Stillways

by Steve Bisley

  The pub closed at ten, and every night, except Sunday, Fish would be waiting out the front on the footpath, to steer his father home, get his shoes off and get him to bed. In those days pubs were closed on Sundays so Fish’s old man drank at home on a barstool Fish had found at the tip and brought home for him. He’d start at ten and drink till ten, seven days a week, three hundred and sixty five days a year. It was like watching a slow suicide. Little did I know.

  Back in the car, Fish’s old man’s Scotch gets passed around. I don’t go hard on it; it’s going to be a long night.

  ‘Who we picking up?’ asks Fish.

  ‘You’ll see!’ says Brooksey as he swings the car off the highway into one of the new estates next to the golf course north of the town.

  ‘Who lives down here, fuckhead?’ I ask.

  ‘Jesus Christ, you blokes are like a couple of old sheilas. “Who are we picking up?” “Who lives down here?” Just wait and see!’

  We drive down streets lined with the skeletons of new houses under construction. Brooksey turns into a street where the houses are completed, with cars in the driveways and lights in the windows. We stop in front of a blond-brick house with rolls of fresh turf stacked beside the garage. Brooksey kills the headlights.

  ‘Jump in the back, will ya, Bizo?’ and he’s out the door and moving.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say to no one, puzzled. I get in the back seat with Fish and try to hold his hand.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he says, and has another belt of the Scotch.

  ‘You better go easy there, tiger, or your old man’ll be helping you home for a change,’ I say. ‘Who’s gunna get him from the pub while you’re at the dance, or are you just gunna leave him there till tomorrow?’ I laugh, so does Fish.

  ‘No, dickhead. I had a word to the publican today, and they’re gunna bring him back and dump him in the hammock on the front verandah. I left a blanket for him before I came out. They should bring him home every night, given the amount of money he’s dropped on them over the years. Reckon he just about owns the pub by now.’

  Brooksey’s in the house now; I can see him talking to someone through the open front door.

  ‘What’s he doing in there? All the good-looking sheilas will be taken by the time we get to the formal,’ says Fish.

  Then he’s coming down the drive and he’s got a girl with him but I can’t make out who it is.

  ‘Sly dog!’ whispers Fish as they get close to the car. The front doors open together and the interior light blinks on as they both slide in. Brooksey turns to face us.

  ‘This is Susan Green; Sue this is Bizo and Fish. You remember Sue from primary school, don’t ya, Bizo? She was in our class.’

  She turns and in a heartbeat I’m in love with her again.

  She’s just as I remember her. The deep blue of her eyes, the fine nose and the full mouth with the dimples when she smiles. The only difference is she’s more beautiful than I remember, absolutely soul-destroyingly, ravishingly beautiful.

  ‘Yeah, hi. How’s it going?’ I haven’t got a thought in my head and I’m surprised that my mouth is working.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you. It’s good to see you!’

  Fish offers her the Scotch and she declines it with a smile. The doors close and thankfully the inside of the car goes dark. I finally remember to breathe as Brooksey points us to the highway. I can’t speak. I haven’t seen her in four years but it feels like a lifetime. This is the Susan Green, the most beautiful girl in primary school. My first love. The girl I should have taken to the final dance back then and now, four years later, I’m at another final dance and again she’s with someone else. This is the Central Coast version of Romeo and Juliet, two star-crossed lovers destined never to be together. There’s never an apothecary around when you need one.

  I feel like I’m on the edge of some kind of madness. I reach for Fish’s Scotch in the dark and gulp the liquor down. This is the girl it took me a year to get over and now I’m back in the sadness of first losing her. I know it was young love, but it hurt like hell, it really hurt, and it still does.

  ‘You living back here now?’ asks Fish from the dark.

  ‘No, we moved to Sydney when I left primary school. I’m just back visiting my aunty, and Wayne asked me to the formal.’

  I want to throw myself out of the car and under a passing truck.

  We’re suddenly in the glare of the lights of the car park behind the school hall and I don’t want to be here.

