – always got money buy tobacco, as much as ever you want! Want coffee? Go in a café, always got money for that. See? Unbelievable to us. Unbelievable riches.’
‘Well, those parts come true.’
‘Yeah, they did.’ Lupce smiles. ‘You got no ide
a what I got. I come here, inside I got a kettle turns itself off when the water boils!’
‘Yeah? Amazin’!’
‘In our own country, you born a thing, is what you stay. So, we come here. An’ you know what we find?’ Lupce rubs a thumb across his chin, frowns down at the steelworks. ‘We was the shit. We got what jobs no one else wanted to do. Dirty. Dangerous. Men got hurt. An’ someone come from the union, say, join up, have a meetin’, decide how is gonna be, you tell them if you got the balls for that, you tell them how is gonna be so long as you stick together, everyone hang tough. Big news for me, I can tell ya that. Who’da thought that’s the way things could be. But we tried it out. Not easy to start. But we hung together. Won some stuff. So that made me interested then, how far can we go with this union business? Then I find out, what’s the system? You know. Outside work. The rest of it – how’s it work? Be the Labor Party, is what seems to me to be our answer, make a branch. Then we decide who can be in the election. If I can get everyone ta do what they told, vote like they told, we decide who’s on council, who goes to parliament in Sydney an’ Canberra. Not all of them, you know. Just the ones for roun’ here. Not many. Just every now an’ then, they got the votes that matter. People learn that. Better not to upset us.’
He smiles at the sunny morning, remembering.
‘So. Some man gets in the government – who’s he need? He needs old Lupce. Because he comes to the meetings an’ talks to people, no one understans him. Lupce gotta help tell ’em. An’ he gotta talk to the people, or he thinks someone else gonna be our choice, get the seat.
‘One time, a man from Canberra. He got Throsby, which is what seat we’re in, for Canberra. He comes to the meetings, everyone sit, lookin’ at him, he tells me things. I look like I’m tellin’ ’em stuff from God, very serious, no smilin’, and he was watchin’ me, a little Englishman, little moustache, an’ I say, “This is what this little Walrus wants me to tell ya.” An’ they laughin’, you know, slappin’ their knees, some got tears on their faces from laughin’.’ Lupce chuckles. ‘That little Englishman, he was lookin’ at me, all confused, upset, why they laughin’? After the meeting he says to me, “What I said wasn’ funny.” An’ I tell him, “I tol’ them you said you didn’ think you was good enough, be their person, others might be better, an’ they laugh at that, cos they know you a great man.”’ He smiles at his grandson. ‘These people get voted for, they like you sayin’ that kinda stuff. All of ’em like that.’