Taking a sip of her beer, his grandmother came over and ran her hand over the plank of timber he had been working on.
‘I’ll have the shelves up by tea,’ announced Dan. ‘Promise.’ His nan smiled at him.
Dan downed his water and poured himself another glass. He could feel the muscles in his chest, in his forearms, taut and strong, thick and ropy beneath his skin. He gulped down the water and got to his feet. ‘Righto, smoko’s over.’
What he liked most about being with the olds was that there didn’t need to be talk. He could work, listen to the radio, stretch his muscles, toil. He often went days without speaking to anyone, days and nights of quiet. Sometimes Dan thought all words were useless. For him there was no emptiness in silence—quite the opposite, there was peace and calm; it was only in conversation that trouble lurked.
That was why he liked working the night shift at the supermarket. Sure, he had to talk to the customers, but it was never more than a hello, how you doing, do you want a bag?, have a good night. He greeted the delivery guys in the morning, called out have a good one to Vikram when he arrived for the morning shift. But that was it, not millions of useless words. There was no loneliness in silence. Loneliness could be found in conversation, it lurked in words.
His nan had cleared the kitchen, the table and chairs were stacked up against the fridge. Dan was happy to do all the work himself, to hammer in the nails, to build in the shelves, but he knew his granddad wanted to help, to be useful. So they worked in silence together, and in an hour the job was done and the table and chairs were back in place. His nan came in from the garden with a bunch of flowers, blue snapdragons, a cluster of honeysuckle; from the laundry she fetched the jade vase that had been their one wedding present. Dan knew the story: it had been given to them by Jenny, a woman who’d sailed with them on the ship from Glasgow, who then became his grandparents’ best friend. Now his nan arranged the flowers, and put them on the middle shelf next to their one wedding photograph. It was black and white, his granddad in a light-coloured suit, his grandmother in a smart jacket and skirt. Jenny was standing next to his nan, and next to his granddad was his best friend, Bruno, who was the only one smiling in the photograph. His nan looked stern, his granddad had half turned away from the lens, as if he resented the presence of the camera. It was the men who were splendid, who looked handsome. The women seemed apprehensive, as if unused to the fine clothes, as if they knew they were playing parts that didn’t belong to them, as if they feared they were overdressed for the unadorned walls of the registry office.
Dan glanced across at his granddad, trying to see a resemblance between the youth in the photo and the old man in the kitchen. Only a few years before he had seen it; as a teenager he had been able to match the mature, lined face of his grandfather with the smooth-skinned lad in the photograph. But in the last few years age and time had accelerated. His grandfather had shrunk, and his clothes hung from his thinning body.
Dan wrapped an arm around his granddad’s bony shoulders. ‘They look alright, don’t they?’
‘Aye. You’ve done a good job, mate. Thank you.’
‘You sure you don’t want me to finish them?’
‘Ach, I’m not in the grave yet, kid, I can still stain a bloody shelf.’
‘Well, call me if you want some help.’ Dan hugged his granddad lightly for a moment. His nan had started placing plates and cups on the shelves, and other photographs: of Dan’s family, of his uncle Pat and aunt Diana, of his cousins. She sat a small cuckoo clock, trays and bowls, on the new shelves. Soon the wedding photograph was jostled behind a stainless-steel water jug, and Bruno’s smiling face disappeared behind the smoky opaque glass of a rose-coloured decanter. ‘How is Uncle Bruno?’
His granddad had carefully sat himself down on a kitchen chair, using his cane for balance. He and his wife made furtive eye contact, as if Dan’s question had somehow shamed them.
‘Bruno’s gone, dear,’ his nan said quietly. ‘He died over a year ago.’
Dan knew why they felt ashamed. Bruno must have died when Dan was in prison. They didn’t have to say it, he knew it by how the silence had changed, how it was no longer comfortable between them, no longer safe. Sensing it as well, his nan started chattering, going on about shopping and the Easter holidays, reminding her husband that the car registration was due.
