by Noel Beddoe
Lupce brings the boat up beside the seasoned wooden pylons supporting the decking of the pier, slows the engine almost to stalling, weaves the path of the dinghy leaving behind a little frothy trail. As they travel he scoops from a plastic tub handfuls of a vile-smelling concoction made of chook pellets, chook guts, fish oil. He throws these across the side, to make a burley trail. He cleans his hands in the water, dries them on a scrap of towel he’s brought for the purpose, accepts the baited line that Jimmy hands him. He throttles up the engine, takes the boat back to pick up the start of their burley track, then slows the engine again and the two men ease their struggling bait into the water.
They hunt along the fishing field Lupce has created, looking for bream and, when they can get them close up against the pier pylons, john dory. The leatherjacket that plague them, the occasional surface fish that pick off the bait they return to the current as quickly as they can. When they reach the end of the hunting beat they draw up their lines, secure them and Lupce repeats their sweep.
Soon they are doing well, feeling the heavy tug of a good hit, drawing struggling fish up through water into the air. Before long the holding boxes are heavy with flapping fish. It’s hard work, dragging up creatures fighting for their lives. There’s a wind up, and their hands grow numb from the cold air and contact with water. Little nicks are cut into their hands by the fishing lines drawn tight by a catch. They’re wounded by the gills and fins as they concentrate to unhook the struggling fish and deliver them to the holding boxes, stabbed by an occasional piercing from a fish hook. Their fingers smart at the tug of their lines, the sting of salt water over fresh cuts. After two passes across their defined territory, Lupce replaces the burley trail and they fish it again.
They hear the hum of the outboard, the slap of water against the pylons when they’re nearby, the screech of seagulls, which have found them out and hover in the dark air behind their passage and cry out in hope of discarded flesh. They smell the petrol their engine is using, and the diesel oil from the freighter on the far side of the pier, soot and coaldust from the steelworks and the sharp, salt tang of the sea.
Jimmy hunches, watching his grandfather’s face become visible and then vanish as they move through little pools of light that spill down onto the dark water from the freighter and pier, or flashes of deep orange reflecting the belches of flame from the smokestacks of the steelworks. Then there’s darkness when the boat weaves away into deep, unbroken night.
‘We try get something big,’ Lupce says, and takes the dinghy around the eastern end of the pier, sets off beside the giant metal side of the freighter.
Jimmy sits, feeling the vast size of the ship near and above him, watching his grandfather when they slide through pools of light that the freighter has created. Jimmy feels what he’s about to say. He can’t prevent his words, or change them. It’s like vomiting.
‘Grandfather.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Lupce.’
‘What you call me?’
‘Lupce.’
‘Lupce! Yeah? Yeah, what you want, kid?’
‘Lupce Valeski.’
‘Yeah, I know my name!’
Orange glow hangs in the air from the furnaces of the steelworks. Tongues of flame lick up into the sky and stain Lupce for a moment in a scarlet light. Jimmy can see how intently his grandfather is now watching him.
‘You murdered my father.’
‘What? Wa’s this shit?’
‘Don’t lie to me. Enough lies. Time for truth now. Time for truth between us. You murdered my father.’
The dinghy pulls west of the freighter. Lupce must change tack or run aground. He turns its path north, away from the lights of pier, freighter, steelworks. He says ‘What you talkin?’
‘I remember.’ Jimmy has tears on his cheeks but there’s no sobbing and his voice remains unbroken. ‘There was a night. Worst ever. He hit her and hit her and I had his leg and he kicked me against the cupboards and split my ear and she was screamin’ at him, angry …’
Jimmy waits a moment, remembering, but his voice is calm and steady. ‘Then it was quiet. Quiet. An’ he was still. An’ I knew you had come, someone musta heard, run for you, an’ there you was, in the doorway to the kitchen, an’ you walked to my father, put your hand on his shoulder like he was a child, an’ you said, “My man … this no good. You not happy. Best you come with me, spend the night with me, settle down,” you said that so quiet, gentle, an’ you led him away, an’ he went away, quiet. Then nex’ mornin’ he come back, quiet, ’shamed, way he always was day after the bad times, an’ got ready, went to work. Come home that night, no drinkin’, then you come see him, took him out on the verandah, talkin’ to him, jus’ a little while, an’ I went an’ sat near the doorway, but you talk too quiet, couldn’ hear.’
