by Robert Power
The first real sign that things would go badly wrong was six week later when you were able to stand and we decided on a celebratory lunch. We’d cooked up some steaks and little Caleb had piled them all up on a plate in the middle of the table like we always did. ‘Where’s mine?’ you shouted. ‘You trying to poison me with these?’ And then you threw the whole plate-load into the air and banged your fists on the table. ‘Which one of you? Which one?’ veins throbbing on your forehead; mad eyes seeking out each of us: Ma, me, Caleb and Matty. ‘Which one?’ You kept repeating the same meaningless, unanswerable question. Then you hobbled off to the barn, your bad leg dragging along, cutting a groove in the dust. Caleb cried out loud. I looked at Ma. Matty sucked his thumb. Ma held out of her arms and cuddled us all together.
But this was just the beginning.
A few days later I heard you screaming at Ma in the kitchen. I was three days off my fifteenth birthday, so I knew something of what the words meant. I was busy cleaning the kids’ shoes on the back porch. First it was just noise, then I heard the words. ‘I know what you’ve been up to,’ you said. ‘Taking lemonade to the shearing sheds. And what else do you give them? Tell me that.’
‘No, John, please, not this,’ said Ma, on the verge of sobs.
‘You whore. How many? How many?’
‘No, John, no.’
And then there was a crash of plates and furniture and you stumbled through the door, all but taking the flyscreen off its hinges. When I turned round there was little Caleb and I could see he had wet his pants. He looked at me with a mix of fear and shock and sadness. I hugged him close. ‘What’s happened to Da?’ he asked, hoping I could help him.
That night Ma sat us all down and told us that Da was sick. The doctors said the bang to his head would be a long time healing and we must be patient. ‘Just wait and see,’ she said, ‘by Christmas he’ll be back to his usual self.’ She smiled and gave us cake and lemonade. But I could tell she didn’t believe her own words. Something in the way she rubbed the back of her neck with her hand; the look in her eyes as the smile left her face.
‘The nurseryman at Hepburn Springs said they’re the best lemon trees money can buy. They have thin skins and fabulous flavour. I can’t wait until they fruit. What do you think, Da?’ Jacko the barman serves you your third pot. He nods to let me know he has his eye on you. Your new doctor, the one who moved up from Ballarat for a real country life, has told the barstaff at the RSL that three beers is your absolute maximum. Any more would mess with the tablets and set you off on another mad one.
Christmas came and went. Ma and me tried to keep the littlies happy, but we knew it would end in tears. You stopped working, had no interest in the farm or the stock. You took to drinking the cheap grog from the bottle shop in town and were even spotted with the winos in the long grass. It seemed your only other interest was the card games down at the Orrong Hotel. We even heard you were chasing one of the barmaids. For the first time ever you stayed away from the New Year’s Day race meet at Woorenin Point, even though you’d been on the committee for the last seven years. Maybe it was something to do with the horses. But it didn’t surprise me. A few months earlier you’d missed the town footy team’s first Grand Final in twenty-five years. It was something you’d prayed and joked about forever. When you said grace at dinnertime you’d always thank God for the lovely food, Ma’s great cooking and then end by saying: ‘and please God, let it rain for twenty days and let the Bombers make the Grand Final just once more in my lifetime.’ And we’d all laugh and shout ‘Go Bombers!’ But there was no more grace at dinner and no more jokes about footy. No, you’d eat nothing; just drink beer most days and nights.
When you came home you’d throw your dinner against the wall and call Ma terrible names and say awful things. One night, when the moon was so full I remember it seeming to take up the whole sky, the words turned to fists. My Da, the tenderest and most loving of husbands and fathers, beat my Ma to the ground, breaking her front tooth and blackening her eyes.
‘Now,’ you shouted, for all the house to hear, for all the moon to witness, ‘the fruitpickers won’t think you so comely.’
It was then that Ma gave up. She realised your old self was never coming back, that it was lost in the sand down by the creek. On a Wednesday morning, Ma woke us all up and told us to get into the car. I was tired, having heard noises down stairs during the night. Shouting and crashing and crying. I remember my brothers had come into my bed and we had all fallen asleep in a huddle. And then it was bright and sunny and there was our Ma, bending over us telling us to wake up. I noticed that Ma had a fresh bruise on her cheek and that her hand trembled as she squeezed my arm.
