Limestone Man

by Robert Minhinnick

  Come February, the Irish and the travellers who had haunted the town would make their reappearance. The Poles and Lithuanians had vanished, but there would always be replacements. Yes, carpenters and mechanics, painters and decorators.

  What was that boy’s name? Parry asked himself. Yes, Wat. And Parry smiled as the theme of Oxygene played once again in his mind.

  Used to sleep under the rides, didn’t he? Real dark gippo. Dangerous and beautiful Wat. Girls used to love him. He’d coax anyone to buy him chips with gravy. And when things were really tight, Wat lived on White Lightning and garlic bread scrounged from bins in The Backs.

  Because where else was there for people like that? Where other than The Caib? They had nowhere to go. Did they make the fairground. Or did the fair create the people?

  And where else for Glan and Serene? The couple had started to help in Badfinger. That routine would begin again after the holiday.

  It was important to make them earn their keep. Parry had noted Glan’s broken shoes, Serene’s lack of a decent coat. Which was strange when he considered the charity shops in the town. The weekly carboot sales.

  Maybe secondhand clothes were too much of a giveaway. But the pair needed to look better than they did. Flashier, more outrageous. With no money spent. Yes, shabby chic, they used to call it. The pair somehow lacked essential style.

  But Parry could change that. Glan’s hair was now mauve. When he’d first arrived in town, it had been a different purple. Yes, the kid had pretensions. Glan and Serene must be part of Badfinger.

  At the end, in Goolwa, Lulu had dressed to impress. She made her own poverty a fashion statement. Parry bought the girl presents from the market: plastic beads, ridiculous polka dot dresses.

  He asked her to walk and throw back her dark shoulders. To hold in the tiny jewelled plate of her belly. Anything, he said, to show you’re still alive. That you’re thinking about being alive.

  That was how you talked to young women, Parry reasoned. They would always respond.

  Once he had bargained for a tie-dyed top for Libby. Green and mauve, it was like the quartz colours he remembered from The Horns.

  Yes, she had smiled. But just remember I’m a mother. Of sons. I’m not one of those schoolkids you like too much. And sons can be clever about things like that.

  THIRTEEN

  I

  I could play, said Glan. Or sing.

  I’d like to hear you play, said Parry. In fact, I’d love to hear you play. Or sing.

  Yeah. Course I could play.

  You can play, said Serene. I’ve heard you.

  Just pick up the axe, said Parry. Try it now.

  Axe? laughed Serene.

  Yes, I could play.

  Lots of times, said Serene. I’ve heard you.

  Go on.

  Later.

  Why later?

  Why not later?

  Yeah, why not later? asked Serene.

  Maybe I will.

  And maybe you…

  Give it a go, said Parry. Don’t be like me.

  Oh no, said Glan. Not like you.

  No, never like you, echoed Serene.

  Don’t wait too long, is what I mean.

  You’re some kind of a writer, aren’t you? asked Glan.

  No. But I like the idea of writing. There’s a difference. I was going to write a novel in Adelaide. Had everything worked out. I was also determined to be an artist. But teaching is hard graft. Believe me, it is. So all I mean is, take your opportunities.

  Glan finished his wine and reached across Parry for the bottle.

  What opportunity is this, then?

  Badfinger! said Parry. It’s staring you in the face.

  Badfinger? laughed Serene. Why d’you want to call it that?

  I can organise things from here, said Parry. Gigs. At least I’m good at that. We had a great scene in this place in Oz. Workshops, classes.

  Workshops? laughed Glan.

  Classes? said Serene. You mean school?

  Nothing like school. We just created this interesting situation. Yes, scene. Just me and this girl and a few others. Where people played music and gave talks. We did it because we could. Because it…

  What? laughed Glan.

  Fulfilled a need. We were likeminded people. We just came together. Fortuitous, really. Fate. Do you two believe in fate?

  And Parry smiled his question at Glan. The boy was already tipsy, with red spots on his hollow cheeks. It wouldn’t take much, Parry thought. No, not much.

  Fate?

  Yeah. Surprising conjunctions. Certain people meeting other certain people. And certain things happening because of it.