‘You couldn’ hear, couldn’ you?’
‘What did you say to him?’
‘What difference now, what I said.’
Jimmy screams, leans forward, ‘What did you say to him?’ He takes between fingers the flesh just below one of his grandfather’s knees, digs with all of his young power into that flesh. He says, ‘I’m his son! What you done to him you done to me! I got the right to know! What did you say to him?’
There’s enough light for Jimmy to see the swing aloft of Lupce’s left arm, sees the speed of its fall, feels the smash onto his wrist, and he must release his hold because, at once, his wrist and hand have lost all feeling. But he stays leaning forward, watching the dark shape of his grandfather.
‘You wanna know. You the big man, try hurt me with your fingers, you wanna know!’
‘Yeah.’
‘You wanna know what I said? Then I’m gonna tell ya big man. Gonna tell ya. I said, “You get drunk, hit my daughter, hit my grandson. Wanna do that, shoulda married someone else’s daughter, have someone else’s grandson. Get drunk again, you a dead man.”’
‘Tha’s what you said.’
‘Is what I said.’
‘An’ he did, didn’t he. He did get drunk again.’
‘Yeah. In a pub. People come tell me, “You son-in-law’s drinkin.”’
‘So you got him good an’ drunk.’
‘Sure. People puttin’ brandy in with his beer.’
Lupce has turned the boat back and they cut across the water. They pass the steelworks furnaces and Jimmy can see his grandfather bathed in the glow, see the high cheekbones, the steady gaze, the darkness of the eyes.
‘Then you, Darko, Dragan went and got Darko’s boat.’
‘Never mind about no one else.’
Jimmy rests his hurt arm on a thigh. There’s terrible pain. He realises he’s probably fractured a bone or two. ‘Was he still drunk? At the end?’
‘Nah. I learned somethin’ that night. Man knows someone gonna kill him he get frightened, never mind how drunk. When he get frightened he get sober. Things got pretty nasty just at the end. He was strong. I learned that too. He was a strong man. Where you get it from, the two of us, him and me. You hadta turn out strong.’
They travel a way without speaking. Near the shore Lupce says, ‘Okay. You gonna know. I tol’ ya.’
Jose has seen their approach and come down to the boat ramp. Jimmy climbs out, wades through the water. He stands with his hands in his pockets while Jose assists Lupce with his gear. Jose works hard, securing the gear and the boat. From time to time he looks across at Jimmy, but he says and asks nothing.
Heading back to Cringila it comes to Jimmy that he’s as calm as ever he’s been in his life, relaxed. A question comes into his head, and he wonders at it awhile. With a voice that’s low, controlled he says, ‘Grandfather.’
‘What?’
‘You watch television in the middle of the night?’
‘Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes I do. Carn sleep, get up, watch television.’
‘See them ads about Christmas, ones they show in the middle of the night?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘How nice it is? How happy they all are? You reckon anyone lives like that?’
They’re through Warrawong and making their way up to the Hill. Eventually Lupce says, ‘Not roun’ here.’
When they’re outside the house Jimmy shares with his mother, Jose stops the car. There’s no dividing the catch. Damaged arm dangling by his side, Jimmy walks up onto the verandah and watches as Jose executes a stately three-point turn, not easy in that narrow street in a big car towing a dinghy. Jimmy watches the car pull away, vanish around a corner. He sits on the top step, leans his weight forward, his elbows on his knees.
It starts to rain lightly. He watches the mist of it between him and a streetlight a little further along the footpath, watches the light on the wet bitumen. When his mother comes onto the verandah, he doesn’t look up.
In a while she says, ‘you know.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Thought you was gonna. Thought it be about now, who you are now.’
The rain is heavier and he can hear it now, falling across the roof of his house, soaking into the grass of the front garden.
He says, ‘Was you ever gonna tell me?’
