And it returned, the memory of a gang of kids trespassing on the line. A squall of coke flying from the firebox…
…No, he realised, he hadn’t walked so far west for years. The way now lay along the dram road that led to The Works. If the tide was right, he’d taken this route himself. On the way to the carbon paper job.
He reckoned he was close to The Tramlines. This was an area of quartz set in red sandstone. A series of white lines he and Sev believed they had discovered. And so named.
He remembered a painting he had thought about on his walks to work. The problem was posed by the colours of mother-of-pearl, and how they might be recreated.
Fool, he smiled wryly. Painting wasn’t copying anything. Painting had to combine spontaneous joy with hard-earned technique.
Make a mess, he’d told his classes in Adelaide. As much mess as you can. Because life’s a mess. Isn’t it? A human mess. And what’s art but describing what’s it’s like to be human?
Those classes, he smiled. The first step was choosing their music. Art master as disc jockey. That was how he’d befriended Libby. She’d come into his class because Mozart’s clarinet concerto was too loud.
Yes, sorry, he’d said. We were all getting carried away. Especially Wolfgang.
No, painting to music’s a great idea, she had said. I’ll try it myself. Let’s have a look at what CDs you’re lining up. Mostly Bluenote I expect, from what was on last week. Oh, some Indian things too, I see. And who’s Etta James?
No, he’d never been a painter. Never had the guts to try the big canvas he had once imagined. One hundred feet square. It would be his depiction of the morning sky of The Caib. Mother of Pearl could be the title. A hundred different colours, most of them greys. The most delicate painting imaginable. Doing the dawn justice. Yes, Mother of Pearl.
It was to be the cover of his first album, he grimaced. The image on his first book. And that book’s title?
Dunesman.
He said the word again.
Dunesman.
Dunes Man.
Yes, mysterious enough. Intriguing. Surely. And of course, it might still be done. It should still be done. He wasn’t old, after all. The right side of sixty. Mina swore he might pass for five years younger. Maybe ten. As if, he smiled, it mattered. But it did.
Now he licked the salt on his lips and kicked over a crust of sand. There was a gull in the rocks nearby. As Parry approached he noted it didn’t fly away. Rather, it rose and came back to the beach, landing awkwardly.
He saw there was a nylon fishing line caught round its leg. Attached to the line was a lead sinker.
Sighing, he went through the motions. Come here, kitty, he called. Nice kitty.
Parry approached the gull and it flew away before falling back. He made his rescue attempt three times. Three times the bird escaped. Soon the kittiwake was lost in the fret.
EIGHTEEN
I
He couldn’t locate The Tramlines. Thirty minutes later he was leaving the dunes and the dram road behind. Then slipping through the back fence of Rhidyll House.
Nearby in the grounds, two pale horses, the colour of the fog, were standing together. Two smoky smudges against white render.
Rhidyll had been built thirty years previously as a bar and hotel. Then become a nursing home.
Parry rang the bell and was admitted. He gave his hands an antiseptic scrub and signed the visitors’ book. Jack Parry was, he was told, upstairs in room 33.
As ever, he thought, climbing the stairs.
For some reason Parry knocked, then felt foolish. When he entered, the light was on. The first thing he did was switch it off. Then he looked at his father and switched it back on.
Jack was belted into his armchair with a double tray on castors before him. There were crumbs on the tray and uneaten bread on the floor around his chair.
Morning, Dad. What about this fog, then? You ever remember it worse? I’ve never heard that foghorn used so much. Such a sad sound, Dad. Like a wounded animal.
Parry crossed to a radiator and warmed his hands.
Feels raw out there, Dad. Never known it so bad, have we? And you, Dad? You’re the same colour, I’d say. The colour of the fog.
He regarded Jack more closely. The old man seemed to have shrunk since his son had last seen him. His cheeks were limestone’s grey roses, his pyjamas and dressing gown too big. They were covered in toast crumbs.
Parry turned away and looked down at the two horses. They were old animals, manes and tails tinged with sulphur. Both had remained motionless.
I bet Mum could have told us when the fog was worse. If it was ever worse than this. Yeah, Mum could have said.
