Their house is constructed from wood, cement sheet and pressed boards. It’s crowded and Albert is building a new room. He’s been building it for a year in his spare hours after work. Every night he walks home, a kitbag in one hand and something for the house under the other arm. Sometimes it’s a plank of wood, sometimes a square of masonite, a roll of lino, a tile, a quarter tin of paint or a bag of nails. Bits and pieces. Somebody else’s scraps. Some other family’s leftovers, the off-cuts and discards of another home, left lying around the construction sites after the builders have gone.
Every night he carries a piece of his home back with him. And if he meets somebody in the street on his walk from the station, his steps always long and evenly spaced as if he were constantly pacing out the measurements of this room and all the other rooms he would eventually need to build, he lowers his head as he responds to their greetings quietly. When the children of the street say, ‘Hello, Mr Younger’, eyeing off the salvaged material he is carrying, he nods with his eyes still on his feet as if not wishing to interrupt an important calculation.
Even now, as he walks arm in arm with his wife towards the Englishman’s house, Albert Younger is counting his steps.
By winter, bit by bit, piece by nailed piece, the room will be finished. And it won’t have cost him a penny. Not even the paint, a dark green, military mixture that will cover all the awkward joints, the jigsaw of shapes and the varying textures of the planks and boards. But no sooner is the room complete than another becomes necessary. Albert Younger is always striding back from the station with a piece of his house under his arm.
When a flyscreen door snaps in the night, Vic turns around and quickly recognises a familiar voice carrying across to him from the other side of the street. The door snaps again and a family, the Millers, assembles on the porch of the house directly in front of them. Everybody waves to each other and the young family of four, in bright, starched clothes, walks in unison to the front gate and steps onto the footpath. The two families then walk parallel to each other on different sides of the street, exchanging greetings, glances and nods.
The husband’s name is Doug. He’s a machinist at a nearby factory, in another suburb. He’s the happiest married man in the street, but he will die the next week in a car accident. He smiles and waves again before turning to his wife. Under the last of that peach sky they’re safe. Nothing can touch them. They stop as the young girl kneels and adjusts her sandal. There are no fates to be met because no one’s moving. But as soon as the girl finishes adjusting her sandal, they’re off again, moving forward to that moment, a few hours later next Saturday, when a carload of drunks will drive through a red light.
He’s twenty-eight, she’s twenty-four. He’s just bought her a small, stone pendant, especially for this night. But as much as she loves that pendant, she’ll never wear it again. Within weeks the house will be sold and a new family will arrive.
As they walk Rita glances at the young wife, Nell. Being almost ten years older she thinks of her as a young wife, a young mother, and she sees the contentment in her face, her gestures. A serene confidence that all the days and all the nights will go on just as they are now, and that the course of their lives will simply unroll like new lino, tapering to a distant point too far away to bear thinking about.
You may think your life goes on forever Mrs Miller, Rita is thinking as she watches them. But I’m thirty-three and you make me feel old. I’m thirty-three and I can see that there will be an end to it all. And, Mrs Miller, nothing frightens me more. Being dead. Cooped up in a box. All alone. Everybody going on as usual, without you. But what else can they do except go on as usual? Rita glances at Vic who is reading the hands of his railway fob watch. I’m thirty-three and she makes me feel old. Why is that? Vic closes the face of the watch, slips it into his pocket and stares ahead as if calculating the minutes that must be made up if they are to ease into the platform of the Englishman’s house on time.
The Millers are still standing on the other side of the street. Looking back up towards the golf course again, Rita nods to the approaching figures of Albert Younger and his wife. The curved brick corners of the Bruchners’ house are indistinct. The thin, pale figure of Joy Bruchner, if she’s not already at the party, will be chain-smoking inside. Sometimes, when Rita passes her house, Mrs Bruchner is sitting outside on the porch steps staring down at her feet, or gazing at the dried lawnseeds that never took root. But when Michael says hello, she immediately looks up, often running her fingers through her hair to smooth it down, to smarten herself up a bit before she returns the greeting. At these moments Rita sees the brittlest of smiles, the saddest trace of light in Mrs Bruchner’s eyes, as if she is counting herself lucky enough to have brushed with some blessed normality.
11.
Patsy Bedser
On a dull Saturday afternoon the previous autumn, Patsy Bedser drove into the countryside north of the suburb, into the river valley and through the small farming towns and hamlets it contains.
The street along which she drove had no trees, like most of the streets in the suburb, for they were cleared away to make room for the houses. There were no leaves on the ground and no sign that it was autumn apart from the misty rain and the still air. She drove her pale green Morris Minor from the street, where she had lived for the last five years since leaving England with her father, and steered it towards the hills, and the old township road that eventually led into the countryside.
As she watched the street recede in the rear-vision mirror, she realised how much she hated it and how happy she was to be leaving it, if only for the afternoon. The plain and ugly weatherboard houses, some painted, some still left with only a slapped-on undercoat, the bare yards, the pathetic gardens, the dirt road like a cattle track, the vacant lots and the wide open paddocks, caught between farm and suburb. She wished they’d never come. She was a city girl, from Liverpool. Not a big city, but city enough. And this was a frontier settlement. But they were ten pound Poms, the boat ticket only took them one way, and there was nothing else for it but to see the whole thing through.