  He looked at Serene, curled on the couch. At her long thigh, the black triangle of her knickers.

  Hey, he said. Put this on next. And he slid a CD towards the girl.

  Not another one? said Glan. His voice was slurred. Parry wondered whether the couple had been drinking earlier in the day. They had shared a bottle of red wine. But possibly had taken something else.

  It’s poor old Tim Buckley. Who deserves a listen. As a songwriter Buckley was, I suppose, an ambitious type. Sort of left his audience confused. Didn’t work in a straight line. Jumped about.

  Sounds like you, breathed Serene. Glan had closed his eyes.

  Oh yeah? Do I jump about?

  I bet you jump about, the girl said, smiling.

  Parry looked back at Glan. The red spots on his cheeks were splashes of rouge.

  Tragic family, explained Parry. Tim Buckley’s son was also a performer. So both men were singer-songwriters. But he drowned. That’s Jeff Buckley, who drowned. Maybe the son was even more talented. Who’s to say?

  I bet you could tell us, said Serene, stretching her legs. Yeah, I really bet you could. And who’s that blond bloke down in the shop? They say he’s dead.

  Dangerous trade, music, said Parry.

  Yeah. He’s supposed to be dead an’ all.

  Oh yes. Brian Jones. Of the Rolling Stones.

  This was a photograph taken in Marrakech. When Jones was alive and all things seemed possible. Before he became the bloated angel.

  Christ, Jones, thought Parry. That horny bastard. Five kids, wasn’t it? Impossible charisma.

  Look, he said quietly. I’m right when I say take your chances. Because time passes so quickly, it’s frightening. Those chances will be gone like … blue lightning goes.

  Blue lightning? smiled Serene. Oh yeah, you’re some kind of a writer. Aren’t you?

  Whatever we had, there was a scene going for us. In this little town in Oz. Doesn’t matter how it ended. Doesn’t matter if its moment passed.

  No, it ended when the drought ended. When the rains fell. And those rains fell with a vengeance. But our scene made a difference to people’s lives. That’s one thing I’m sure about. Certain of it.

  II

  Glan’ll play, said Serene. Or he’ll sing. Sing and play. I’ve seen him. Loads of times.

  The boy was asleep now. In the darkness, Serene’s hand seemed to rest between Glan’s thighs.

  Who was that girl, then? she asked.

  Parry was becoming uncomfortable where he sat on the floor. He was too close to the electric fire, which provided the only light in the room. The threadbare rugs he had inherited were scattered with plates and CDs. On the walls were some of the photographs from Hey Bulldog.

  That was Lulu, he said quietly. She went out in the rains. And I lost her. Yes, I lost her. Lulu vanished. Never saw the child again. But I’m certain she didn’t drown. Lulu was too clever for that. The night she disappeared I called till I was hoarse.

  Lovers’ tiff, was it? smiled Serene.

  Then the next day I called all day. Then the next day. All day. Every day for a week I shouted. And then after four weeks the rains finally stopped. Stopped dead. Like turning off a tap.

  I remember the exact moment the rains stopped. The air was stilled. But by that time it was a different world. Changed utterly.


  The river was full of red silt. Red dust from the desert and red scum on the treetrunks. Red beards of weed. I’d drag my hand in the water and the skin would be speckled red. As if I had a disease. Some sort of fever.

  In the evening the river would be the colour of blood, with all these drowned animals going past. Cows going past. Hundreds of snakes going past. Knotted snakes like rootballs. Ever see sunflower roots? The snakes were like that. Hissing bundles. Like bundles of fire going past.

  Parry eased himself on the rug.

  I used to have a job in The Works. You know, it was the same problem there. Only that was sinter. Black sinter dust so thick it might have choked a man. Someone died once. Smothered by sinter. Fell in. That dust was thick as flour.

  My father was in The Works, said Serene. And his brothers.

  Glan was sleeping now. A boy as beautiful as Brian Jones must once have been. Parry remembered the heart-shaped face, the stony eyes. Jones too had drowned, but in a swimming pool.

  Sad and uncool, Parry thought. He had felt betrayed by Jones’ death. How absurd was that? Hardly Shelley, was he? Never composed a song. Barely wrote a verse.