Jack Parry had anaemia and was due for a transfusion. It was thought he was bleeding internally. His face was white as paper and unshaven.
Still waiting, aren’t we? smiled his son. Hanging on all over Christmas and now into New Year. But they’ll give us a date soon, Dad. I know it’ll be soon. Bound to be.
Parry ran the hot tap.
Wow, boiling as ever. So where’s that razor of yours? Not that you look bad. Not half bad. Ever grown a beard, Dad? Might have suited.
But no, Mum wouldn’t like you all whiskery, would she? Mum was old school. Still, I think you look pretty modern myself. Yeah, cool, Dad. You look cool. Ever been called cool before?
He examined his father’s pale lips. Found a comb and dragged it through his hair.
Haven’t had this washed for a while, have you? As bad as mine, it’s so greasy. But yeah, you look modern with that stubble, Dad.
Parry scanned room 33: television, radio, CD player. An anonymous painting above the bed that he had meant to remove. And resolved, once again, to do so.
There was a framed photograph of Dora Parry on the bedside table. Beside the door was a photograph of The Horns at sunset that Parry had organised. Close by was another of what had been the Parrys’ allotment.
In one corner was a mechanical hoist, used for moving his father from bed to armchair. Jack’s wheelchair was nowhere to be seen.
I’ll take you out for a walk, soon, Dad, he said. When it’s warmer. Haven’t been for ages, have we? For ages.
II
The last time Parry had seen his father was two months earlier. He had walked into Rhidyll House and a nurse directed him to the main lounge.
They’re all in there, he’d said.
Who’s that? asked Parry.
Everyone.
He quickly realised it was a birthday party. One of the residents was one hundred years old, that day, November 13.
Jack Parry too? his son queried, disbelieving.
Let me see … let me see. I’m sure, yes. Jack too. We’re honoured. Aren’t we! And you are?
There were twenty Rhidyll residents present, only three of them men. At first, Jack had been difficult to identify, as he was slumped in his wheelchair. He failed to acknowledge his son, who pulled up a seat beside him.
Morning, Dad. Or is it afternoon. Look, sorry I haven’t been over. You know how it is. You know, Dad.
That morning, or afternoon, Jack Parry did not say one word. Even when Happy Birthday was sung, along with early Christmas carols and choruses of the Hokey Cokey.
Everyone present was offered a glass of sherry, including Parry. Who somehow commandeered three.
Not drinking, Dad? he asked eventually. Look, we can go upstairs if you like. If you don’t fancy any more of this party.
Jack had remained mute. But Parry thought it was an improvement. For the old man to visit the lounge boded well.
He still preferred to eat alone in his room, but his birthday appearance indicated a thaw.
Parry was delighted by this, and decided to visit his father more regularly. Such had been his intention.
December arrived, then Christmas. Today, all he remembered of the November visit were verses from ‘Hark, the Herald’ and feeling light-headed when driving home from Rhidyll. With the assistance of a nurse, the
three sherries had become five. Or was it…
Later, Parry had found himself in the back bar of The Lily, inexplicably buying drinks for Cranc, Davy Dumma and George from The Cat.
Then he’d phoned Mina at Basement Booze and arranged to meet at the Paradise.
III
Yes, he continued, we can get one of those taxis with its own lift and go into town. What about a pub lunch? Or fish and chips at Eddies’? But remember the old Paradise Club? Maybe we’ll go there. I’ll plan a party.
Parry hated Rhidyll House and knew his father felt the same. Care for Jack was paid for by the sale of the family home. At the time, the son had thought nothing of the money he had lost.
Yes, like a film star, Dad. Maybe Humphrey Bogart in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre? Remember that one? Or The African Queen? All those leeches Bogart had to pick off his own skin? Burning them with a cigarette? Like little pieces of black rubber. Gave us both the creeps.
Or did the girl do it for him? Yeah, who was the actress now? Lauren Bacall? No, Katherine Hepburn, of course. I’m sure it was her. She played that stuck-up Englishwoman.
Or was it a rich American. Yeah, Hepburn. It was great to see films like that on a Sunday afternoon, wasn’t it? When we were all together.