‘Come on you three,’ she said. ‘Just do as I say. Get dressed and come downstairs, as quiet as can be. I’ve packed everything we need.’
I only looked back once as we drove up the dirt track to the tarmacked road. Something told me we wouldn’t be coming back. Ma had piled the ute to the brim with clothes and the kids’ toys, some pots and pans and a few blankets. As I looked over my shoulder towards the house, there you were, half stumbling out of the door, half waving at your departing family.
Ma never spoke of you again. It was as if the snake had bitten you instead of the horse and left you for dead on the bank of the creek. We stayed with Uncle Harry in Williamstown and then got some rooms above a grocery store in Footscray on the outskirts of Melbourne. I got a job in the shop downstairs and Ma went to work in a laundry. The boys went to school and we were all happy in our new city life. You never came looking for us as far as I knew.
One summer, two years after we left the farm, I took the bus up country to see you, but you’d gone walkabout with a couple of drinkers you’d met at the Kelly Hotel. One-Eyed Robbo told me you were on the skids. He was still working on the farm as a casual labourer, but not for you. He told me you’d sold the deeds for a song to the Gainey’s from Ballarat. It was all so very sad. I never told Ma where I’d been, but I think she guessed. Then the next year, jobs came up at the new car factory down in Geelong, so we packed up and headed off. Those were great years down on the peninsula. In the summer we’d take trips to Ocean Grove and Barwon Heads. You’d have loved it. You should have seen the kids’ faces, and mine and Ma’s come to that, when we first saw the huge waves rolling in from the ocean. We’d spend our days riding the surf, and as we lay in bed in the dark of night we could still see and hear the rolling sea, lolling us into a foamy sleep.
One night we walked all the way along the beach to Point Lonsdale so Caleb could see the flashing star in the lighthouse. Those were times when nothing much was ever spoken about. The boys never talked about the farm and nor did we. Only when they saw other kids playing with their fathers on the beach could I see they sensed some loss, something missing in their lives. I’d take them to Queenscliff for the best strawberry ice cream in the world. I’d have a lemon ice, just for the taste and the remembrance.
Then, just as everything seemed to be settling and working out, Ma found a lump under her arm. It had been paining her for months, but she’d never said a word. By the time she got to the doctor there was nothing that could be done. She asked me not to contact you, that it was all too late in the day. At first I thought she meant the time she had left, but she really meant something about you and her. Over the next few weeks she wasted away right there in front of us. Me and the boys nursed her day and night. She took each of us in her arms and told us how much she loved us and how proud she was of our family. That last night, on her deathbed, she squeezed my hand, told me never to be bitter and to accept all that life throws up. That’s when she spoke about you. She said you were a wonderful man, but she’d had to leave for the sake of us kids. Then she slipped away. I tried to contact you about the funeral, but no one knew where you were.
The night after we buried Ma, I had the dream. I was down by the creek, high up in the branches of a lemon tree. Through the foliage I could see you and Ma holding hands. You
were both smiling and I could tell you wanted me to climb higher. And there on a branch just above my head was the biggest, juiciest lemon I had ever seen. As I reached out to pluck it I saw the snake slithering along the branch. I was mesmerised. I looked down to the ground and you had both gone. The snake bit into my hand, but there was no pain. I looked at the two tiny fang marks and saw the juice oozing from the wound. I licked it and the taste on my tongue was of fresh lemons and the feeling in my heart was of peace. When I looked down again you and Ma had come back and were kissing each other, loving and tender. Then I told my dreaming self to wake up, to hold on to the dream and store it away.
It’s funny how things turn out. It was only a few days later that One-Eyed Robbo wrote to say you were back in town and staying at his place. So I came straight to see you. Just me, your only daughter. I suppose in those first couple of years I’d visit every few months and always on your birthday. You never asked about the boys. I wonder if you even remembered them. In any case, I think it’s just as well for now.