  A selfish life that the culture pretended was a fiery martyrdom. Yet doused too soon.

  No chance of a place at The Works now, said Parry. All the apprenticeships have finished. All the … opportunities. So that’s what I’m talking about. Starting your own scene. Or being part of one. Those kids in Goolwa caught my drift. They understood. Come on, chicken. What’s to lose?

  Serene hugged her right knee, then held out her glass in invitation. Her teeth were black in the firelight. It seemed there might be blood on her lips.

  III

  Parry continued to insist. One afternoon he pushed Glan up the narrow stairs to his room. He walked behind the boy with his hands on his hips.

  Well, the hair’s okay, said Parry, looking at the mauve veil. Possibilities there.

  Then he’d told him to take off his grey jersey. Next, the brown shirt.

  Glan had stood with elbows pressed into his ribs. These were blue and prominent.

  On the ivory boy, Parry breathed, the colour of life haddeepened.

  You what?

  Just a poem. Don’t worry.

  Poem..?

  Parry also noted scars in the milky skin of Glan’s back.

  Hey, what are these? he asked quietly. Then he had wetted his forefinger and traced the most prominent laceration.

  Looks like someone’s taken a whip to you, young man.

  Oh yeah? whispered Glan.

  Has anyone? Been beating? You?

  Can’t remember, the boy said quietly.

  Yes, Parry repeated. What are these?

  And he had smiled. As if in apology.

  I hope my fingers aren’t too cold for you.

  Then he turned Glan round to face him, noting the red spots on his cheeks. The blotches were present every time he had seen Glan drink wine.

  Are you ready for my shirt?

  The boy’s chest was cold. His nipples dark rosebuds. When Parry next inhaled, Glan smelled to him of the fret. Of salt and mist and the wet sand that drifted from the Cato Street outfall. Maybe the dank Panasonic cardboard that otherwise filled the room. And something else.

  Such weather, he said, still holding Glan’s shoulders. Oh boy, where did it come from? This weather?

  He could see the veins’ blue traceries in Glan’s neck. A pulse was beating there.

  You must have brought it with you, smiled Parry.

  Oh?

  Bad weather birds. You and Serene. Only joking. By the way, where is Serene?

  In town, somewhere, I think. The reading room in Cato Street. She likes to read, does Serene. She reads in bed.

  And do you? Like it? Reading in bed?

  No. I just fall asleep.

  What does Serene read?

  Dunno.

  Might she read to you? Some couples do that.

  She doesn’t read to me.

  Just cwtsh, do you? That’s a narrow bed. Not much room for two, is there?

  No.

  I’m sorry about that. Have to see what I can do. Hey, I like that cologne?

  Cologne?

  Yes, that works. Devastating. Yes it is. Reminds me of … blackcurrants …

  Black…?

  Parry smiled as Glan flicked back his hair. Its purple streaks were darkened with mousse.

  Oh yes. My absolutely favourite smell. Works for me.

  Thanks. It’s new. First time on.

  So just relax, purred Parry. Look. Sit here. On the bed. Here. I’ll clear a space. For us.

  He relinquished the boy’s cold shoulders.

  Listen, he said, I want to tell you something. It’s a story my mother told me a long time ago.

  Ready? Well it was my parents’ wedding day and the weather was like this. Freezing, unusual even though it was February. There was snow in the air, big flakes she told me, great soft flakes of snow, the type of snow that sticks to your skin, the snow that sticks to the world.

  Now my mother’s wedding dress, I’ve always remembered this, was hand-embroidered. A local seamstress had sewn the designs of tiny sunflowers into the bodice, into the train.

  Everybody knew my mother loved sunflowers. She’s grown them since she was a girl. It was the obvious idea. She was a gardener, my mother. Loved her garden. But Dora Parry was no pressed flower. Oh no.

  It was February, remember. So when my mother and my father came out of the church, they had to walk around in the snow. To speak to all the guests. As the married couple must. As they should. Though I wouldn’t know, I’ve never married. Have I? Not yet.

  Then, after a while, my mother noticed that when she moved, her dress clinked with ice.

