As they walk through the end of the afternoon, Emmett puts his arm round Louisa’s shoulder and despite herself and the good day, she flinches. ‘Louie,’ he says low and quiet like he’s telling her a secret, ‘I’m only a battler,’ and then he drops his arm and like a small soldier, she walks beside him all the way. She thinks about trying to hold his hand but she’s too busy at the moment, silently measuring her steps against his and being surprised that they aren’t much different from hers.
***
In the winter, Peter’s centre-half forward for West Footscray. He’s fast and courageous and his skills are okay too. There’s talk that he’ll go all the way, play for the Dogs one day.
When they win the Under 13 grand final, the boy in the worst footy boots gets Best on Ground and the team drape themselves over each other, all caked in mud and grinning. Photographs are taken and Pete’s head seems huge. His hair is wild and high but his eyes are calm. As the kids cool off, they suck their stomachs in away from the wet jumpers and by now Peter’s skin is rough with goose pimples and he’s shivering like a machine.
As the mud tightens on him he walks stiff-legged over to Anne and hugs her around the neck. ‘Hey there Mum,’ he says, still pretty hoarse from the game. She knows he’s thinking of Daniel but with all the people laughing and patting each other on the back, it’s not possible to say anything. She breathes in the mud of him and thinks about holding onto this moment forever.
He gives up footy not long after the big win. The next year a big kid lands hard on his neck after a thwarted tap down. A squad of his mates carry Peter to the car and then he’s forwarded on to the hospital. He remembers the press of arms carrying him and that he can’t move his neck and that the red pillow of his heart feels too big for his chest.
The doctors think the neck may well be broken. Anne comes to see him before and after work. She wants to keep him hoping, so for something to talk about she tells him about the ladies at work. Emmett stays away.
Louisa believes fervently and tragically that Peter will never walk again and weeps hard and long, settled into the dirt in the old shed. She leans against the broken washing machine and puts her face in her hands and says, she knew it. That she had a premonition and it was right. Rob doesn’t believe any of it and says Louisa’s cracked.
‘That wasn’t a premonition, you were just dizzy, you bloody idiot. It had nothing to do with anything. You are not part of every-bloody-thing Louisa. You can’t fix things and you don’t cause them.’ But he’s upset himself now and tears slide onto his jumper. He slams out of the shed. Jessie is too young for such stories to take hold but sitting beside Louisa, she mashes her doll’s face into the dirt.
The swelling must go down before they know for sure. Lying in the children’s ward, anchored to sandbags and stretched out in the slice of bed, Peter registers that time passes by the light from the window. And by the meals and by the number of times they change his wee bottle.
From the whispering, it seems he won’t be walking again. He thinks about fishing. The pier. Rob and Louisa sit so quietly without bickering or punching or giving Chinese burns, they make him nervous. The only one he really wants is Anne, but her time is rationed by work.
Then one night, straight from a counter tea at the pub, Emmett strides into the ward, pissed and booming. His clothes, his hair and even his skin hold the reek of countless cigarettes and the sweat of blokes and the slaughterhouse smell of pubs.
On his face tonight, Emmett’s got the look. It brooks no argument. He’s got it all sorted RIGHT out. Peter can’t see much, given he can’t move his head, but hearing is more than enough. He wonders what the other kids in the ward will make of this.
Emmett gets up close. ‘Listen mate, don’t worry,’ he whispers real loud leaning in to the boy, placing his big hard hand on Peter’s bandaged head. A coil of nicotine circles two fingers. ‘It will be all right. I’ve had a word to the big bloke about you. Upstairs. Told him I wanted my son to walk. We worked it right out. Said he’d fix it.’ It takes some time for Peter to realise that Emmett must be talking about God.
Emmett’s all stubble and bloodshot eyes. The newspaper, as ever, is folded to the form guide and stands straight up in his pocket. Hot beer fumes fan out from him and the boy actually breathes them in gratefully. Today he doesn’t mind them, they smell familiar, remind him of home.
Emmett sits beside him, awkward on the little chair. He crosses his legs, the steel-capped boots incongruous and baleful on the shining hospital floor. He’s uncomfortable and hot in his bulky work jacket with its squeaky leather sleeves. The newspaper slips to the floor. He retrieves it absently.
He remembers when he was in hospital as a child. How he liked that it was all so clean. Whiteness surrounded everything and the nurses smiled. It was real nice.
He drifts for a minute then something occurs to him and he brightens with the idea. Leans forward. He asks the boy if he’s eating. His voice lowers gravely. ‘Because you know boy, there’s only one rule in life and you know what that is. You don’t eat, you don’t shit! You don’t shit – you die! Simple rule boy. Remember that one.’
He’s pleased with having recalled the rule. Not a bad rule, he thinks, off the top of me head, not bad at all, and success relaxes him. Some of the other kids in the ward are tittering at Emmett but he doesn’t notice.