Then, last year, Uncle Harry from Williamstown died and left us his house and a pot of money. Enough for Caleb to study marine biology at the Top End and for Matty to go to Europe with his muso girlfriend. You’d laugh to see them now. So tall, so strong. Caleb is so serious and studious and Matty’s such a surf bum. There I was, twenty-eight years old and left on my own. One day, a Sunday it was (I could hear the church bells), I got to thinking about the dream of the snakebite and the lemon juice. Then the idea came to plant the trees. The very next day I called up old Mister Gainey and asked him outright about the land by the creek. He knew exactly who I was. I’m quite sure he knew our story and sounded a bit guilty about the way he’d come by the farm. He didn’t take much persuading to sell me that little pocket of land. Anyway, as you know, nothing much was ever going to grow down there, what with it being mainly bush and dust and snakes.
And that’s how it all happened. I’m not sure what it all means. This planting of the lemon trees. Maybe putting something back that was taken away. Something whole and solid and real. But I do know one thing for sure. Whenever I smell lemons, or even hear the word said, I can feel you lifting me up to the tree, that very first time, outside our old farmhouse. The strength in your arms, the warmth of the sun on my face, and the lemony smell of my girlhood.
MONSIGNOR DI VINCENTE & THE HEARTMAKER
Monsignor Di Vincente is a changeling, a chameleon. In his darkest moments his hands are flames, torches; his heart is black and broken. He tries dancing and filling his room with the mosaics he found on the walls of the temple in the valley beyond. He writes postcards to his friends and buys a new hat from the market place. He sits in the picture-house, watching old black-and-white movies to hide from the dusk. But none of it helps much for the darkness is a chasm in his heart. It gnaws at his soul. All he touches smoulders and burns. He moves from place to place, his world shifting and sliding beneath his feet.
Monsignor Di Vincente comes to town on a stagecoach. It is by far his preferred mode of transport, though he does like trains. He also likes walking. Walking, he often, says is cathartic and healing, but a stagecoach is travel. He steps from the carriage and straightens his waistcoat. It is his second favourite, the one with the Dungarvan tartan and silver braiding, with a slate-grey back made from silk. He checks his pocket watch that tells him the time is right. He looks down the length of the deserted street. It is hot, not far away from noon. No doubt most of the townspeople are behind doors, out of the sun. Lying on beds, fans competing with the buzz of the insects. He takes his large travel bag from the back of the coach, tips his hat to the driver and begins singing softly to himself.
In the near distance, somewhere behind the hotel he hears the clang of an anvil, imagining the sparks shooting from the blow of a heavy hammer. He walks up the steps, through the revolving door into the foyer of the reception. He nods to the bellhop and ascends the wide, winding staircase to the floor above. He knows where to go. They are expecting him. His room is ready. Crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets are turned back on the bed. ‘Oh for the Nile, the wings of the Nile,’ he whispers to the wind which enters the room as he opens the door to the balcony. He breathes deeply and looks out over the street. First one way, then the other. ‘Just dandy,’ he thinks. He takes a chair from the room, then moves it out onto the balcony to the exact spot where he will be able to survey the full length of the main thoroughfare. ‘I will be able to see them coming and them going,’ he says to himself. ‘In the morning and in the evening.’
He tries the chair for size, straightening his back, not hunching forward, swivelling his head from side to side. ‘Toast and blackcurrant jam in the morning with some milky coffee. Madeira cake and Earl Grey tea in the afternoon. A smidgen of honey in the coffee and no bergamot in the tea. Just the job.’ He sees a single kestrel hovering in the sky in the distance, enticing his eyes towards the broiling sun. The static bird is stark against the washed and wavering blue. He sits back in his chair, the slightest of breezes stroking his cheek. Slowly, he dozes off to sleep.
After a while, as the sun plummets down, he wakes from his afternoon dream. Monsignor Di Vincente leaves the balcony and returns to the room to unpack his case. There are two beds. On the one furthest from the window he lays out his clothes for the evening. The midnight blue dinner jacket with flowing tails and matching trousers. The satin waistcoat with embroidered pearls and silver buttons given to him by the Emir on a previous visit. The lily-white shirt with the sumptuous ruff. As if he is giving a Valentine gift to his special lover, Monsignor Di Vincente caresses the white shirt with a succession of silk bow ties, until he finds the one that suits his mood. At the head of the bed he places his new black top hat and, with a flourish, he lays a pure white glove at either side of the jacket.