But Mum wouldn’t like it, would she? The unshaven look? So, do you think I could do this? I’ll try my best. Maybe Katherine Hepburn gave Bogart a shave in TheAfrican Queen? Did she? Should have been in the script.
Parry was surprised to be allowed to shave his father. Jack submitted to the lathering of his cheeks and neck, which his son accomplished with his own fingers.
It was a disposable razor but keen enough. Jack Parry’s cheeks were simple to deal with. But above the lip, under the nose and chin, was more of a challenge.
Parry nicked his father two or three times. He could feel the cuts himself but as yet they weren’t bleeding.
All right, that’s it, he smiled with relief, towelling his father’s face.
Maybe I should have shaved myself. Usually I only bother every other day. Like the lights in town, Dad. Only every one in two or three is switched on now. To save money.
Means it’s dark by three o’clock. And the fog not due to lift. That’s what I’ve heard. Boy, you can smell The Works from here in this weather. Holds all the fumes in. The fog’s like a pan lid. Almost as bad as it used to be before the clean-up.
Hey, I’ll put the kettle on, Dad. Fancy a cuppa? You can have the rest of that toast with it. What about that? Yes, you’ve made a mess with that toast, haven’t you? I said you’ve made a mess with the toast.
But no, we won’t call a nurse. We can clear it up ourselves, can’t we? We can do that. And I can make fresh.
Because I’m being spoiled just now, you know. Got this young couple staying over, and they do bits and pieces.
Yes, there’s Glan and his partner, Serene. Good-looking girl, Serene. And purple hair, dad. You should see her long purple hair. Like that woman who used to live in Senhora Street. Remember her? Only her hair was red. Not purple.
And Glan, he’s all right. Even though he drinks all my wine. Worse than me for red wine, Dad.
You see, Glan and Serene will both be working in Badfinger. Started already, really. You know, my shop? Badfinger, it’s called. I’m training them. Giving them work experience. Selling books and records and CDs, Dad. All sorts. We sell all sorts there. Just what The Caib needs, people say. Something for the kids.
You see, it’s difficult for young people now, Dad. Bloody hard. Maybe impossible, we’re making it so hard. Much tougher than when I was their age. When I was as old as Glan. I had it easy compared with them.
As to Badfinger, it’s on Caib Street. And I’m living in the flat above the shop. Yes 33, Caib Street. Like you’re in Room 33. In this mansion in the sand. Coincidence, eh? No, the flat’s not huge. But there’s a spare room for Glan and Serene.
Look, I’ll boil that kettle in the kitchen. Be back in a sec. Oh, coffee or tea, Dad? Feels like coffee time to me. I know, make it strong.
Hey, I walked all the way. How about that then? Up off the beach and over the rocks. Over the pebbles, Dad. Across the scree.
Way past what we used to call The Tramlines. Not sure how I’ll get back. They’ve stopped so many buses round here.
But I thought it seemed quiet downstairs. No crises for once? No birthdays with sherry? That’s a relief. And yes, I can do more toast. No probs.
Oh and Dad, another question for you. What’s pink and rose and all the greys and all the whites and all the blues until the blues get as far as indigo?
Kind of a riddle, Dad. Well, it’s the sky, isn’t it? The sky around here. Yes, The Caib sky. When you can see the sky that is. Mad as the mist, eh Dad, that’s me. Mad as the mist and snow.
IV
When Parry pushed open the door of Room 33 he was holding a tray with two full mugs of coffee and a plate of buttered toast. An alarm was ringing down the corridor.
No porridge, he smiled. But if you don’t fancy this, don’t worry. Though I do. See, I remember where the nurses keep their bread. And their butter.
Because they like a bit of toast at night. Don’t they, those nurses? Oh yes, I recall. Though I know it’s been a while, Dad. Yes, I admit. It’s been a while.
Jack seemed in the same position as when his son had left the room. Parry put the tray down and checked his father’s face.
Pretty smooth, though I say it myself. Not a bad barber, am I? Just wipe off this little bit of soap.
Parry thought his father might have bled, but the shaving cuts hadn’t opened.