  ‘Listen, I have to go and make sure the band’s got everything they need, so I’ll see you in there,’ and I’m out of the car and gone. Running away, always running away. I run past the hall and veer down the embankment to the level surface of the back oval, the white sticks of the far goalposts like bright sentinels in the gloom. I make for the tree line and go deep into the bush under the canopy of the looming gums. Then I cry. I cry about Susan, just to get myself going. I cry about leaving home. I cry about my broken family, about the end of things and the beginnings of other things, and when I run out of things to cry about I dig deep and find still more things till I am empty and dry.

  I hear the sounds of cars coming, the slam of closing doors, motors revving and the band starting up, the staccato beat of the drums, the shrill voices of girls and the boom of the MC at the microphone. I make my way from the oval to the boys’ toilets and sluice my face with water till the redness goes and my eyes clear.

  I find the back door to the hall and go in through it and circle up the short run of stairs to the stage. I busy myself with the coils of leads to the amplifiers and pretend I’m working till my mood lifts and my spirits lighten. I head back down the stairs to the auditorium and meet Mr Cassidy, my English teacher, who introduces me to his young wife. ‘This is Stephen Bisley, who was Romeo in our production of Romeo and Juliet earlier this year.’

  ‘I saw you,’ she says. ‘It must have been quite a challenge.’

  ‘Yeah, it was,’ I reply. She doesn’t know the half of it. I wish I had a sword right now. I excuse myself and head through the bodies to the tables of food and drink.

  ‘What’ll you have, Stevie?’ asks one of the mums and I go for a sausage roll and a cup of cordial.

  Dicky Dunn appears at my elbow and whispers, ‘Don’t drink that shit, mate, have some of this – it’ll put hairs on your balls.’ He offers me a large bottle of Coke.

  I lift it and smell the bourbon way before it gets to my mouth. ‘Jesus, how much Coke’s in this?’

  ‘Not a whole lot. Get it into ya.’ His breath smells like new compost.

  ‘Maybe later,’ I say. ‘You should take it easy, mate – the prefects are around and they’re looking for anyone drinking.’

  Nothing’s going to deter Dicky though, and he heads off to find another accomplice. I finish my food and I’m ready for a dance. I drape my suit coat over the back of a chair and move out into the heat of the dance floor. There’s a group of girls from my class, just milling around together, and I drift over to join them.

  ‘Hey, it’s Bizo! You gunna dance?’

  ‘Where’s all ya mates?’

  It’s always the same, has been at every school dance I’ve ever been to. The girls out on the floor, shuffling around together, ready and willing, and further out in the half light, the boys, puffed up and strutting, all steak and no sizzle, waiting for something to happen, for someone to go.

  Tonight it’s me, and I don’t care, I’ve got nothing to lose, and no one to lose it with. I’m doing the best I can as the one bloke with a dozen girls, till the band launches into Chuck Berry’s ‘Johnny B. Goode’ – oh, yeah, mama! This is the song that can get the dead up and dancing and I defy anyone with two good legs to sit still when this number is playing. Now they’re coming like lemmings over a cliff and the band, sensing the tide is changing, really cranks it up. The lead guitarist is pulling major licks and by the time he hits the first guitar solo the hall is rocking.

  All the girls in my group get swept u
p in an instant and this party has started, one rock’n’roll number hammers into the next and the next, the teachers on the edges, dancing like dorks. Now the band’s got us where it wants us as they launch into the Rolling Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’, with the lead singer wailing and the drums crashing. Ties get loosened, shoes kicked off, the heat is rising till the final riff has everyone dripping with sweat.

  The band takes a break. I head out the back door for some air. I’m sitting on the top step of the concrete stairs that lead down to the car park when Dicky Dunn finds me again and crashes down beside me.

  ‘How the fuck are ya, Bizo?’ He’s slurring badly and the Coke bottle’s almost empty. His breath smells of recent vomit.

  ‘I’m good, mate, all good. How you doing? Got a job lined up yet?’

