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The Book of Emmett

Page 11

by Deborah Forster


  He’s brought both his jumpers, Rob’s old blue and white stripe and the green one he’s wearing. He’s got a singlet on plus his school shorts. So he reckons he’s right. In the washhouse he found a bit of blanket, it’s pinkness fading to memory, and stuffed it in the bag.

  He gets out the blanket and spreads it on the wooden boards. It smells musty like the washhouse and that reminds him of his mum and a wave of tears pushes into him but he says ‘no’, and roughly drags his sleeve across his eyes.

  When Peter starts to fish the world around him retreats. In the distance, fishing boats push through all that water and behind them tankers the size of buildings move towards Port Melbourne. He fishes with a determination he didn’t know he had. Nothing else matters. Snags and knots and bait-loss are part of everything. He keeps at it, untangling, refixing bait. Even a cat’s cradle of knots has a rhythm to it.

  He fishes to catch something but really he fishes for the sake of being there. To be connected with the sea and the sky and he already knows that he’s most himself when he’s alone.

  The bay is a pond tonight. He plops his tackle within a circle of where he stands time and again with the certainty of clockwork. The seagulls perch companionably beside him and when they see there’s no food they leave, flapping into the evening like white rags. The sun falls away and night is revealed in the pearly sky. There’s even a bit of moon.

  He’s forgotten his torch. He hasn’t meant to stay the night but he doesn’t have a watch to know what the time is. Knows it’s getting late though and by the time he sees the lighted tube of the last bus hurtling around the corner, it’s way too late to even move – he’s missed the thing.

  Doesn’t matter. He feels safe and comfortable down here on his own. Free to talk to Daniel right out loud. Tells him about the fishing, about the others, about how Rob’s a pain. ‘Picks on me all the time. Dunno what I’ve done. Lou keeps him off me but she gets sick of it. She’s not there anyway all the time these day, she reads books a lot and she’s mad ’cos she has to look after Jess.’ The relief of being with Daniel has him smiling. He can even see his brother sitting beside him on the pier cross-legged, with his crew-cut and his big eyes.

  Peter keeps fishing until he has trouble keeping his eyes open; all the time chatting away to Dan telling him about Emmett and his moods and the fighting. About the last big one where Emmett nearly got the trifecta but the kids had been making a noise out the back and he couldn’t hear the last race, so he didn’t know.

  That was the worst thing for Emmett. ‘He was so mad he picked Rob up by his neck and then threw him down and smacked Louisa in the face. Her nose was bleeding all over the place.’

  He speaks just loud enough for Daniel to hear. Then when it gets late and the pale moon looks down upon the boy, he succumbs to the weight of the day. He’s not scared. Emmett is the most terrifying thing he can think of and he’s not here. The fence keeps out stray idiots. He lies down under his bit of blanket, puts the bag under his head and sleeps. He keeps the rod in the drink all night though, his hand on it lightly.

  21

  By the time Peter’s home, Anne and Emmett have left for work without noticing he’s missing. He slips in the back door using his foot to stop the flywire door smacking shut just in case Emmett’s around. You never know.

  Rob, pulling his socks on while he sits on top of the radiator, is waking up slowly aided by the stupefying orange heat that will soon have him shifting. He knew his brother had gone fishing but didn’t say anything, couldn’t see the point. Why would you volunteer any information in this house?

  Louisa is eating a bowl of cereal when Pete comes in. He sees she’s got the blue bowl she likes, she carries on if the others get it first. And she’s doing that weird thing where she concentrates on not spilling milk. The trick is keeping her head still.

  Pete is convinced he has the weirdest sister in the world. The other sister sits beside her having a nibble at her vegemite toast and Frank helpfully eats anything Jessie can’t manage. She smiles at Pete and he ruffles her silky hair as he passes.

  ‘Where ya bin?’ Louisa asks scraping milk up her chin with the spoon and looking straight ahead. ‘Gelli Pier,’ he says, voice low and husky from his night in the open. He gets the sharp knife out of the drawer.

  Louisa goes back to the newspaper spread out in front of her like a map of the world. She doesn’t keep going with questions. She’s got to get ready for school, there’s a history test today and she’s planning to get the best mark. She earnestly wishes she’d spent more time on European kings. But Emmett got home from the pub earlier than he should have last night and she turned her light off so he wouldn’t know she was awake.

  She lay in her bed as still as a branch waiting for which way the sounds of night would go. Would something upset him? Or would he just get stuck into his cold tea sitting on a plate on the pot. Scoff it down standing there like a wolf who stole into the wrong house?

  It took about ten minutes to know and things were quiet enough last night but the cost was in European kings. Pity there’s such a bloody lot of them, she thought, seems like every second European was a damned king.

  In the yawning mouth of the gully trap, Peter cleans his fish under the tap, enjoying the business of turning them into food. When the others are gone, he delicately fries the small fillets in a bit of butter in the old frying pan, the one Emmett reckons is well-seasoned whatever that means, and then with a sprinkle of salt, has them for his breakfast.