Dan wasn’t listening, he was blocking out the words, wishing he knew how to say to his grandparents that they didn’t have to fear the eight months he’d been away, those months he’d been out of the world. He wished he knew how to express to his grandparents that he was reconciled to those lost months—indeed, that he was grateful for them.
But this was why words always tripped him up. In gaol he had rediscovered routine, it had been prison that had helped him recognise how precious habit was for him, how he needed order and repetition. He’d discovered again the joy of waking up at the exact same time every morning, of eating at the same time every morning, lunch and evening, of working the same hours and the same shift. Then there had been his gym workout every afternoon, and his daily visits to the library. That had been his favourite activity; he would rush there as soon as he’d finished in the kitchen or the workshop: work, gym, the library, and then reading till lights out at the exact same time every night.
Dan got up from the table, checking his pockets for his wallet and keys.
‘Danny, you’re not leaving? Aren’t you going to stay for tea?’
He wanted to be on the move, to feel motion. He shook his head. ‘Got some stuff I need to do before work this arvo.’ He turned to his granddad. ‘You sure you’re going to be alright staining the wood? I can come back on the weekend.’
‘You’ve done enough, kid. It’ll give me something to do.’
They were both watching him, both anxious. He could see the words forming on his nan’s lips, she wanted him to stay, was scared every time he went out into the world. He wished he could have told her: I’m safe out there, when I don’t have to talk to anyone, when I’m on my own. That is much safer.
He was about to lean in and kiss his grandmother’s cheek when she said to him, ‘Danny, love, why haven’t you called your mum?’
Words. They ensnared you, they unsettled you. They reminded you that you were no good.
‘I will.’ And he did intend to—he wasn’t making false promises. Every day he thought, I should call them, I should go around. Every day passed and it hadn’t happened.
‘Your giagia is sick.’
He hadn’t heard that word in years; it had always sounded odd coming from his nan, like it should have been the name of some toy. Ya-ya. It only sounded natural when his mother said it, and she hadn’t done that for a long time.
Dan stood immobile in the small kitchen, looking down at his nan. She was the only grandmother he had, he really believed that. His other grandmother was just a few flashes of memory, none of them solid.
‘Oh,’ was all he said.
‘I know Stephanie needs you, would like you to go to Adelaide with her. Dan, she really does. I think you should.’ She only called him Dan when things were serious, sometimes Daniel when she was pissed off with him.
He looked across to his grandfather, who could only offer a wry smile. But that was answer enough; if his granddad said nothing, it meant he agreed with his wife.
‘Can’t Dad go with her?’
His nan’s snort was so scornful, it made him blush. ‘You know our Neal can’t go with her, Danny—he went across when Stephanie’s father was dying and it was a disaster.’ She shook her head violently. ‘No, Dan, it has to be you.’
It was an order. It made Dan want to run.
‘Regan’s up in New South Wales and your father can’t go with her.’ His nan’s tone had mellowed but her words were still determined.
‘She could take Theo.’
This occasioned another snort. ‘His grandmother’s never laid eyes on him.’
This time his granddad spoke. ‘
And whose fault is that?’
His nan looked worn and weary. ‘Oh, Bill, don’t I know it? That old bitch has three wonderful grandchildren she doesn’t even know, wouldn’t recognise them if they were right in front of her. But she’s our Stephanie’s mother, and Stephanie wants to see her before she dies.’ She clasped her hand tightly over Dan’s wrist. ‘You have to go with her, dearie.’
‘But I’ve got to work.’
‘This weekend is Easter—surely you can get some time off?’
Dan knew he probably could. He hadn’t had a day off since he started at the supermarket after prison, he hadn’t asked for one and hadn’t needed one. A day off was a break in the routine—it was no good to him. His grandmother was still holding on to him, her fingers pressing into his flesh.
‘OK, Nan, OK. I’ll ring her. I promise.’
She patted his arm gently and his granddad gave a relieved sigh.