And then, in the pause between acts, some of the air seems to leave him and he sags with all these efforts he must make. It’s as if he’s not inflated anymore, not so hard, and Pete, though he can’t see his face, feels it again, the mouldy sadness that circles the old man.
***
No one else seems to be in on Emmett’s God-bothering. The doctors skirt around the bed reading charts and the nurses whisper to each other. They don’t seem to have been told that Emmett has fixed it. For days they wait for the swelling to subside with Peter not moving. Days coming and going with other children enduring pain in the ward. Louisa, Rob, Anne and Jess visit and shuffle by his bed like some kind of lost tribe.
But it turns out that Peter’s neck is all right and he is discharged. Brokenly, walking slow and careful as something newborn, he gets from the hospital to the Holden. In the car, safe from prying ears, Emmett changes the gears and claims credit. Peter shifts his fledgling legs and prepares to listen.
‘Makes a difference a little chat with the big bloke,’ he says with a nod. Peter can turn his head a bit now. The streets move past them as though they’re on a conveyor belt. He sees his father in profile eternal against the landscape. ‘Yeah Dad, it’s a good thing you sorted it out,’ he says, closing his eyes and leaning his head gently back on the car seat.
23
On the night of the first school dance Louisa is in a state of grim excitement. Never the most popular girl at school, she’s smart and secretive, a watcher with ambition, but tonight she is determined to go to the dance, damned if she isn’t. She’s going. And she is going to enjoy it. She’s just turned sixteen.
Anne brings home a crepe jersey dress the pale blue of eyelids. It’s an old order left hanging on a rail in the storeroom for some time. Anne gets it for nothing which makes Louisa happy and it looks nice enough. It’s long and swishes on the floor when she turns and it ties her up in the back like a present. Louisa washes her hair the night before. It’s long and dark and shiny. She’s all ready, she’s just got to do tea.
Emmett’s in the kitchen when she pushes through the fly-wire door into the kitchen. This doesn’t look great. She carefully puts her bag down by the door. ‘Get the fuck out of here, can’t you see I’m busy,’ he says almost casually and turns away, dismissing her.
She reads the mood off the map of his voice, not too bad tonight, might be able to move past it and get done the things that need doing without a brawl. And that’s what might have happened, but for the smell of beer. The smell of it is a net, capturing and forcing itself upon her. She fights the urge to gag.
Emmett is pouring himself what he l
oves to refer to as a cleansing ale in the hub of the kitchen and she’s the girl at the edges with things to do. But tonight is different. Tonight, the future begins. Louisa will not be diverted from her task. She needs to be busy and yet here again blocking her is beer, the old enemy with its yeasty yellowness tearing at her nostrils. The smell that means chaos.
She has a little time up her sleeve, she believes she will be right with time, even allowing for being careful of the old man’s mood and yet, there it is, the strangest thing, tonight of all nights, she feels like pushing at the boundary.
Even years later she will not want to name the thing that pushed her to take Emmett on, but now it’s a secret she can’t open. Truth is, sometimes Louisa wants to serve herself up to the big thing, to just have it done, to finish it. This is the coward within speaking and should not be encouraged but the hero within, tired of heeding the moods of the monster, also needs restraint.
Some things are better left unnamed but if she named it, she’d call it the suicide impulse and it will always be a force inside her. And if she’s feeling kindly toward herself when she thinks about the night of the dance, she might say that perhaps she was just being brave, that she had a heart as full of courage as a soldier facing the enemy in a muddy trench. The soldier heading into death. The ones they build statues for. But she doesn’t often feel kindly.
Still, Emmett, it must be said, was pretty mild in his greeting so she knows he’s not in the war zone yet, the zone of no return. Louisa reckons she can read him like she can read the battered barometer by the front door. Go a bit further, push it kid, the hero says.
So she pushes in behind him and drags the spuds out of the cupboard near his knees standing at the kitchen bench as if he’s at the pub. And she plonks them on the bench behind him. He turns to her, knees just bent, glass in hand, as slow and as watchful as a big cat.
‘I thought I told you to fuck off,’ he says quietly, raising the menace a notch. He’s surly now and broody, aiming his anger squarely at her, a warning because this is when he’s most dangerous. In the beginning.
Still, for some mad reason she pushes on, thinking she has space and time but really she’s crossing the tracks with the train bearing down. His eyes become darker when the storm is rising within, but it doesn’t seem this way yet. She still reckons there’s a bit of give there and believes, foolish confident girl, that she’s correctly reading the mood. She has time to stop and to listen, even to back off and be compliant. And yet she does not do that.
It’s time to stop listening. Time to think of Daniel and of where he went, of what the loss of him has done to them. Time to let the rage out. Time to lift her head, to watch the rhino charge. Take it head on. It’s her job to prepare the tea and she’ll bloody well do it, put the potatoes on and get the meat ready. Get things underway for the meal, for yet another bog standard meal.