At the flour mills she crossed the railway lines and turned right into the suburb’s other major road. One ran east west, the other north south. Where they intersected they divided the suburb, like a T-square, into three separate regions. The road that ran north south led to the old neighbouring township and the army camp. There were a few houses along that mile-and-a-half drive, but once she passed the old township she entered the open country.
At a curve in the country road she had chosen to travel, she stopped at a deserted bluestone church at the top of a small river valley, just before the road descended to the narrow bridge that forded the stream.
She parked the car and sauntered towards the church, which was set well back from the road. There was a mixture of gums, elms and slender birches all around her and the bright, fallen leaves were sodden under her feet, almost slippery, and she was careful as she walked.
When a black Austin Wolseley pulled into the road siding behind her she looked over her shoulder briefly, then turned back to the sight of the sun in the trees. Even when the car door slammed she stayed staring at the sun.
A young man with long legs and black pointy boots and a loping, cowboy stride was walking towards her. A hi-fi salesman. He sold her a hi-fi a couple of months before, but the thing didn’t work. She called him back and they’d no sooner finished discussing the problem with the hi-fi, when they found themselves talking about music. Real music. Eddie Cochran. Gene Vincent. He took the thing away and brought it back a few days later. It worked for a week then stopped again and she called him back again. It happened three times and every time their conversations went a little longer. Eventually she said he must be sabotaging the thing. ‘And why would I be doing that?’ he said. Patsy shook her head. She was going out with a local plumber. They met every Saturday night and went to the pictures and watched whatever was on. They rarely went out through the week because he was too bus
y. He was setting up a business and rose early on workdays. Patsy was happy enough with it all, until she met Jimmy, the hi-fi salesman.
It had been mid week. Late afternoon. She remembered the details clearly. Patsy was home early from work at the hospital. She was a nurse. Her dad was still at the docks. There she was standing on the front steps, talking to this Jimmy again. She was flirting and she knew it. He had just asked her why he would do such an unethical thing as sabotage the hi-fi. She didn’t reply. And when the young man repeated his question with a bit of a grin on his lips this time, she said it must be because he liked their talk and all, and that every time he took the hi-fi he fixed the old problem but created a new one so he could come back again.
It was a joke, a long shot. But there was an awkward silence afterwards and she wished she’d never opened her big mouth. So when the young salesman eventually nodded and said that was right, she laughed. Then she saw he wasn’t laughing. The grin was gone from his lips and he was just looking at her, openly, staring like there was no need for games any more, and she knew he wasn’t joking.
That’s how it all started. They see each other every week. But, whatever it is they’ve got, she knows it’s not for keeps. He’s a bit like his hi-fis, this Jimmy.
They weren’t looking for the old church the first time they drove out to the country together. But they found it. There were weeds and wild flowers growing from the gaps in the bluestone, and it was tucked away under the trees, but they found it all the same. And when she followed his black Wolseley into the siding that first afternoon they came here, a still autumn day of brilliant sunshine, she knew exactly what she was doing. They both did. It didn’t take much to snap the lock on the door. A quick look around to make sure nobody was watching and they were inside.
It became their hideaway. During the week, nobody ever went there. A perfect sanctuary. Only a half an hour from the suburbs, but it was another world. It was also another Patsy who went there.
When the young man’s long legs finally crossed the siding and reached Patsy, who was still staring at the sun coming through the trees, he simply spun her around by the shoulder, without a word, and they were dancing. He was singing too. He knew all the latest songs because the records came in with the hi-fi’s and they played them in the store whenever they got the chance. The young people, that is. The oldies turned up their noses. But that, he said, was only because they weren’t far away from turning up their toes. He’s got a cheek this one, thought Patsy. And he can sing.
He danced her in through the doorway of the old church, spinning her around in circles and singing something about a teddy bear. When they were inside his voice bounced and echoed all around that empty church, and Patsy, who was all too aware of having been a good girl all her life, was breathless.
Now, she’s running from the kitchen to the lounge room and back again, carrying plates and cutlery and paper serviettes. Her father, George, is enjoying a quiet moment in the kitchen before everything begins. The plumber, to whom she is becoming engaged this night, is arranging chairs in the lounge room before putting music on the hi-fi. At the moment they are the only occupants of the house. But the guests are already making their way down the street and within minutes they will be standing in the hallway, lounge and kitchen of the house, and everything will begin.
12.
The Grand Mal
Vic, Rita, Michael and the Millers continue their conversation as they walk parallel to each other along their respective dirt footpaths. Two families, speaking to each other across the street. Michael has nothing to say and is watching his father commenting on the night and the sky, when he stops in mid-sentence, as if he can’t remember what to say next. As if the tracks of his thoughts had run out. He even stops in his stride and looks back to Rita and then Michael, passing the sentence over to them to complete, while he remembers what he meant to say.