In the bathroom he stands in front of the mirror. The sad eyes of his reflection remind him of sorrow. The grey hair that reaches to his shoulders tells him he is past his prime. But he looks kindly at himself and smiles in spite of it all. The lines around his mouth and on his forehead he sees as the marks of age, and of that he is reconciled. He lathers soap on his face and shaves with the cut-throat razor he carries in his leather wash-bag. The water in the shower is lukewarm but refreshing. Back in the bedroom he dresses, choosing the lapis lazuli cufflinks from his ivory box of jewellery. Rummaging in his travel bag, like the magician he is, and has always been, he pulls out his silver-topped cane. Balancing it on a fingertip, running it through the palms of his hands, Monsignor Di Vincente dances around the room until the gong from the hallway downstairs announces dinner is about to be served.
Much later that night, after the last light in the town is quenched and the dogs stop barking, Monsignor Di Vincente takes the small calling card from his wallet and holds it to the rays of the moon that shine in from the window. ‘The Heartmaker’, it reads in gold-leafed italics. ‘Maker of hearts’. Lying on his bed he fingers the embossed lettering, feeling the weight of the thickness of its edge against the skin of his fingers. ‘Would I cut myself, would I bleed,’ he whispers, ‘if I gave in to the sharpness? If I gave the intent no heed?’ But he is tired from the travelling and the heat of the day. He soon drifts off into a creamy sleep.
The next day comes with the usual and expected regularity. The band has been parading up and down the high street since early morning. The majorettes, the trumpeters, the big bass drum, rumperty tump, trala, tralee. The bunting hangs along the sidewalk like stranded seaweed. The small triangular flags blow in the breeze, waving at the passing carnival. Monsignor Di Vincente sits in his chair on the balcony, a jug of fresh lemonade on the small table beside him. Next to the jug is a plate of fondant fancies. Pink, yellow and white icing glimmering in the rising sun.
This is what Monsignor Di Vincente has been waiting for. The day the circus comes to town. As he watches the circus trucks pass by he sings happily to himself, letting the sweet icing melt on his tongue, as if he were the priest, the reci
pient of his own Holy Communion. In keeping with the mood he sings himself an animal song.
‘The animals came in two by two hurrah, hurrah, the animals came in two by two hurrah, hurrah, the animals came in two by two, the elephant and the kangaroo, tidlee boo de do de boo.’
Children sit on their fathers’ shoulders, everyone is dressed in their very best bib and tucker. As his own song begins to fade in his ears and mind, Monsignor Di Vincente catches sight of one small girl who stands holding her mother’s hand by the barber’s shop, directly opposite the hotel. She has strawberry-blonde hair, wears a white dress patterned with large red hearts. In her other hand, the hand not clutching her mother …. ‘What does she hold?’ ponders Monsignor Di Vincente. He sits forward in his chair, his elbow on his knee, his chin on his fist. The object she clasps reflects in the sun like a mirror. She holds it tight in her hand, a small revolver with a rounded ivory handle. It once belonged to her uncle, the gambler, who plied the paddle steamers on the great Canadian lakes, the gun always loaded, always ready against any eventuality. Maybe no one else sees it, thinks Monsignor Di Vincente. Maybe he is mistaken. But at that moment she looks up at him, above the crowds, above the hullabaloo. She sees him, Monsignor Di Vincente in the maroon waistcoat and top hat, eating cakes and drinking lemonade on the balcony of the only fine hotel in town. Just then a firecracker explodes and a horse being ridden by Buffalo Bill rears and turns on a silver dollar.
‘Whoa boy,’ says the trooper, his rawhide, tasselled jacket flowing in the wake of his stallion. ‘Whoa boy,’ he soothingly whispers into the alert and pricked ear of his charge.
When the commotion subsides, Monsignor Di Vincente turns and looks back down to the street. The girl is gone; the space she leaves is filled with the red-and-white twist of the barber’s pole. A question mark, an asterisk. By then the procession is in full flight, the crowd enraptured by the pantomime passing before their eyes. The acrobats spin and twist like tumbleweed down the dusty street. The strongmen with their waxed moustaches and singlets dangle dainty dames from their fingertips. Seals, shimmering like new born placentas, balance red, blue and white beach balls on the ends of their upturned noses. And clowns, with tears big as the biggest pearls painted on their whitened cheeks, fool along the perimeter, stepping in and out of time, spraying the yelping and ducking crowd with buckets of polished rice and confetti.