  He knows he won’t be going to school today. He also knows he’ll have to be careful with this wagging it business. Not too much. He sits himself down in Emmett’s chair at the head of the table. After he’s eaten his little feed of fish, he pushes his plate back from where he’s been sitting and starts working out what he’ll need for his next trip to the pier.

  22

  Emmett starts them off on football with all his stories about North and his mates and about how bloody good they were. About the glory days of the league. About the high flying. The marks that defy death in the goal square, the big men flying. Strange thing is, he never goes anymore, just trails off and confines himself to horses and to the radio. Before that though, he and Louisa go down to the football ground. It was never planned, it just happened like the flu happens, right out of the blue.

  It’s a Saturday afternoon and she’s walking down Willy Road towards the Western Oval, home of Footscray Football Club, the Bulldogs. Frank is with her but behind, caught, leg way up, taking a very long piss on a quiet corner. And suddenly there’s Emmett, looming before her like a brick wall. Doesn’t even seem that drunk and he’s friendly. ‘G’day Bugalugs,’ he says, rocking on his heels. ‘What’s new?’

  As ever she’s speechless, so he speaks more sternly. ‘Where ya going Louisa Jane Brown?’ And he clamps his hand onto her shoulder and looks down at her.

  ‘To the footy. Collingwood are versing us,’ she blurts and reddens, immediately guilty and not knowing why. ‘You get in for free at three-quarter time.’ Her voice is squeaky and un familiar. Standing there in the road looking down, he seems as elemental as the sky. Frank has caught up by now and, allegiances switched instantly, he props at Emmett’s feet.

  And like a change in the weather, Emmett is suddenly irritated. ‘Louisa. Don’t say “versing”, it’s not a bloody verb. For God’s sake.’ He sucks his teeth to calm himself and then, after a small pause, declares that he may as well come with her, keep her out of trouble.

  Though this feels harsh to the girl, she smiles crookedly and Emmett adds, bright and sunny and even enthused now, ‘You reckon it’s free to get in? Well, I love a bargain, always have liked a bar-bloody-gain.’ And the girl’s stomach flutters as they set off together, the very image of a father and a daughter.

  He wears work boots, the jacket with the leather sleeves, his work strides and a blue shirt that makes his eyes seem bluer. Walking towards the football ground, the noise swells at them in low circles and the crowd
lifts her from the oppression of being alone with her father.

  He walks quietly with his hands in his pockets. Seems to be thinking. Doesn’t speak. His hair is longer than usual and threaded with grey but he still looks a bit like Clark Gable and these days he even has the moustache. When Frank gets too close, a quiet ‘Piss off, Francis’ moves him.

  Then he says, ‘What’s your favourite word?’ and doesn’t wait. ‘I’ll tell you about mine. Mine is “phenomenal”. Well today it’s “phenomenal”, that’s a word and a half. But you should always look at the roots of a word before you make up your mind on it. “Phenomenal” comes from the Greek and origin ally means something that can be seen. Now, these days it means remarkable. How about that? What d’ya reckon?’ He pauses without expectation and she stays quiet, musing on her mental old man.

  ‘But the greatest word of them all is “onomatopoeia”. And what, Miss Louisa Jane, does this word mean?’ It’s the second time he’s called her by her middle name, something he rarely does though she knows she’s named after Jane Austen, one of his favourite writers. Louisa comes from Henry Lawson’s mother, Louisa, also a writer. She feels a swamp of confusion get her. The quicksand is everywhere. What does all this mean?

  She tries to concentrate on what he’s saying instead of stretching her head with thoughts about writers but he’s caught her right out. So she takes a stab. ‘Something to do with rhyming?’

  They’ve passed the railway station and people mill around on the platforms and beneath them the pewter tracks ribbon away and the thought flashes by, what if someone stepped off right at the wrong moment?

  Emmett laughs. He’s not mad at her for being a dill and she understands then in a flash that he’s better when the other kids aren’t there. The dog heads off home when they get to the station and she watches the thread of Frank moving out like a fish on a line.

  But Emmett is still telling her something. ‘Onomatopoeia is a poet’s word and it means the formation of a name or a word by an imitation of the sound associated with the thing or action designated. Thwack is the sound you make whacking a ball and it has onomatopoeia!’

  ‘Gee,’ she says evenly and wonders if he’s so smart, why doesn’t he stop drinking beer and acting like an idiot? But she smiles and listens and the talk carries her forward. He says, ‘There are other words I’m particularly fond of. “Branch”, as you know, is an old favourite. But “ludicrous” for instance, what do you think of that one?’

  He stops and cups his two hands around her face. His eyes are lighter this afternoon, pure blue circles of sky. ‘Because that’s what I am. Ludicrous.’ He smiles and lets go of her face but holds onto her plait for longer than she thinks he should until she feels like a rabbit in a trap.

  Just under Mount Mistake down at the ground, the big wire gates stand wide open and inside the bitumen terraces look like bad teeth. Green beer cans and knots of people are everywhere. Footscray is playing Collingwood. A cold wind crouches over the oval and harries them and Footscray’s premiership flag from 1954 hoisted up on the grandstand flagpole snaps and sags. The best team in the league against the worst. Perversely, Louisa has a soft spot for Collingwood.