The railway station was at the end of his grandparents’ street, but Dan went past it, walking so fast his backpack was thumping and slapping his shoulder blades. He dashed down the street, as if by rushing he could lift the burden of the promise he had made to his grandparents—as if he could outrun it, shrug it off. He crossed the railway line, walked parallel to it until he reached the next station, but then decided to keep moving, to make his way to the next one along. A city-bound train cannoned past and he wondered if he could walk all the way into town.
The sun was just dropping into the west and its blinding rays were in his eyes. He came to a small park and sat on a bench under a giant maple, whose golden leaves were just about to fall. He sat down on the bench and took out his phone, scrolling down to mum & dad, his finger poised over the call button. He didn’t press it.
School was out and two girls were walking across the park, swinging their bags, giggling as they passed him. A little further behind them a boy was coming up the path, slouching, walking slowly, his overloaded schoolbag hanging precariously from his shoulder. The boy was tall, lanky, his shirt untucked, the white flaps falling from beneath his grey school jumper. He had a mess of oily black hair, a down of black hair on his top lip and his cheeks were crimson, spotty. Dan watched him shuffle past, keeping a measured distance behind the girls, who were still giggling. One of them let out a peal of laughter. The schoolboy slowed his gait even more. Dan knew exactly what he would be thinking, he would be thinking that they were laughing at him, that they thought he was ugly, a loser.
Dan wanted to run up to the boy, to tell him, You’re wrong, you don’t know how beautiful you are. He forced himself to stop looking at the boy. He turned to look back at his phone, slid his fingers against the numbered buttons and the light came back on the screen: mum & dad.
Dan had an erection; his cock was thick and straining against the tight cotton of his jocks. Two young mothers wheeling prams were coming up the path. Resentfully, almost savagely, he picked up his bag and set it on his lap. The two women were in the middle of an animated conversation but one of them, blonde, her hair swept back over one shoulder, looked across at him as they walked past and offered the faintest glimmer of a smile. He smiled back, thinking, You don’t know what I am, you would be disgusted if you knew that I am sitting here, thinking what it would feel like to have that schoolboy’s cock up my arse.
His erection had gone. The sun had disappeared completely behind white cloud. The wind was blowing stronger and it was cold in the shade. He stretched his arms and hooked them over the back of the bench. He looked down at mum & dad, and made the call.
His mother answered immediately, as if she had been waiting for it, as if she knew he’d be ringing. He could hear women’s voices in the background and beneath them the numb monotone beats of a commercial radio station, the music his mother hated.
He didn’t offer excuses about why he hadn’t rung, he didn’t apologise or ask how she was, if they’d heard from Regan; he didn’t ask after his dad or Theo. He just said, ‘Nan told me giagia is sick. I’ll come with you to Adelaide.’
His mother was crying as they organised to leave on the Saturday morning, she was still crying when he said goodbye. Her weeping, her repeated thank you thank you thank you, were the last things he heard as he clicked shut his phone.
There was no television in Dan’s flat, no radio, no stereo. He walked through the door and fell back onto the sofa, his palms flat on each thigh, staring straight ahead, through the window where the view dropped down to the railway bridge, the expanse of train tracks and the curved black arcs of the telephone wires, to the ashen cloud-filled sky. He was watching without seeing, wasn’t even conscious of the trains roaring in and out of Footscray station.
He was listening without hearing; to his breathing, calm now that he was home, now that he was still.
He didn’t want a television, he had no need of a radio. He didn’t want the world to come in. He detested the news, couldn’t believe it: the bombs and the terror and the wailing boatpeople; the oil and the money and the price of land and real estate. He couldn’t stand the false hysteria of soap operas, the forced hilarity of sitcoms, the feigned outrage of commentators and the hosts of current-affairs shows. He didn’t own a computer. He didn’t need its temptations. He preferred the silence, the loneliness that was comfort; he didn’t want uproar and infinite noise. Only books, books were all he wanted, and they were strewn across his flat. Books from the local library, books scavenged from boxes and crates at the Sunday markets. In reading he found solitude. In reading he could dispel the blare of the world.