  ‘Job? Yeah, nah, yeah. The old man wants me to work with him on the concreting, but ya know something? What I really want to do – like you’ll never guess what it is, so don’t even try, right – ya know what I really want to do is I wanna join the army. I just wanna shoot someone, ya know? I just wanna shoot the fuck out of the Viet Cong before they get here and take all our good jobs, right? The old man reckons they’ll be here doing all the concreting jobs within the next five years. They’ll do it because they only get a dollar eighty a year in wages and they can live in a tree, Bizo, a fucking tree. Ya know what I mean, don’t ya, Bizo?’

  ‘Yeah, Dicky, I know what you mean, mate, and good luck with it.’

  ‘Hey, Bizo, you wanna joint, mate? Jonesey’s got some gear and they’re rolling one down behind the ag shed. I’m going there now – wanna come?’ With that he’s on his feet and moving.

  ‘I might see ya down there, mate. I’m going for a leak.’

  ‘Pooftah!’ he yells and disappears into the gloom.

  I head back in to the heat and noise of the hall to see what’s happening. Suddenly I see her. Susan. She is standing in a group with Brooksey close beside her. I’m okay about it now, I’ve let the pain go, released her – not that she was ever mine to let go. Would have, could have, should have.

  I see Brooksey catch me looking and he whispers something in Susan’s ear. She breaks away from the group and walks through the wide front doors into the night. Now he’s heading towards me through the crowd but I’m not ready to hear whatever it is he has to say to me and I head out through the back door and make my way to the boys’ toilets.

  I’m at the urinal when he joins me and unzips. I’ve known him since we were knee high. We’ve been as close as brothers without the ties of blood, and friends through everything.

  ‘How’s your night?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, good mate, all good. How’s Susan?’ I manage to ask.

  ‘She’s good, she wants to go, so I’m going to run her home – but I’m coming back, so make sure you’re here when I do, ’cause you and I are gunna party.’

  Something shifts. I zip and head to the basins.

  ‘Why’s she going?’

  He joins me at the sink. No answer, just the sound of water.

  ‘Why’s she going home? It’s only nine-thirty.’

  He looks at me.

  ‘You know something, Bizo? Sometimes you need your arse kicked, you know that?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘She’s going home because she thinks you’re not interested in her. The only reason she’s here is because of you.’

  ‘I thought you and her were …’

  ‘Me and Susan? Give it a break, mate, she’s my cousin. Even if I was interested in her, there’s a law against that sort of thing – except in certain states in America, where it’s compulsory. I’ve got an idea: why don’t you go and try to get her to stay? She’s waiting out by my car. Here’s the keys. You know the dirt track that leads up to the dam? If I was you I’d take her for a spin up there and show her the view, the one outside the car. Make sure you’re back by twelve, but, ’cause I gotta be home by one. Two prizes in one week. You’re doing all right, mate; you’re doing just fine.’ He drops the car keys into my hand, grins at me for too long, and leaves.

  I found her at the car.

  Susan and I didn’t see a lot of the dam. We saw a lot of each other, though.

  I finally got home at three am. Brooksey was too pissed to drive so I hitchhiked and got a lift with a paper truck going north. I was in the laundry, trying to get one of my shoes off in the dark and thinking I was being quiet about it, when suddenly the bare bulb above my head flicked on and Dad was at the door in a blue dressing gown.

  I drop the bomb.

  ‘We’ve never had a father-and-son relationship,’ I say as calmly as I can manage.

  I wait.

  He turns and leaves.

  The damage done.

  Celibacy

  Not long after I finished my exams I applied for a job. I’d seen it in the employment section of the Sydney Morning Herald and it had my name written all over it. It was a cadetship in the advertising department of Woolworths’ head office in Sydney, just opposite the Town Hall.

  The applicant was to be trained as a graphic artist and would be required to attend technical college two nights a week. I had done advanced art at school and thought I would be qualified. I talked it over with my parents and got their approval. I wrote the letter of application with help from Mum and included some examples of my work along with my exam results. It was the first week of November 1966, a month before my sixteenth birthday. A week later I received a reply asking me to attend an interview in Sydney on the Monday of the following week. We arranged for me to stay at Gran’s place in Epping. I had made up my mind to live in Sydney and now it felt like a door was creaking open.

