‘You mean, Luke knew? Oh my God. That’s dreadful.’ She turns away from Jim, looks down the street and waits for her embarrassment to disappear. Jim smiles and stares up at the statue when he speaks.
‘It’s not too bad. He didn’t let on to you that he knew. Some little sisters get tortured by their brothers for things like that.’
‘I suppose so. Jim, I was sad when you went away. You looked as if someone had . . . dressed you up in that uniform.’
‘It felt like it for a long time.’
‘I was so mad at Jenny. For what she did . . . I put dog shit in her handbag.’
Jim laughs. ‘Did you? Good!’
‘Don’t tell her, will you. No one knows that I did it. It was a big drama in the neighbourhood for a long time.’
Jim nods. They look at each other. He stays quiet but wants to tell her to be careful about what she and Oscar do to people like him. To warn her that people who have been over there can’t help how they react; Oscar might say the wrong thing or show that star on his bag to the wrong person and Maddie might get hurt too. That these are truly dangerous people who are finding it hard to come back and be the same as before they left. But Jim doesn’t want to scare her and so he says nothing.
‘It was horrible?’
He shrugs. ‘It wasn’t too bad.’
What he wants to do is take her by the shoulders and look into her eyes and tell her the truth. That it was beyond horrible. Horrible is having to lie motionless and let a poisonous snake slide over your leg because you are in a ditch that is its home and you are hiding from a man with a gun who will blow your arm off your shoulder. Beyond horrible is holding someone you have never met before as your friends try to press his intestines back into the hole in his stomach and your trousers are drenched with his blood while you look at him, trying to think of something to say. He knows he is about to die just as you do and the memory of the look in his eye and the way the grip of his hand goes from strong and desperate to soft and flaccid is something that doesn’t fade. That’s what is beyond horrible. That’s what he thinks about at night sometimes and what he feels he has a responsibility to keep to himself.
But Maddie must have seen something of his thoughts written across his face. She has gone white. Jim reaches for her and holds her as her whole body shakes with sobs. He holds her for a couple of minutes. Then she pulls back from him.
‘I’m so sorry, Jim. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’
She turns and runs home. Just as she used to do when he and Lukewarm teased her. Jim watches her, unable to call out.
Hay can than cua con rong ban danh thuc.
Beware of which sleeping dragons you awaken.
The reverend from the church at the end of Currawalli Street is a big man. He is comfortable with his size and that confidence makes him somewhat disarming, rather than imposing. He used to think people were drawn to him because of his character, his eloquence, his courage, even his sense of humour, but eventually he realised that they liked to stand close to him because of the power that lies just behind his gentle manner. Men tell him things that they probably don’t tell their friends. Women tell him things that they don’t tell their husbands.
His name is Jan Domak. His wife is Sally. They live in the manse next to the church. They have been there for five years; the bishop has no interest in moving his reverends around. Jan doesn’t mind; he likes it here. The double murder was a little bit confronting but he was able to draw on the things he knew of violence and its consequences and he found some appropriate passages from the Bible to assist those in his congregation who were suffering.
It is a striking thing, he thinks as he walks down Currawalli Street towards Little Road, that the art of living can be shrouded in so much unimportant incidental dust that it is easily forgotten just how fragile life is and what a thin knife edge each human being walks along between life and death. And when someone falls as hard as the Oatleys did, how devastating it is, to people who should know better—himself included.
This afternoon he has forsaken his collar for a turtle-neck jumper. The Choppingblock Hotel is where he is headed.
That strange thing has happened again.
Three weeks ago, in the pub, a woman made a wordless erotic suggestion to him with her eyes and her lips. Since then, as is his custom, he has stood in the public bar of the Choppingblock Hotel at four o’clock in the afternoon every Tuesday and Thursday and she has been there in the ladies lounge opposite him and made the same suggestions in the same unmistakable way. So he is striding confidently towards the hotel today to see if he can gently move the adventure forward. The first time something like this happened, he expected to feel guilt and remorse—for his wife, Sally, who has never done him any ill, and for the church and his calling, which have also never done him harm. But, truth be told, all of these episodes have given him a deeper understanding of his married life, his religious devotion, and even himself. He knows that if anything beyond a physical attraction ever develops then it will have devastating effects on those things. But he is not planning to let this happen. It is this realisation and decision that puts the spring in his step and makes the coins in his pocket jingle.
He knows that this woman lives in Currawalli Street and that she is aware of what line of work he is in, because he has seen her and her family in the Sunday congregation and she has also seen him with Sally. So she knows too that he is married. But desire is an untameable beast that must, on occasions, be given its head. And so on he walks, to feed the beast. They are the words he uses in his head. And he laughs aloud because it sometimes sounds as if a destructive monster is about to be released, when in fact he is doing nothing more than seeing if an arrangement can be made between two consenting adults. There is nothing to feel guilt or remorse about; it is just playful subterfuge.
