The Simple Things

by Bill Condon

  I nod, knowing she’s right. Only dogs are nice all the time.

  ‘But,’ she says, ‘perhaps I could manage it, just now and then. Only for you. No one else.’

  ‘That would be good. And I’ll help you, too.’

  ‘Just don’t go locking me in toilets any more – that’s all the help I need from you.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And no more tears. That’s an order.’

  ‘Okay.’ I blow my nose one last time. ‘Here’s your hanky back. Thanks.’

  She says I can keep it.

  I take a look at all the things around me in the shed. First thing I see is the door leading to the secret room Dad talked about. I know that’s what it is because there’s a big padlock on the door. Aunty Lola sees me looking.

  ‘What’s in that room, Aunty Lola?’

  ‘Nothing for you to concern yourself with. Or for anyone else. It’s private.’

  Dad was right. There must be something in there that’s pretty special. I don’t think Aunty Lola likes me even looking at the door. That’s okay. There are lots of other things to explore; cups and medals and heaps of faded coloured ribbons.

  ‘Did you win these when you rode horses, Aunty Lola?’

  She nods.

  There’s horsey stuff everywhere. A cobwebby saddle lies on the bench. The walls are covered with horse pictures. The best one is a framed painting of a white horse, rearing up on its hind legs.

  ‘That’s a really nice horse, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Blazeabout.’

  ‘Could he run fast?’

  ‘Yes, he was fast and brave. I rode him over jumps in country shows. Blaze could fly. Or very nearly. He soared over the hurdles. I lost count of how many ribbons and cups we won.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Oh, he went where all the good horses go.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘How did—’

  ‘You’re wearing me out with your questions, Stephen. No more for a while.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Feel free to look around as much as you like. But don’t touch anything. Unless I give you permission. Understood?’

  ‘Understood.’

  Aunty Lola takes a tissue and wipes dust from a frame. In it is an old picture of a girl with curly black hair. She keeps on looking at it – the way you do when you really like someone.

  ‘Can I have one more question?’

  ‘Since you asked so nicely … ’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Kathleen Julia. My sister and my best friend. She had an accident when she was the same age as you.’

  I have questions: What sort of accident? Was she hurt bad?

  But Aunty Lola turns her back to me, like she’s put up a wall that I’m not allowed to climb.

  Now she sits at the bench, a large book opened in front of her.

  ‘This is my life,’ she tells me.

  I want to say ‘Huh?’, but I know I’d get into trouble. Instead, I sit beside her and she turns the pages. It doesn’t take me long to work out what I’m looking at. It’s Aunty Lola’s family book.

  ‘That’s my father … This is my mother.’ She puts a finger beside the photo of each person.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Another sister, Edith. She was your grandmother. It’s a pity you never knew her. She was a very special person. They all were.’

  I can’t see anything special. To me they’re only blurry, pale faces. Almost like ghosts. But Aunty Lola takes her time looking at every one of them. As if they’re still alive, and looking back at her.

  ‘This is me.’

  In an old-fashioned black stroller is a chubby baby, sound asleep.

  ‘Nooo. That’s not you – is it?’

  ‘It is.’

  I study the photo up close. Aunty Lola sure has changed.

  ‘Wasn’t I a sweet child?’

  ‘You were okay.’

  ‘Is that the best you can come up with?’

  ‘I think so. All babies look the same to me.’

  ‘Stephen, allow me to give you a lesson in good manners.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘When someone shows you a baby photo – no matter what the child may look like – you are meant to say the baby looks cute. That keeps everyone happy.’

  ‘You looked cute, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘Too late. Far too late.’

  She growls at me, like a lion whose tail I’ve stepped on. Then, once more, she flips through the pages.

  ‘That’s Kathleen again.’ Her eyes shine out of the small black-and-white photo.

  ‘She died not long after that was taken.’

  ‘Because of the accident?’

  ‘Yes.’

  That makes me feel sad, which is weird because it’s just a photo. But she looks like a lot of girls at my school. I almost feel like I know her.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ Aunty Lola says.

  She turns the page, quickly.

  ‘This was taken when I was a teacher.’

  Her finger rests beside a lady standing tall and straight. Her hair has tight orange curls. And she’s smiling. I look from the photo to Aunty Lola and back again.

  ‘But she doesn’t look anything like you.’

  ‘It’s me, all right. I was in my twenties then. We all change on the outside. You will, too. But on the inside we’re much the same.’

  ‘Does that mean that on the inside you’re young?’

  ‘Oh yes. On the inside I’m in my twenties.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘Or so I like to think.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Our bodies get old and wrinkly, but we still believe in the same things when we get older.’

  ‘What do you bel—’

  ‘Telling the truth, being hard but fair … And twisting the noses of bratty boys who ask too many questions.’

  I sway backwards, so my nose is out of reach.