Will it be one of those meals where silence folds over the kitchen and, heads bowed as if in prayer, they push the food into their mouths fast and stare at the scraps on the blue plates? All the kids have counted the cracks on those plates and can tell anyone who wants to know the average number on each (between thirty and fifty).
But tonight will be different because suddenly Emmett is coming at her and she’s not moving. She will not be bullied. Something has spilled within her and something has been released. Louisa is coming out.
He tells her to wait ’til he’s bloody-well ready and calls her a fucking little bitch and again says, ‘Fuck off Louisa, just fuck off.’ And she says, barely troubled it seems, ‘No. No. I’m going out tonight. Now, I’m doing my jobs. You have to move.’
And the words slip out of her mouth as easy as a breath and she’s amazed at herself because she just keeps going when she should have stopped but there it is, loud and clear in her bumpy schoolgirl voice and she says, ‘Fuck off yourself, why don’t you? You bloody great bully...’
Words you might say to anyone if you’re mad enough but not words to speak to Emmett Brown. Though she doesn’t fear, her body fears for her and her scalp prickles and her heart thumps and sweat starts up but she pays no attention to these details because she’s entirely ready.
When he punches her face, it’s almost a relief. She feels his knuckle meet her teeth and both lips split and swell. Bright blood rains down on her school dress and this takes no time, but to Louisa the moment has grace. She seems to be recording each instant and then, in that heavy space, she rips into him like an animal, grunting with sheer effort.
She hates touching him, it feels too personal and his skin is like scales, crusty and brown to the tide mark of the shirt that she rips open. She sees that the skin underneath is fish-white and that his eyes are yellow from years of grog and neglect. She sees it all in close-up, like she’s never seen him before.
He stinks of sour sweat and his hair is long and stringy, but still dark enough to make him seem young. But if she has to, she will touch him, she will. She will be free of him even if she has to kill him. It’s become so simple.
So, she enters into the roaring, the ripping and the spitting blood. Enters the arena with the old man and remembers the taste of blood and notes with the usual amazement that it tastes of salt, and while the thought passes through her that we are made of the sea, he beats the shit out of her.
There’s no deciding. There’s nothing, it’s just a fight and she gives it every bit of herself, shovels into him like a boxer and he hits her over and over and while she loses the fight, she knows she’s won.
He rips out a clump of her hair. She thinks she’s doing no damage but she must be because he lurches back like a bear shambling across the room. He rests one hand on the table and looks shocked. They’re both breathing hard. Blood runs from her swollen mouth like a stream.
And then, in a pause that might have been in a spotlight, they step away from each other in the kitchen where the light filters through the lattice that braces the fernery where the plants are mostly dead, where a tarp flaps in the corner, where the washhouse barely contains piles of dirty clothes and the lazy copper sits roundly waiting for someone to take charge. Surrounded by all of these normal things.
But here in the kitchen, their hearts beat hard and she watches him intently. She’s astonished to see that she’s dragged his watch from his wrist and she holds it in her hand and it swings like a scalp. He stands back, abashed. She puts the watch on the bench and notices that her hands are shaking so much they seem to be levitating and then, strangest of all ... he’s leaving.
He grabs a tea towel and holds it to the rakes her short nails have made on his arm and then he limps away up the passage to his bedroom. She wipes her mouth with her hand and then wipes the blood on her torn school dress even as she knows torn school dresses don’t matter anymore.
She returns to the bench to do her work. Her hands are trembling but she peels the five potatoes and manages to cut them and put them in the pot. Then she goes to her room. She doesn’t cry. She is elated. She reckons she’s killed him in her heart. There’s a curious calm. And a lightness.
Outside in the sideway between their house and Stan’s next door where the moss inches along the fence, the mauve light is absorbing the day. She lays the watery blue dress out on the bed and thinks it looks like the person she will become, calm and clear and clean.
She sits down on the floor and rests her back on the bed. When she touches her mouth, it’s huge and no longer hers. The lace curtain lifts with the scraps of wind that make it through her window.
At the dance that night she wears the blue dress. Her face is much noted by the other kids but not to her. No one asks her to dance, though she hasn’t expected that. Why would anyone ask the dour serious girl to dance? The girl whose long dark hair falls forward and covers much of her face. A girl who might even be pretty if she smiled.
Rob is there in another clump of kids, as popular and funny as ever. They steer themselves away from each other as if they’re barely acquaintances.
At the entrance to the gym under a banner announcing The Footscray High Senior Social, her best friend, Gail Godwin, puts an arm around her shoulders and Louisa feels a rush of heat in her eyes and instantly it seems the salty tears bite into her lip. People being nice, thinks Louisa, will always get you.
Gail dances with Louisa’s favourite boy, the darkly handsome Steve Christou, and tonight Louisa even gets pleasure from seeing them together. Such things as jealousy seem irrelevant now.
The Book of Emmett Page 12