I Am (Not) the Walrus

by Ed Briant

  “I actually love hearing Paul McCartney sing ‘Michelle.’” She looks down at her feet. “It just makes me really sad.” She looks back at me and bites her lip. “I didn’t want to go all weepy on you back in the Aquarium.”

  “We don’t do it, anyway,” I say. “It’s actually pretty difficult to play.”

  “But if you’re the bassist, then you are the Paul of the band,” she says, then she swivels around to face me. “Do you do ‘Blackbird’?”

  “No. But we could,” I say. The kettle clicks off. I fill the cups, then go over to the fridge. “Milk?”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  “Apart from playing the bass, I don’t think I have much in common with Paul.” I put a cup in front of her.

  “Cheers.” She picks up the cup. “Contrary to what you’d think,” she says, “‘Blackbird’ is actually my favorite Beatles song.”

  “We have a gig next Monday,” I say. “Listen. If you promise to come we’ll do ‘Blackbird.’”

  She folds her lower lip over her teeth and nods. “I’ll come,” she says. “I’ll probably have to bring Sierra. Where is it?” she licks her lips. “You don’t have to do ‘Blackbird’ though. It seems a bit last minute if you have everything worked out.”

  “It’s at the old Jubilee,” I say. “You know it?”

  “I think so,” she says. “So what does Rupert play?”

  “Rupert?” I say. “Rupert’s not part of the band.” I’m not sure I can go into detail about Rupert just now so I gesture toward the kitchen door with my teacup. “Hey. Come with me. I’ll show you the gaff.”

  Holding my cup steady, I lead her up the stairs to the first-floor landing. “This is where it all happens.” I push open the first door, and right away I wish I’d done some tidying. I let her go in first again. “This used to be my brother’s room,” I say, “but he’s in the Navy now, so we use it for band practice.”

  “Whoa,” she says as she stumbles on a cable and spills some tea. “Is this where you keep the depressed crocodile?”

  “Take the weight off your feet.” I point to the bed.

  She perches right on the edge, as if she thinks I’m going to pull the bed out from underneath her.

  I kneel down next to her and reach under the bed.

  “Is that where you keep the depressed crocodile?” she says.

  “Exactly.” With quick moves, I drag out the p-bass. “This is it.” I stand up and show it off. Not much light spills in through the bedroom window, but the little that does makes all the chrome and lacquer sparkle, sending tiny reflections scuttling across the ceiling.

  “Wow,” she says. “It’s really pretty. It’s easily as impressive as a depressed crocodile.”

  “Fender,” I say. “The best.”

  “I bet it cost a bunch, right?” she says, then covers her mouth. “Sorry. That was a bit of an obnoxious question. I told you I was nosey.”

  “It’s my brother’s,” I say. “He bought it. He’s not here, so I use it.”

  “It’s nice of him to let you,” she says. “I wish I had a brother like that.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?” I say. I think that’s the kind of question you’re supposed to ask at times like this.

  “Only child,” she says. “As my mom says, Accidents don’t happen twice.”

  “Accidents?” I say. “That’s not very nice.”

  “She always laughs and hugs me when she says it.” Michelle slurps her tea. “But it makes me wonder sometimes.”

  I’m not sure what to say to this. “So.” I sit on the bed next to her, and lay the bass flat on my knees. “A couple of nights ago I opened up the insides to do a repair.” I pull out my wallet and take out the note. “I found this inside.” I hand the note to her.

  She tries to unfold the note one-handed while she’s still holding her tea.

  “Here. Give me that.” I take the cup from her and place it on top of the amplifier. She unfolds the note and reads it. As she does, her eyebrows knit closer and closer together.

  She looks up. “Let me get this straight,” she says. “Your brother bought the bass, but you found this note inside it.”

  I nod.

  “But what does this mean?” she says.

  “To be honest, I don’t know a lot more than you do,” I say. “It might mean exactly what it says, namely that a girl called Julie is the rightful owner of this bass. On the other hand, it might be a mistake. She might have sold it and forgotten to remove the note.”

  “Did you try ringing this number?” she says. “Wait. You must have done. Isn’t this is the same number as the one on the note from your mum?”

  “Right,” I say. “When I phoned, I spoke to some bloke.” I study her for a moment. Maybe I’m drawing her too deeply into this. “He never told me his name. I suppose, based on the note on the kitchen table, his name must have been Rupert.” I hardly know her, and everything I know about Rupert is pure conjecture. I don’t want to have to tell her a lot of my theories and then have to retract them.

  “And he knew all about the bass.” She retrieves her cup, sips her tea, then wipes her mouth with the side of her finger. “Or maybe he didn’t have a clue what you were talking about.”

  I choose my words carefully. “He wasn’t a lot of help,” I say. “If I was to make the best possible guess, I would say that Julie is no longer at that number.”

  “But you have the address.” She takes another sip of her tea, but this time she doesn’t wipe her mouth. “Like I told you. I know Mariner Street. It’s not far from me.”

  “Wait.” I stare at her lips, which are now shiny from the tea, then I shake my head so I can concentrate on what we’re actually talking about. “Let me catch up with you. Are you saying that you think I should give back the bass?”