He walks in the front door of the hotel, looks briefly up at the tin mugs on the wall and, as he always does, greets the barman, who sets a coaster in the spot where Jan always stands and then turns to pour his drink. Jan walks up to the bar, touches the coaster once and looks up. Through the bottles and glasses, he looks into the ladies lounge. She is there, and she returns his look. He glances meaningfully down at his hand and, after the barman has placed his drink on the coaster, he turns his hand over and opens it, palm up. In fact, he fully extends it, and as he does he looks at her. It is a strange movement for somebody to make and he sees a ripple go through her as she tries not to show any excitement. His gesture is an open hand accepting her invitation. No one else looking on would know that, but she does. He watches her take a deep breath and feels the need to do so as well. They breathe out at the same time.
Her friend, sitting with her at the table, says something and quickly she turns to answer. The moment is slow to be swallowed up by the lunatic orchestra of voices and the cigarette smoke, but it gradually disappears and he attends to his drink. He watches her as she draws heavily on a cigarette and listens to her companion’s comments. Only once does she look up at him again; it is only for a very tiny moment and there is no readable expression in her eyes but that look is branded like a flash in his mind. This situation is one that will drive him crazy if he does not do something about it. He knows that about himself.
Suddenly she and her companion are standing and picking up their bags. They walk through the public bar to the door. She is looking the other way as she brushes up against him but he feels the warm touch of her hand as she passes a small piece of paper into his. The same hand that he opened. He looks elsewhere. He hears the front door close and feels the blood running up his neck behind his ears. He holds the note, if that’s what it is, tightly in his hand and finishes his drink. He quickly orders another and makes a show of looking through his wallet for the money. When the drink is delivered, he feels that he can unfold and read the note as if it is something he has come across in his wallet.
&n
bsp; 483 5202 Between 6.15 and 6.20.
He puts the note into his jacket pocket and finishes his drink much more quickly than he normally does. He says goodnight to the man standing at the bar next to him; it happens to be his neighbour in Currawalli Street, an odd but friendly man with lively eyes and long scraggly hair who claims to be Polish. He is opening his mouth trying to say something as Jan walks away.
Jan leaves the hotel by the front door and is at his desk in the church office by five thirty, looking over some receipts but paying no attention to the figures. He sits at his desk for a while then stands up and walks around the room. At sixteen minutes past six he rings the number on the note. It rings once before she picks it up.
‘Yes?’
‘I am at the office, working. I’ll be here till late. Do you know where it is?’
‘Yes, out the back of the church.’
‘Come through the main doors. They are the only ones that are open.’
‘I might just do that.’ She hangs up while Jan is waiting for her next word.
And so begins an affair that happily exists only in the twilight gloom of a church office. Never will it be acknowledged elsewhere.
Sally Domak has always walked fast. Her steps are small but her legs move quickly. She is used to having to stop and wait for walking companions to catch up to her. It is something she has been doing all her life. That’s one of the reasons she prefers to walk alone. She walks up and down Currawalli Street as often as anybody else but is so intent on walking that she doesn’t see in the front yards or on the verandas the people waiting for her to address them.
She generally leaves for university early in the morning, intent on catching the express train. It is earlier than she needs to leave but this is the train she wants to catch. The man who was the stationmaster told her about it on the platform one morning. She had seen him at church but didn’t realise that he lived in Currawalli Street. He is no longer the Choppingblock stationmaster but, like all decent occupations, his job will not leave him alone even though he has finished with it. She used to talk to him at the station often, but then she began to catch this earlier train. He doesn’t look up from his broom so early in the morning.
She likes Currawalli Street at this time. The night has picked up her skirts and left and the day has just stretched the sleep out of her bones and is easing into the business at hand. Willy-willies are a different colour; they carry the pink of the early morning sun and rise higher in the lighter air. The statue of the soldier glistens with dew, delicate lines of spider webs drift into her face, the sound of her quick steps echoes in the quiet street. Sometimes she can still hear Jan snoring as she closes the front gate. Not because he is a loud snorer but because she is attuned to it.
At first, Sally went to university to study European painting but midway through she switched to social studies. In some ways she feels like she is waking up for the first time. That’s why she didn’t tell Jan about changing courses. She suspects now that he has happily kept her in a state of slumber ever since they have been married. She has realised that keeping secrets is as much a part of a marriage as confessions and disclosures.
The university is on the outskirts of the city proper and Sally spends her whole day discussing with other women what they are happy about, what they are angry about, and what they can do to change what they think must be changed. The course is called social studies but most of her classmates have crossed out the word ‘social’ on their notebooks and replaced it with ‘women’s’.
And today they are marching on the city in the first of a series of strategic demonstrations.
Sally steps off the train and begins to work out what she needs to organise in what order. She is in the university grounds before anybody else and by the time that her classmates arrive, most of the preparation is done.