  Footscray is routinely flogged and here it is again today, so Louisa has a go at making stilts out of discarded beer cans but she’s clumsy and falls and she senses that it begins to annoy him and he shouts roughly. ‘Come ’ere Lou, anyone’d think you were your idiot brother, behaving like that. Settle down.’ When he gets mad his nostrils flare and he reminds her of an eagle. He can’t be that mad though because he buys her a pie and for himself a beer and they stand on the iron grey terraces and cheer on the poor old Dogs.

  When the players come close, their effort is shocking and the mud and sweat stuns and silences them. He explains the finer points of the rules, round-the-neck, holding-the-ball, in-the-back, man-on-the-mark, all stuff she believes she’s always known, in fact was born knowing, but even so, when he talks she’s listening.

  ‘This game is special to us, special to this city right here. It was invented by a couple of toffs who went to fancy schools over the other side. But despite this, as you know, there never was a better game in all the world. That’s a plain fact.’ He pauses, aware of some kind of betrayal and adds as though he will be held accountable, ‘But I am more than fond of cricket as you well know.’

  Nearby, a Collingwood supporter, his bald head sitting above a swathe of black and white scarf, hawks loudly and spits and a great island of yellow phlegm lands an inch from Louisa’s school shoe. Oh no, thinks Louisa, the cold silence of anticipation creeping through her. Emmett pauses with his can to his lips and asks the man a question, loud but casual. ‘You’d be a complete dickhead, wouldn’t you mate?’ Heads swivel. Louisa manages to hiss a strangled, ‘Please Dad’ and he puts his spare hand on her head and the panic drops away. She’s amazed when he ceases hostilities.

  They move down to the fence and he leans in to her and says, ‘Never mind mate, it’s only a bush oyster’, and they laugh. ‘You reckon?’ she says. ‘Pretty damn big oyster.’ She’s still full of lightheaded relief that he didn’t spit the dummy and she sneaks a look at Emmett sipping on his can of VB and the innards of the boiling pie run between her fingers and scald a vee, and she burns her tongue cleaning it up, but everything is all right now.

  ‘You see Lou, what this game has is the marking, the big men bloody flying. That bloke over there must be six-foot-four, can you credit how high he gets? And the man has no fear. Ah, makes your heart sing.’ They are standing on the wing and when players thunder by, dots of black mud spray them and Emmett smiles and wipes his face.

  Louisa listens and eats on, not at all worried about a bit of mud. ‘You know, I took your mother to see North play when we first met and I got myself all overexcited when that Mopsy Fraser bastard from Richmond dropped one of our boys behind the play. Fair dinkum, felt like an assault on the family and there he was out there grinning like a shot fox. Smug as all get-out. Well, I just went berserk. I admit it.

  ‘And soon enough there they were the bloody rozzers. As you know, cops have no respect for a passionate supporter and without wanting to big note, I was a bit of a lair in those days and possibly not even the full quid. Well anyway, the coppers escorted me from the ground, chucked me out the gates and I come a bloody massive gutser too. Grazes up and down me arms and all over the shop from the bitumen.

  ‘Your poor old mum, who as you know hates footy anyway, did not have a clue what to do. She was stuck there till the game ended. I waited outside for her. She was not happy. In my defence, I will say that Mopsy Fraser went on to break Ted Whitten’s jaw, so the bloke was always unreliable.’

  He’s smiling at the memory of his young self and shaking his head indulgently. He looks around at the wide sky so open above the ground, then gives his attention to a skirmish in the play. He’s finished his beer and chucked it into the rolling tide of cans. The Dogs are going down by at least twelve goals and it may even get to twenty.

  ‘You know, Louie,’ he says after a while, ‘sometimes there’s not that much difference between winning and losing. It’s all academic in the long run.’ At that, something slips in her and it feels okay to disagree, as if some unspoken law has been relaxed. ‘It’s not the same though Dad, winning and losing aren’t really the same thing.’

  He grabs her plait again and shakes it. ‘Good for you, that’s the way, you take the bastards on Louie.’ She wonders again what it was that has made him so weird, so alone and explosive, but doesn’t even consider asking that one because she knows it’s all beyond her anyway. She flings the pie crust into the rubbish, wipes her hands on her skirt, pulls up her socks. Even covered in oily mud, the footballers are too much to think about, the pure force of their maleness is a mystery to be deferred, so she waits for Emmett to be ready. But he’s in no hurry and when almost everyone else has drained out of the ground he says, ‘Let’s go.’

  A bit past the station, Frank is propped
on the footpath waiting, people passing him as though he’s a dog statue. Frank always shows up, nearly always finding them in the web of streets; it’s not even noticed much any more. Today he watches them approach with the patience of a fisherman. ‘Frankie,’ Louisa says dropping her hand on his head, ‘you’re late again boy.’ Frank’s heard it before and he nudges her and turns to lead them home.

 

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