Dan sat on his sofa looking out of the window to where leaden cumulus clouds slowly passed over the telephone lines. He could see the railway bridge, and a train shuffling out of the station. He was looking at the low dark clouds, listening to his breath going in and out of his lungs. Slowly a symphony began. He could hear the old woman next door turning on a tap; the sound of a clunking washing machine from the laundry below. He could hear the rapid footsteps of the student next door, the sound of his key in the lock; there was the faint sizzling from the kitchen downstairs, where the woman came home and immediately started opening cupboards and cooking, always the sting of garlic, the sour rich smells of her Tamil cooking; the faint hum of the television in the background. All the sounds converged, melting into his breathing, forming shape; and from shape they formed music and from music they returned to tranquillity, and thus receded. All that was left was the in and the out of his breathing. Lost to the world around him, he was still watching the heavy rolling clouds as the horizon darkened and night fell. Dan jolted back; he had almost fallen asleep. He realised he was happy.
He read two chapters of Graham Greene, The Heart of the Matter, and had to force himself to put the book down. He’d discovered Greene inside and had read him hungrily, and continued to do so on his release. He understood the writer’s characters, sympathised with their weakness and cowardice, responded most to their refusal to find excuses for their failures. Alec, the earnest volunteer who worked in the prison library, would always say, ‘Dan, my man, don’t you wanna read some modern stuff? Why are you always buried in those old farts?’ Dan would accept the teasing good-naturedly for he knew it was apt. Contemporary writers annoyed him, he found their worlds insular, their style too self-conscious and ironic. Theirs was not a literature that belonged to him.
He could read Greene for hours but he needed to get ready for work.
Dan showered, brushed his teeth, and put on his work gear. It took him an hour to walk to work, an hour during which he felt and enjoyed the stretch of his calves, the pull on his muscles, the ache in his tendons. Night came as he walked. He stopped at Hadji’s kebab caravan to grab a falafel and he munched on it standing on the bridge overlooking the dark flow of the Maribyrnong River.
At work, with a nod to Seeav behind the counter, he went into the storeroom to unpack cartons of biscuits and chocolates, boxes of liquid soap and shampoo. He liked the sensation of his biceps tightening as he lifted the boxes, his triceps
flexing as he ripped away the tape, his abdomen stretching and muscles clenching as he placed the goods on the shelves. The night was quiet, except for the usual rush of famished taxi drivers at four o’clock in the morning. Dawn had just broken as he started his walk home, stopping only for an orange juice and a bacon and cheese roll at the Bakers Delight in Union Road.
He got home and sat himself on the sofa, looking out to the lightening azure sky. The sun was partly hidden by clouds but its light was already stabbing; he forced himself not to blink, to look without seeing. His palms were flat on his thighs, and he listened to his breathing. It went in, it went out, and slowly he heard the world around him stir and awaken, as pipes throughout the building began to throb and rumble, televisions came to life, cars clicked open and engines started. He listened without hearing; he looked without seeing. It occurred to him that in two days time he would be seeing his parents, his brother, he would be driving with his mother to Adelaide. He could sense the weight of that thought, slung heavy over his shoulder. With a groan he got up and headed to his bedroom, not bothering to brush his teeth, not wanting to shower. He dropped onto his mattress—there was no bed, just a mattress on the floor, a crate of books and a reading lamp bought second-hand from Forges. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, undid his belt but did not get undressed. He read twenty more pages of The Heart of the Matter, then laid the book open on the carpet and pulled the sheet and blanket over him. He could hear more pipes banging, more clamour from radios and televisions. This was what he enjoyed about living in a flat, he acknowledged: being hidden behind his walls but conscious of sound and movement and energy all around him. Life was all around him but he was protected from it. It was that moment when they shut his cell door, when he could breathe freely, when he did not have to think about how to behave or how to protect himself. He listened without hearing. He closed his eyes. In the smallest of moments Dan was sound asleep.
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