The protest chants are carefully orchestrated; Sally organises choir practices after class that appear at first to be quite innocent and unremarkable. But this is where the most powerful chants are chosen and arranged. Lessons have been learned from rallies around the world. Women have returned from Lebanon, Thailand, Burma, Guatemala, China and Ireland, places where the power of voices chanting in unison is recognised. Sometimes the windows seem to rattle, even when there is no chanting.
The anecdote that galvanises all of Sally’s classmates and what binds them to their concerns is one that she innocently told one morning over a cup of tea. How Jan likes to ask her questions about her study but never listens to the replies. Yet he considers himself to be an enlightened man. And every woman had a similar story.
And as far as she is concerned, therein lies the real issue. Probably most men need only to be woken up rather than beaten over the head. The enemy doesn’t lie in men; it lies elsewhere. Men and women, in different ways, have both been suppressed by discrimination and chauvinism. That’s the opinion she currently holds, especially when she sits across the table from Jan and sees in his eyes the delight that he has always shown when he is with her.
The rally begins as a decent downhill walk to the centre of the skyscrapers, far enough away that the most passionate and strident of chants begins to sound tired and unconvincing by the time any protest reaches the parliament building that signifies the centre of the city. And so it was Sally’s suggestion to stay silent until the marchers turn the corner into the main street.
And as they walk the silence becomes powerfully dramatic. Anybody who sees the line of silent marching women, their heads bowed, thinks they are witnessing a religious ceremony of great richness and intense dread. The silence held along the line makes the energy of the marching women grow. And so the strong ranks are among the shoppers and businessmen before anybody has time to comprehend the meaning of their presence, and when they begin their chant, it is like an explosion: the resonating calls like weapons, slashing and stabbing at the occupants and representatives of the Establishment.
Peter Alexis, the young Polish man with the wild eyes and long scraggly hair who lives at number thirteen, is resigned to living alone. At this very moment, two o’clock precisely in the afternoon, he is seeing a young woman out the front door. It is for the first and last time. He doesn’t know it for sure yet, although he suspects it.
Most people think Peter is strange. Sometimes, strange in the simplest of ways. In quaint, gentle ways. Sometimes not; some people think that his apparent simplicity hides a tangled and dangerous complexity just under the surface. He is not disliked; he is just best left alone.
On some days, strange is too strong a word for Peter. Odd is better.
Merryn is turning the screen door handle as she listens to Peter continue his story about a casual evening he once had in Geelong. The tightness of her grip belies the pleasant expression on her face. She feels that it is okay to turn and look at Peter now that the door is swinging open.
‘So remember,’ he says, ‘Friday night is my Electronic Music Night. Once a month without fail. I stay home and listen to some music. I get Chinese food. It’s a real buzz. Can you be here at seven thirty this Friday?’
‘I don’t think I want to. Look, Peter, I’m not sure that we’re suited. We should let this settle down and see what is there before . . . before.’
‘But this is only the first time you have come around.’ The smile leaves Peter’s face as he realises what Merryn is saying. ‘Oh I see . . . I understand . . . Well, thanks very much. It was really good getting to know you.’
‘I’m sorry, Peter. I wish it could be different.’
‘Don’t worry about it. At least you came around. That’s the main thing. Are you going to be okay to get home?’
‘Of course. I’ll just walk down to the station. I’m glad there are no hard feelings.’
Peter looks confused. ‘So am I. See you later.’
Merryn walks to the front gate. It’s a sunny afternoon. The do
or is already closed when she looks back. She won’t visit him again. She had liked the look of Peter when she met him at her sister’s boyfriend’s party. She thought he was shy because he didn’t say very much. She was pleased to come to his home and see his cat paintings when he asked. She likes artists. But she soon realised he was not what she thought he was. Which is more her fault than his. She has always misjudged people, especially men; she often assumes there is more to them than there actually is.
To her right is another house, a little grander than Peter’s, then the little park with the statue of the soldier with the bowed head and, beside that, the church. She stops and looks at the church again. The letter ‘T’ has fallen off the sign on the wall and so it reads the church of chris. She laughs. She turns and begins to walk down the street. Across the road a young man is trimming a long-established honeysuckle growing along a fence. She likes honeysuckle. He stops pruning to look at her. She looks back at him, unafraid of meeting his eye. There is something about this man gardening that gives her an unusual courage. He is thin and muscled like a circus worker. His cropped hair is black and his shirt looks too small for him. Perhaps he hasn’t worn it for a long time, she thinks.
‘What made me think that?’ She speaks aloud but quietly to herself. The young man is still looking at her. He has seen her lips move.
‘I love honeysuckle!’ she calls out.
‘Good for you!’ he calls back.
She smiles and walks on. Then she hears footsteps behind her. When she turns he is standing there. He has green combat boots on. They look well worn. She looks up at his face. The shadow of the jungle is there. Not that she recognises it for what it is.
He hands her a spray of honeysuckle. ‘There you are,’ he says. He is halfway back across the street before she can call out thanks. He either doesn’t hear or ignores her. She resumes walking. At the end of the street she turns and looks back again. He has disappeared.
Currawalli Street Page 17