  Now it’s her turn to give me a puzzled look. “Why wouldn’t you?” she says. “It sounds like this poor girl really needs the bass back.”

  “What if I can’t find her?” I finish my tea and put the cup on the floor. “What if she’s moved?”

  “Well…” She finishes her tea. “Maybe the people who live there now will know where she went.” Once again she draws her index finger across her lips, then she slots her finger through the handle and lets the cup dangle. “If they don’t then maybe you could put an ad in the paper.” She places the cup on the floor, then slides it next to mine. The cups connect with a little ping.

  “Unless she’s dropped off the face of the earth, someone will know where she is.” Michelle sits back up, turns slightly so she’s facing me, and smiles with her mouth closed. “I know where Mariner Street is. You can walk from the bus station. It’s about ten minutes. If you like I could go there with you.” She leans forward with her elbows on her knees, and gives me a sideways look. “When it comes to knocking on the doors of strangers you might have more luck if you’re with a girl.”

  “No,” I say quickly, or rather I croak because my mouth is dry, then cough. Rupert could be living at 48B Mariner Street, and I don’t want Michelle to have to deal with him. “I would rather you didn’t do anything right away.”

  “But you’ve got to give it back eventually.” She points to the bass, then shrugs. “You can buy another one with the reward, then you’ll be able to play it with a clear conscience.” Once she’s said this she stares at me as if I’ve asked her a difficult question.

  I want to tell her that I haven’t had a guilty conscience about the bass, but instead I find myself leaning forward. I close my eyes and a moment later, with the bass lying between us, I brush my lips against hers. She takes my upper lip between hers, and plants a line of kisses from one corner of my mouth to the other.

  I feel off balance, poised on the edge of the bed. I slide my hand up the back of her arm, and stroke her hair.


  She kisses me one more time, pulls away an inch or two, then nestles her nose into my neck. “I have to go,” she says in a soft voice. She brushes her hair behind her ears, then stands up.

  “I’m sorry.” I stand up, and put the bass on the bed. “That was totally out of order.”

  “No. Really,” she says. “It’s not that.” She bends down, retrieves the teacups, and hands them to me. “It was nice.”

  I take the cups from her.

  She brushes her hair back again and says, “I really do have to go.”

  “I can walk you home,” I say. “It’s starting to get dark.”

  “I think Port Jackson’s pretty safe,” she says. “Brunswick? Maybe not so much.”

  “I didn’t mean because it was dangerous.” I lead her over to the door with a teacup in each hand. We make our way back down the stairs. “I don’t think I’d be a lot of help if it was dangerous. I’d just like to walk with you.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’d like you to walk me home,” she says, as reaches the bottom of the stairs. “It’s just my dad. I’m staying here with him at his house.” She takes her coat off the hook, and shoves an arm into a sleeve. “You know how told you my grandma was the same age as your mum?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I want to help her on with her coat, but I still have a teacup in each hand.

  “Well, my mum had me when she was sixteen.” She buttons up her coat, and fixes me with a stare.

  Maybe she’s looking for a reaction.

  “That’s how old I am now,” she says. “Mum thinks that having me messed up her life, and she’s terrified I’ll do the same thing.”

  “I’m not … ” I say, waving the teacups around.

  “I know you’re a real gent,” she says, “but mum thinks all men are the same. So I’m not supposed to be out cavorting with boyfriends.” She reaches up and pulls the ends of her hair out from under her coat collar. “My dad’s this total macho man.” She shakes her head, splaying her hair across her shoulders. “He’s into extreme sports. You know. He does that thing where you get chased by bulls in Spain. Then he climbs mountains, and goes scuba diving with sharks.” She gathers her hair as if she’s about make a ponytail, then lets it fall on her back. “But then he’s terrified of my mom. Yeah. Figure that one out.”

  I open the door for her. She shuffles outside and turns back to face me. “So, basically, I’d be up shit creek if he saw us while he was walking home from work or something.”

  She grabs me round the back of the neck, pulls my head down to her level, and gives me a firm kiss just to the side of my mouth. The kiss is not exactly what I would call tender. In fact, it’s close to the force of a headbutt. Nevertheless, a kiss is still a kiss.

  She releases me from the head lock, steps back, and looks me up and down. “That’s why I had second thoughts about showing up at the park.”

  “Now how do you feel?” I say. “Are you sorry you did?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow?” she says.

  “I haven’t made any plans,” I say. “Why? Do you want to go to the park again? Maybe we could look for some penguins.”

  “Why don’t we go to Brunswick?” she says, and then looks at me as if it’s me who’s just asked her a difficult question.

  In actual fact, it’s me who doesn’t know the answer. A trip to Brunswick would mean spending the whole day with her, but if I give the bass back tomorrow I’m not going to have anything to play on Monday night.

  As if she can read my mind she says, “Don’t bring the bass. It’ll just be research.”

  I give a short laugh of relief. “Great,” I say. “Fantastic.”