  ‘Any more questions?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  Another page is turned. This time I see cards with a red elastic band around them. Aunty Lola slips off the band and spreads the cards across the bench.

  ‘Do you recognise these?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You should. They’re from you. I’ve kept all the cards you sent me.’

  I open a Christmas card. I’d drawn a green Santa with blue ears.

  ‘Yeah. I remember this one.’

  ‘Thought you might.’

  ‘My writing wasn’t very good then.’

  ‘It isn’t a lot better now.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘Practice. That’s all you need.’ Aunty Lola drums her fingers on my back. ‘Write to me more often. That will work wonders.’

  ‘I’m not a good speller yet. But I think I will be.’

  ‘One day.’

  ‘Do you get lots of cards?’

  ‘No. That’s why yours are important to me.’

  I only send her cards because Mum makes me. But when I get back home I’m going to send her a whole heap. Hope I don’t forget.

  ‘It’s getting chilly in here.’ Aunty Lola rubs her hands together. ‘Let’s go back to the house and get that heater going.’

  I don’t move, because, out of the corner of my eye, I see something interesting. It’s a wooden box, with a lock on it. Old and mysterious. I want to pick it up. And rattle it.

  Maybe it’s full of money. Or treasure!

  ‘You’re dying to open that, aren’t you, Stephen?’

  ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘Usually I’d tell you to keep your sticky fingers off it. But, since I’m making an effort to be nice … ’

  Please, please.

  Aunty Lola glances at a key hanging from a nail. ‘See if that fits. If it does, what’s inside the box is yours.’

  ‘Mine to keep?�
�

  ‘Yes, but be quick about it, or I’ll change my mind. You have ten seconds. One … ’

  I stretch as far as I can.

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You didn’t say two!’

  ‘Four.’

  Now I stand on the tips of my toes.

  ‘Five.’

  And snatch the key.

  ‘Six.’

  I push it into the lock.

  ‘Seven.’

  It won’t open!

  ‘Eight.’

  I’m desperate now. I try it around the other way.

  ‘Nine.’

  The key turns.

  ‘It’s open!’

  ‘Too slow.’ She grabs the box. ‘Better luck next time.’

  ‘But you didn’t say ten.’

  ‘Didn’t I? That’s easily fixed – ten.’

  ‘Nooo. You can’t do it like that, Aunty Lola. It’s not fair.’

  ‘It isn’t? Why is that?’

  ‘Because you went too fast. And you left out some numbers.’

  Her eyes twinkle.

  ‘Aunty Lola, are you making a joke?’

  ‘I might be.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Here you are.’ She smiles and hands me the box. ‘It’s all yours, as I promised.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  ‘Go on. Open it.’

  Carefully, slowly, I lift the lid.

  ‘Cars!’

  ‘You’re not too old to play with model cars, are you?’

  ‘Nuh. I’ve got heaps of them at home and I play all the time. Most of the ones I’ve got are plastic – but these are metal – almost like real cars! And I like all the colours, too. Look at this one – it’s got fins!’

  ‘They belonged to Joshua, my brother. You be sure to take care of them now.’

  ‘I will, Aunty Lola, I will.’

  I’m racing my cars under the kitchen table.

  Vrrroooom! Screech!

  Above me, Mum is trying to find out the names of Aunty Lola’s friends. She wants to invite them to the birthday party.

  Booooom!

  Two of my cars crash. One of them blows up and I make the explosion noise.

  ‘I’d like to help you, Rachael,’ Aunty Lola says. ‘However, as I’ve told you, I simply don’t have any friends.’

  ‘You must have some. Everybody does.’

  ‘Not me. I’ve always been an outsider. I’m used to it now.’

  A farm truck comes chug-chug-chugging along.

  Behind it is a big square car with a long bonnet.

  The driver toots the horn.

  Beep-beep!

  He yells to the truck driver:

  ‘Get out of my way – you’re too slow!’

  Beep-beep!

  The farm truck swerves to the side, almost bumping into Aunty Lola’s foot.

  I stare at the wormy blue lumps on her legs. Mum has ones like them, but not as big. They don’t kill you or anything. They just hurt. Mum told me.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’

  ‘Racing cars, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘Then play with care. I won’t have you breaking them. If I see you being too rough, they’ll be confiscated. You know what that means, don’t you?’

  ‘Yep. Sometimes kids in my class get stuff confiscated by the teacher. But she gives it back at the end of the day.’

  Aunty Lola snorts. ‘Well I’m not your teacher. I might give it back. And I might not.’

  I drive my cars away, carefully.

  ‘Now back to this birthday list,’ Mum says. ‘I need some names, Lola. What about Gladys Evans? You two used to get along well.’

  ‘Heart attack. Went out like a light. That’s the way I’d like to go. None of this hanging around.’

  I take a wind-up racing car out of the box and scrape its wheels along the wooden floor. It goes real good.

  Vrrroooom. Vrrroooom.