But Michael’s lost in his own memories. Somewhere about him he hears the voice of his mother talking to their neighbours, his father still has a puzzled, lost look on his face, and his mother is constantly glancing at him as she talks. Their voices are quiet and clear like chimes.
But they soon fade into silence, and the street dissolves under Michael’s feet. Michael has seen that lost look on his father’s face before. He knows it all too well now. The last time, a few months before, he had had to unmuddle his father’s mind so that the lost look would go away from his eyes.
Michael had been woken by the alarm clock in his parents’ room. It was early in the morning, dark and cold, and outside the rain was falling softly on the roof of the house as it had been all night. He closed his eyes and imagined it falling all over the suburb, on all the roofs and all the houses, on the golf course greens, the fairways, the clubhouse, the school and the dirt streets. Fine, steady, invisible rain, except when caught by the streetlights.
In his parents’ room the alarm clock was still ringing and he knew his father hadn’t stirred. His mother was away travelling in the country. For the whole week she would be travelling from country town to country town demonstrating washing machines to the audiences in the large country stores. In the front room the alarm was still ringing and he knew he would have to get up and wake his father himself or he would be late for work.
But it was cold and the sound of the rain on the roof outside made him want to stay in bed. He sank down into the warmth of the bed and rubbed his feet together. The alarm was beginning to wind down. Its ringing slowed, then faded altogether. His father had slept through the whole thing and Michael knew he would have to get up then or he would fall back into sleep himself.
Before he could change his mind he threw the blankets back and his bare feet hit the floor. He crossed the room, opened his door and stomped into the hallway which was heavy with the stale smell of last night’s beer and cigarettes. He switched the light on and stood, adjusting his eyes to the glare. There were bottles on the kitchen table and a large, filled ashtray. It was always the same when his mother was away.
He slapped on the light in his parents’ room and shook his father till he woke. His father’s eyes opened slowly and he looked about the room, trying to establish where on earth he was, then turned to Michael, scrutinising his face for a moment and pronounced Michael’s name. It was a question, a statement, a greeting, all in one. His father’s eyes were now open, but his mind was muddled. Michael could see that. He went to the kitchen, brought back a chair, and sat by his father’s side. From previous experience he knew it would take time to unmuddle his father’s mind.
‘You slept through the alarm.’
‘Did I?’
His father spoke with disbelief, as if he had never slept through an alarm before.
‘It’s four-thirty.’
‘Is it?’
‘Do you know what shift you’re on?’
His father sat up and rested his head back against the bed. He was staring blankly across the room, running his forefinger down along the bridge of his nose, but the answer wouldn’t come. Eventually, he turned to Michael and shook his head. There was fear in his eyes, like the fear of a frightened, confused child, and Michael knew he would have to speak slowly and clearly if he was going to unmuddle his father’s mind. He would have to speak to him like a child and he didn’t want to because his father was not a child. Michael was the child, he knew that. All his friends wanted to grow up fast so they could be old enough to drive cars, smoke cigarettes and leave home. But Michael wanted to be his age, to act his age, and stay a child as long as he could. But his father was staring back at him with confused eyes and Michael knew he would have to stop being a child for a little while, and speak to his father slowly and clearly, so that his memory could come back and his mind could be good again.
‘You’re on the morning shift,’ Michael said.
‘Am I son?’
‘You start at six. Do you want me to call Ed?’
Vic looked at Michael blankly.
‘Who?’
Michael looked to the window and the faint, silvery streetlight outside, then turned back to his father.
‘You don’t know who Ed is?’
His father clasped his hands together and looked down to them as if praying, but the memory wouldn’t come and he looked up to Michael ashamed that he didn’t know the answer.
‘Ed is your fireman. He’s been your fireman for three years. He’s been to dinner here. Ed.’
His father slapped the side of the bed as the memory returned.
‘Yes. Ed.’
‘Shall I call Ed?’
‘No,’ his father said in a sudden panic, ‘Don’t call him.’
‘Do you know what time you start?’
‘What time do I start, boy?’
‘Six. It’s a goods train.’
‘Where to?’
Michael named the town and his father smiled and nodded at him.
‘Yes. That’s it. That’s right.’
Michael leaned back in his chair. Sometimes the process took longer, sometimes it took less. It all depended. The alertness returned to his father’s eyes and Michael knew he would be all right. His mind had been cleared and his eyes were no longer those of a confused child. He thanked Michael for waking him and Michael returned the chair to the circular wooden table in the kitchen and stumbled back into the darkness of his bedroom where he lay listening to the faint, steady rain falling on the roof.
Soon, there was the distant tinkling of a teaspoon in a cup and he knew that, after having cleared away the evidence of the night’s drinking, his father would sip black tea in the kitchen with the wireless turned low so as not to disturb Michael.
Later the back door opened, the cat, curled up and sheltering from the rain on the back step complained at being shifted, and Michael heard his father wheeling his bicycle along the gravel driveway. It was too early for the first train and his father would ride his bicycle from their suburb to the North Melbourne yards.
The Art of the Engine Driver Page 5