‘Nah. Or, maybe, if I was dyin’, you know? Somethin’ like that. What’s gonna be the good if I tell ya? This way, at least you had him, old Lupce. Had him all these years. Was good to ya. Better that than you had nothin’. If he was in jail, couldn’ do you no good. This way maybe he helps you a little.’
‘What am I gonna do?’
‘I guess you gonna do what you always done, get back in control. That’s what you do, you know? No father, maybe the place you live is a little tough – you get in control. Don’ wait to be what other people decided for ya. Is your way. You gonna do that again.’
‘How do I do that, livin’ roun’ here?’
They listen to the rain. At last she says, ‘You carn.’ She wraps an arm around the shoulder of her tall son, which intimacy he permits.
‘What was he like, my father?’
She says, ‘Always wondered what I’d say if you asked me. He was two men. When I met him he was … gentle, is what struck me, gentle an’ nice an’ funny. Not tough, like my father. He made me laugh, you know? Made me feel good, when I was with him. Then he would get drunk.’
‘Yeah.’
‘There’s different ways to be a drunk. Some men get happy, laugh, think they clever, wanna say smart things. Some like singin’. Some get sorry for their selves, think sad things, cryin’ a lot. Then there’s some like Tonio.’
She gives her son’s shoulder a little shake, to help him with what she’s about to tell him.
‘Think he’s the big man. No one else worth nothin’. Laugh at people. Laugh at me. Sneer at me. Spit on me. Hit me if he felt like it. Your grandfather saw him hit you once, laugh at ya. Later on Lupce said to me, “Tha’s not a way to hit a child, not a good way. You hit a dog like that you make an angry dog. Hit him like that, laugh at him like that, you make an angry person.” So, when it happen, what Lupce done to my husband, maybe no big surprise.’
‘Anybody care?’
‘Well, it weren’t out there, you know, as a fact everyone could talk about. Someone did come. Policeman did come, but that was later. Months later, maybe.’
‘Policeman?’
‘Yeah. Big man. Not much hair. Long face. Longest face I ever saw.’
‘What did you tell him.’
‘Jus’ how Tonio was. What it was like, when he was drinkin’.’
‘Did he talk to anyone else?’
‘Guess he talk to old Lupce. Nothin’ happen though. Which was good. What I thought, they take Lupce, Dimce’s got nothin’. Got no man to show him. Thought my father was better for you to have than nothin’.’
‘Lupce taught me how to fight, how to catch fish.’
‘They’d be his things Lupce would teach you. Hurtin’ people. Killin’ things.’
‘Maybe he thought that’s all he had, only things he knew would be any use to me.’
‘Well, now you know. You had the right to know who you are, an’ the things that happen. Better than some nice lie for you to believe forever.’
It’s raining heavily. Jimmy says, ‘You should go in. Is cold.’
‘Maybe in a minute. Nearly time I got up, if I was sleepin’. Nearly time go clean the school.’
‘Yeah.’ Raindrops burst and splash up over their shins and knees.
Jimmy says, ‘Mama, what’s my name?’
‘What?’
‘My name? My real name? Is it Valeski?’
‘Well, people started calling you that after your father … left, so we just went along.’
‘And Grandfather called me Jimmy.’
‘Yeah.’
‘So. Was I christened?’
‘Twice. Once in our church, once in Tonio’s cathedral.’
‘Same name both times?’
‘Yeah. Dimce. Dimce Rodriguez.’
‘Yeah? Funny name,’ he says, getting up. ‘Come inside. You’re cold. I can make you coffee. Good, strong coffee. Have some before you go to work.’
‘Sure.’ She stands beside him, kisses his cheek. ‘An’ I had you a good, long time. Had you company. I was lucky. You remember that, when you do what you gotta do. I had you a good, long time. I was lucky.’
Chapter Eighteen
Gordon blinks, listening. May has left the bed. There’s ringing, then it stops. He hears May say, ‘No, Edna, he can’t. He’s been to a specialist. He needs surgery.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Gordon calls. With difficulty he reaches for the handset beside their bed. He winces as he hears May slam down the lounge room receiver.