  You see, the train of her wedding dress, all the hem of her ice-coloured wedding dress, was frozen. It was making the sound of bells. Tiny bells that might have been sewn into the wedding train. Into the hem. Like they sometimes sew mirrors into dresses.

  Yes, the ice chiming there, that’s what she heard. The chiming of icicles amongst the sunflowers. On her wedding day.

  Oh, but you’re cold, added Parry, his fingers again upon the boy’s skin. Then he squeezed Glan’s shoulders once more.

  What’s that? asked the boy.

  He was pointing to Parry’s bedside table. Glan reached over and picked up the pebble. It was round and grey with a central core of white quartz. Within the white quartz was a ball of red quartz.

  Oh, that, said Parry. I’ve always had that.

  But it feels hot, laughed Glan. How can it be hot? It’s cold in this room. It’s always cold here, but…

  It looks like it might be hot, said Parry, but…

  It’s like an eye. Looking at you. A red eye.

  No, not…

  Is it always there? Looking at you in bed? asked the boy.

  I don’t think about it, laughed Parry. I don’t, really. I think I found it somewhere past The Horns. There’s a tiny cove and beach. Behind the sand is a low cliff.

  If you can climb a little way up you see this quartz formation. Pink and white and black, it is. Like Italian marble. But the climb’s not easy. Why would you bother if you didn’t know it’s there.

  Not sure how I discovered it. Simple curiosity, I suppose. It’s well concealed. That quartz is a frozen cataract. You can imagine it molten and hot, oozing like icing sugar. Yes, about ten-feet long that outcrop of quartz.

  I think the eye as you call it was with other pieces of quartz on a ledge. Washed up by a high tide. I climbed there, put out my hand and found it.

  When I jumped back down it was in my hand. A round pebble I’d never seen before. I opened my palm and there it was. And I’ve kept it. Don’t know why.

  Glan looked a last time.

  But it’s hot? he said.

  I think, said Parry, that it reflects whoever’s holding it. So you must be hot yourself.

  He reached out again to touch Glan’s chest.

>   But the boy freed himself and picked up his shirt and jersey. Somehow they had fallen to the floor.

  IV

  Parry didn’t own an iron or ironing board. He agreed to take Serene to Mina’s upstairs flat while Glan was sleeping off various indulgences. He stood with the girl under a painting of a ship that had run aground.

  How do you manage? she had asked.

  Suppose I don’t, he said. Trust the spin dryer to do the job. And generally look crumpled.

  Typical, the girl said. I know for certain Glan’s never ironed a single thing.

  Why is he in bed so long?

  Oh, you know…

  Yeah, I know. The weather doesn’t help. Can’t tell if it’s day or night. Never used to be like this.

  You were born here? she asked.

  Yes. And did the usual. Worked in the fairground. Sold tickets for The Kingdom of Evil. Cleared glasses at The Cat. Then holiday jobs at The Works. Despite my old man.

  Oh?

  He hated the idea of The Works. Of thousands of men all clocking on at the same time. Shift patterns. Bit of an individualist is Dad.

  Still around, is he?

  Just about. Read the riot act a few times if he thought there was any likelihood of me joining the wage-slave crowd.

  So you became a teacher?

  Don’t sneer. Teachers are the best people. They believe in life chances, in … improvement.

  But you’re back where you started?

  Nothing wrong with that.

  But this place … the girl said. The Caib’s become … notorious.

  The word surprised Parry.

  We’re always on the telly these days, she added. She might have said ‘famous’.

  He looked at Serene, a pale child with a purple rinse that needed attention. Hippy chick without the music. Silver stud in her nose. Fish hook in her eyebrow.

  She should have an Incredible String Band album under her arm, Parry considered. But that had been another time. Another world.

  In fact, maybe Serene looked like Licorice from the Incredibles might have done, thirty or forty years previously. Another winsome child. Yes, long lost Likki, who had vanished off the planet. Blame drugs or booze or scientology. Something was going to get you.

  Like others, Parry had researched the missing Licorice. The lack of information had proved depressing. Yet perhaps also exciting. The Caib was a place, he’d always known, where people disappeared.