  “I’ll meet you at the bus station,” she says, half-turning away from me. “How does ten o’clock sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  With that, she pirouettes and marches down to the end of driveway. She turns, gives me a final wave at the corner, and then she’s gone.

  I stand there for a moment, still with a teacup in each hand. After a minute I go back in and shut the door. Right away I spot her umbrella. My first thought is to run after her. Then I think that perhaps we ended on a good note. Maybe I should let sleeping dogs lie for now. The umbrella has a little tag with an address on Summer Street.

  It’s only a couple of streets away, but I can give it back tomorrow.

  16

  Saturday

  Still holding the two cups, I head back into the kitchen. I could use more tea so I put the kettle on again.

  While I wait for it to boil I sit back on Shawn’s old chair, the same chair that Michelle was sitting in half an hour ago.

  I pick up the pile of envelopes with the message from Rupert on the top.

  I scratch my chin.

  Who is he?

  It’s a good question.

  More to the point, why did he phone?

  Did he remember something about Julie McGuire?

  I sift through the other letters. There are four or five offers for credit cards, and one slim letter from the Navy.

  If Rupert did remember something then I suppose I should ring him back. On the other hand, I think I would rather find her without this bloke’s help if it’s at all possible.

  I turn off the kettle, fix my tea, then head back to the table.

  The first thing that catches my eye is the letter from the Navy. All thoughts about Rupert vanish and an ice cube forms in my chest. As far as I know they’ve never sent us anything.

  Letters from Shawn are usually fat and addressed by hand. This one looks more official.

  I hope it’s not one of those letters they send to tell you something awful has happened.

  I tap it on the table, then glance over at the kettle. I could steam it open, although if the letter really does contain what I’m dreading it might contain, then steaming it open would probably make things worse. If it does contain the dreaded news, then I should phone Mom.

  With that, I know what I have to do. I take the letter out to the hall and dial Mom’s number at work. I get transferred and put on hold, then finally she picks up.

  “Good evening, caller,” she says. “This is Emily Holland. Which of our services can we help you with today?”

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. “It’s me. Toby.”

  It sounds like there’s a party going on in the background, except with no music, and nobody laughing. Actually it doesn’t really sound like a party at all, just a lot of people talking at the same time.

  “You’ve got me at a bad moment, Toby,” says Mom in a fierce whisper.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “Call back in twenty minutes on the other line,” she says.

  “Mom! Wait,” I say. “There’s a letter from the Navy.”

  “That’s lovely, caller,” she says in a breezy voice. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Mom!” I say. “I think it might be very important.”

  I listen to the chattering again and a noise that sounds like a man yelling. I hope I never have to work at a place like this.

  She takes in a long breath, and I know she is thinking exactly the same thing as me. “Alright. Open it, but please be quick.”

  Cradling the phone under my chin, I tear open the envelope, fold out the single sheet of paper, and skim it.

  “Is he okay?” Mom’s voice breaks into my concentration. “Whatever it is. Please tell me.”

  “He’s okay,” I say. “He’s alive.”

  “Thank God for that,” she says, and blows out a long breath. “But what? They didn’t just write to tell us he’s okay.”

  I start to speak, but my mouth is too dry so I swallow and try again. “He’s in the Glasshouse,” I say. “It says here that he stole something from another rating.”
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  “The bloody fool,” she says. “The bloody, bloody fool.”

  “But at least he’s okay,” I say.

  “Great, he’s okay for now,” says Mom, “but how long’s he going to be okay in that place?”

  “I don’t know,” I say to fill up the emptiness.

  “We’re going to have to go back to London, Toby,” she says, “so we can be near him. We have to do what we can to help him.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Are you going to be all right with that?” she says.

  “When were you thinking of leaving?” I say.

  “When’s your concert?” she says.

  “Monday.”

  “I get paid on Tuesday,” she says. “Let’s go on Wednesday. Let me get back to work. We’ll talk more when I get home.”

  After I hang up, I flatten out the letter and have another go at reading it. I get the general idea, but I can’t focus on more than a few lines before my mind wanders and I have to go back to the start again. It’s half an hour until Zack comes over, but I can’t just sit here. I could practice my bass lines before he arrives.

  All of a sudden I feel very tired. It seems like hours ago that Michelle was here, even though she only left about ten minutes ago.

  I take another look at the note from Rupert.

  Great.

  Now that he has my number, he’s probably going to call every day.

  One good thing about leaving Port Jackson is that he won’t have our London number.

  I look at the phone and imagine it ringing in the empty house, day after day.

  There’s something that bothers me even more about the note, but the more I try to think about it the sleepier I get.

  I make my way up to Shawn’s room, even though he’ll probably never see it again now. I stand in the doorway for a moment and take it all in. I’m going to miss a lot of places, but this is the one I’m going to miss most.

  I take out the bass, put the strap over my shoulder, and give it a quick tune-up. New strings go out of tune fast. I more or less stumble across the room to the bed and flop down. I start trying to figure out the chords to “Blackbird,” but I still feel tired. I let myself fall backward onto the quilt, and stare up at the cracked ceiling. I rest my fingertips on the strings, but I don’t seem to have the strength to pluck them.