‘Gordon,’ Edna says. ‘Back’s no good?’
‘No, I’m for the knife.’
‘Oh, dear. I am sorry to hear that. I’d hoped that you might be able to help with a situation.’
‘Did you? What’s the situation?’
‘I’ve just come in. There’s a note on my desk about a message from the principal of Warrawong High School.’
‘Leon Beckett.’
‘You know him?’
‘We’re both members of Wollongong Golf Club.’
‘Apparently Mr Beckett has telephoned through that he’s confident the matter has no substance. The boy involved is unreliable and given to attracting attention to himself – well, Mr Beckett has indulged himself by calling the boy a “notable nutter”. The lad has put this claim on the school’s computer network, that he knows the identity of the killer of Abdul Hijazi. It’s one of those cases where, if we don’t respond and, one in a million, there’s something in it, then that would be a major failure.
‘Peter Grace is rostered off, apparently in his caravan down the coast. David Lawrence is available but needs a partner. I’ve got people down with the flu, we’re stretched very thin. You’ve turned up so much that is of value, I’ve come to feel that you’ve got a true sense for this case. I thought you might go to Warrawong to find out what this is all about.’
Gordon doesn’t say anything. He can hear the silence of Edna noting this, weighing it up, becoming emboldened.
‘Someone’s got to go. I’ve heard you say that you never know when some minor matter, something that seems irrelevant might turn out to be the jigsaw piece that makes the whole picture clear. If there’s anything in the testimony of this kid, I’d like it a lot if the credit for its discovery went to you. And, Gordon, as things are here, there are people I wouldn’t trust to send.’
Gordon lies in bed, listening to the silence at the other end of the phone. Clearly Edna knows how to flatter him. He can feel her flattery working. ‘Yeah, send David up,’ he says, eventually.
When he rolls b
ack from replacing the handset May is in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Quietly, clearly, she says, ‘You truly don’t care, do you, what the impact of your behaviour is on me.’
‘I figure I can’t do any more harm to my back, May.’
‘Fine. Get up, if you can. I’ll stop what I’m doing and dress you. Then I’ll get back to trying to get myself ready for work, and you can stumble off after your adolescent need for recognition.’
‘I have to do this. I just can’t tell you why.’
‘I just told you why.’
Just after nine David collects Gordon and eventually steers the car through the gateway of Warrawong High School. Ahead of them is a long bitumen roadway down a hill. There are dew-covered sportsfields below to their left, a carpark fringed by gum trees at the bottom of the hill to the right. In the distance, below the school, the lake and escarpment sprawl to the south. The school buildings are extensive, forbidding, old dark double-brick, with heavily barred entrances and windows. The double-storey blocks of classrooms are built around courtyards. The principal is a large man with greying hair and a beard. He waits for them at the nearest gated entrance.
It takes Gordon a long time to get out of the vehicle. David grasps him beneath an elbow to assist. The principal watches, clearly interested in their struggle. He approaches, eventually, to lend a hand. David closes the car door, secures the vehicle, and he and the teacher assist Gordon into the schoolyard.
‘Chilly,’ the large man says, ‘you look chronic. No wonder I haven’t seen you on the course. What are you doing working in this shape?’
‘We’re short on, Leon,’ Gordon says, ‘and I’ve got an interest in this matter.’
‘Sit over here,’ Leon Beckett says. They head into a wide courtyard. ‘There’s stairs to my office. It would take you forever to get up them. We can do what we’ve got to do out here.’
Some green-painted wooden seating is set against the brick wall of a gymnasium. His companions assist Gordon to sit. He looks around. Tall, sheer walls. Lots of concrete. Walkways at upper-storey height linking buildings. Gordon is not the first visitor to be reminded of a jail. He can see that there’s a basement level to the south and, bravely, someone has planted a little rainforest in the playground down there. It has blooming Cootamundra wattle, a number of banana palms. Leon Beckett lowers himself down to sit beside Gordon. David Lawrence remains standing near them. Scowling in pain, breathing heavily after the effort of making it from the car, Gordon says, ‘So, what have we got?’