Dig in then, he ordered. I’m starving after that walk. And maybe the fog’s making me hungry. So another question, Dad. Does a morning of foul and filthy air stir the appetite? Answers on a postcard please to Badfinger, 33, Caib Street.
But I can see you’ve lost weight, Dad. Haven’t you? Yes, you’ve really lost more weight. And no colour, Dad. There’s no colour in you at all. Like this weather, Dad.
Parry sipped his coffee and gazed down on the two horses. They were standing together, still immobile.
What are those horses’ names, then? The nurses must know. You should ask them, Dad. Ask the nurses. Find out the horses’ names.
Jack Parry sighed and looked at his son. Then he glanced away again.
Listen, said Parry. I was thinking about this when making our breakfast. Thinking about something in Australia. A simple little story like I used to tell my classes.
You see I was working in a high school in Adelaide. Teaching the children about art and painting and music. About all sorts, Dad.
But I also rented a shop in a little town about sixty miles away. Just to create some sort of a scene, you see. Somewhere for young people to go.
To hang out, Dad, is what they call it. Like I’m doing now on The Caib. At 33, Caib Street, Dad. Somewhere for the kids to hang out.
Yeah, we’ll see if it works. We’ll see. Make our assessment next June, say. But we’ll give it a full year.
Oh yes, have to try it for at least one year. Probably two. Because I know trade will be ragged at first. Everything will be really, really slow to begin with.
It always is around here, isn’t it, Dad? You know that. Yeah, like a glacier melting. Like limestone being laid down.
Parry took a draught of his coffee. You know what limestone’s made of, Dad? Lilies? That’s right, sea lilies. Year after year after year. One lily on top of another lily. Uncountable years. Uncountable lilies because there wasn’t anyone around to count them. Was there?
Well, I don’t think there was. And those lilies died every year. Until there were enough lilies to turn into stone. To turn into limestone, dad. To become stone.
V
Parry looked out into the fret. A nurse in a blue tunic was brushing the mane of one of the horses. The two horses were standing close together. Almost nose to nose. Their breath was the same colour as the fog. Despite the cold, the nurse had
bare arms.
Big numbers, Dad. And of course, they’re beyond me. I should have worked harder at my physics. And my geology. Shouldn’t I?
But I thought about this in Goolwa, when I went to live there. Because I lived in a shop in the high street, Dad. Like I’m doing here at number 33.
And in Goolwa I worked with a friend who loved stars. She used to tell me stories about stars. How many stars there were and how far apart those stars were.
So one night, I said, come on. Let’s sleep outside. Give me an idea of what you’re talking about.
Be nice to see stars, again, eh, Dad? Don’t feel I’ve seen a real star for weeks. Where’s old Orion when you need him, Dad? Or Venus, burning over the dunes?
Okay, you know me. I might have had a glass of wine or a bottle of beer. Well, it was warm, that night in Oz, after a hot day. And there was a clear sky and no light pollution. So we took a blanket each and a bedroll. No, no sleeping bags. And we camped out.
The weather was dry, bone dry. See, it was a drought, Dad. No dew or dewfall, no river mist, no sea mist. No fog. And we lay down on the river bank, the bank of the Murray river. The current sliding past, only a few yards away, Dad. Two or three yards away.
You know, I felt I could have reached out my hand and touched the water, that black river water. Black as tar, it was. A slow torrent of oil.
And the current was low, Dad. I could smell the river. That old Murray, hurrying past. Yeah, I could inhale it. Like I can smell the tide here on the slipway. Sewage and sand and salt and seaweed. The smell that will follow me till I die.
So why am I telling you all this, Dad? Because I was thinking about someone I used to teach with. Libby, Dad, you’d have liked Libby. Had an edge to her, did Libby.
No, she didn’t do or say the obvious. Libby was the headmaster’s wife, Dad. But she wasn’t crushed by it. She was still a functioning human being. No side. At least when I knew her.
But she told me a story about breaking down in her car, miles from anywhere. Way west of Adelaide, Dad. Out on the Nullabor.
Seems she waited all night and no other vehicle passed. Hard to believe, but that’s Australia. The country’s empty. And so big you can’t comprehend it.
Limestone Man Page 19