  I left on the train on Saturday morning.

  I’m on the train with my life in a suitcase. Mum had taken me shopping and I had new slacks. I also had a summer-weight sports coat, which meant it was lightweight. It was so lightweight you could shoot peas through the fabric. Slacks and a summer-weight sports coat. I had two new white shirts, cufflinks, a thin red tie and new shoes by Julius Marlow that pinched a bit when I walked. I had a jar of Brylcreem and three hankies still in the box, socks, undies, two combs, a mouth organ in the key of D and a book by James Joyce. I had a new wallet given to me last Christmas which until this morning had still been in the box. I had a condom in the corner of the wallet, which made a perfect circle shape through the leather, and although I hadn’t really had sex it made me look like an experienced lover, a Casanova, a scoundrel. Whenever I got the wallet out I made sure I placed it circle side up in the hope that it might attract some loose women.

  The compartment I was in had two long padded seats between the window and the sliding door which led to the passageway that ran the entire length of the carriage. I left the sliding door open with my wallet beside me on the seat, circle side up, in case there were any loose women riding the train looking for love with a stranger. We hadn’t left the station yet but, as always, I was fairly optimistic.

  I could see how it might happen. Some haunted blonde, running from a drug-crazed husband and a troubled past, would lurch down the passageway, steady herself at the open door of my compartment and see me through the tears of regret. She would dab at the corners of her almond-shaped eyes with an exquisite silk handkerchief, her breasts straining at the thin fabric of her blouse, her fishnet stockings spidering across her long legs. Then, gathering herself, she would step through the door and into my life.

  The blonde eased herself into the vacant seat opposite me. I felt her eyes on me, all over me. Then they shifted and she let them drift down my perfectly ironed slacks to the wallet on the seat beside me. The wallet with the perfect circle etched into the fine grain of the leather. Her eyes lingered and she got the message loud and clear. Her red lips parted and the corners of her mouth curled into a smile. I flicked my blues up from the magazine and hit her with the high beam. My look said, ‘Maybe?’

  I drifted back to the magazine and the article on wh
ale blubber and its dietary importance to the Eskimos, knowing that it was just a matter of time, and time was something I never wasted. Never.

  Her next move came sooner than I expected. She unfolded those long legs and walked to the compartment door, slid it closed and locked it tight, real tight. I reached for the packet of Luckies in the breast pocket of my lightweight sports jacket, flipped one between my moist lips and torched it with the Zippo. I felt her fingers on my slacks, tracing the razor edge of the crease, higher and higher till finally she found my – ‘All change at Gosford for the Sydney train on platform two! Hey, mate, got yer ticket there for me?’

  I woke up to find the conductor shaking me. I looked at him blankly.

  ‘Ticket, please! Ticket?’

  I was on a train, yes, Sydney, ticket.

  ‘Sorry, um …’

  I fumbled for my wallet and remembered it was on the seat beside me. I opened it, still clumsy with sleep. The condom fell on the floor and landed beside one of his square black shoes.

  ‘Bit young to be packing one of those, aren’t ya? I’d put it away, if I was you, and give it back to your dad when you get home.’

  How did he know I’d nicked it? Did he know about the white box? Did he know Dad?

  I found the ticket and offered it to him.

  ‘Well, this train terminates here and the Sydney train leaves from platform two in twenty minutes. Better not leave that lying there either – might fall into the wrong hands. Might end up with somebody who actually knows how to use it, eh?’

  I bought a cheese and pickle sandwich from the kiosk on the platform and, when I’d finished it, I stood behind a potted shrub and eased the condom out of my wallet. I wrapped it in the brown paper bag that the sandwich had come in and when I was sure the coast was clear I placed it deep inside a rubbish bin. Then I made my way to platform two, a reformed and celibate man.

  Gran’s house

  I love Gran’s house – it’s warm and welcoming, just like Gran. She meets me at the door and hugs me close. The smell of lavender and powder wraps around me.