  I let it charge.

  Oh noooo!

  It crashes into Aunty Lola’s shoe.

  ‘Oops! I didn’t mean it!’

  ‘Now listen here, boy. You’re on your last warning.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. If my toe is attacked again, all your cars – and your driver’s licence – will be confiscated. Not for an hour. Not for a day. FOR EVER. Is that clear?’

  ‘But I haven’t got a driver’s licence.’

  ‘All the more reason why you shouldn’t be running amuck on the road – bumping into innocent people like me! Don’t you agree?’

  I duck down very low and squeak, ‘Yes.’

  ‘It might be better if you play over there, Stephen.’ Mum points to the hallway.

  Soon the cars are lined up at their new starting line. Their engines are roaring. I’m good at making engine noises. On the other side of the room, Mum and Aunty Lola are still talking.

  ‘Dorothy Thomas?’

  ‘Thomson, her name was. In a nursing home. Mind’s gone, poor thing.’

  ‘What about that man you taught with? Percy someone?’

  ‘Percy? I wouldn’t know where to look for him. Perhaps the cemetery would be a good starting point. He was even older than me. I’d say he’s left the planet.’

  Mum keeps putting up names. Aunty Lola keeps knocking them down.

  ‘This is terrible, Lola. I can’t think of anyone to invite to your birthday party.’

  ‘Then we’ll hear no more of it. A good thing, too. You don’t have parties at my age. You have funerals.’

  ‘Lola! That’s so negative.’

  ‘I don’t believe in running from the truth, Rachael. You face things head-on, that’s what you do.’

  It’s interesting listening to grown-ups talk, but the sound of Dad’s footsteps tramping down the hall interrupts.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hiya.’ As he turns to look at me he accidentally knocks some cars.

  ‘Sorry, Steve.’ He picks up a couple for a closer look. ‘I haven’t seen these before.’

  ‘Aunty Lola gave them to me.’

  ‘That’s kind of her.’

  ‘Will you play with me, Dad?’

  ‘Don’t know if I’ve got time right now.’

  ‘Maybe later?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. I have to talk to Mum first – and Lola.’

  Plenty of times I’ve thought about getting a number-two cut like Alister, but then Dad wouldn’t be able to ruffle my hair as he goes past, like he does now. He strolls towards Mum and Aunty Lola, but pauses next to the phone.

  ‘Phone’s off the hook, Lola,’ he says.

  Aunty Lola nods. ‘I know. That way I don’t get disappointed when no one rings me.’

  I don’t get it, but Dad seems to. ‘Fair enough,’ he says. Then he changes the subject. ‘Met your neighbour today – Norm. Seems like a nice fella.’

  ‘He’s someone we could invite,’ Mum says. ‘What do you say, Lola?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘He calls you Lolly,’ I tell her.

  Dad nods. ‘Yeah, that’s right. You made him that headband he had on. Did a fine job, too. Fair bit of work went into that.’

  Mum stares at Aunty Lola as if she’s seeing a different person.

  ‘What’s this all about?’ she asks.

  Aunty Lola shrugs. ‘It’s a plain and simple headband, not a work of art. His old one was in a terrible state. It was a disgrace, so I made him a new one. That’s all.’

  ‘Tell me more. This is very interesting.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’ Aunty Lola shifts in her seat. ‘He gave me vegetables from his garden. I thought it was only polite to repay him. Heavens, Rachael. It took me hardly any time to make the silly thing. Don’t go on about it.’

  ‘Aunty Lola?’

  ‘Are you going to cross-examine me, too?’

  I’m not sure how to answer, so all I do is open my mouth.

  ‘Out with it, Stephen. What’s your question?’

  ‘Mr Smith said yo
u used to give him eggs.’

  ‘Only because they would have been wasted otherwise.’

  ‘And you used to have lunch with him at the bowling club.’

  ‘What of it? That was at least two years ago.’

  ‘Sounds like you pair were an item,’ Mum teases.

  ‘Oh, poppycock.’

  ‘Are you sure we can’t invite him to the party?’

  ‘Now look here.’ Aunty Lola’s eyes flash angrily. ‘Norm and I had a friendship once, but we don’t any more. It’s over. Just like this conversation.’

  Dad is always the first one out of bed. He says he likes watching the day wake up. Most times back home, I don’t hear him. But I do now. The squeaky door wakes me.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’

  ‘Waiting for the sun to show itself. It’s quite a sight.’

  ‘Can I wait with you?’

  ‘Better not. It’s too early. You should probably go back to bed.’

  ‘But I’m wide awake. And I want to be with you. Can I, Dad?’

  ‘No way. You’re a nuisance.’

  He tries to keep a straight face, but a grin breaks through.

  ‘Daaad.’

  ‘Steeeve.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘Course you can stay.’

  We sit on the back steps. Dad has a rug over his legs, but when he sees me shiver, he puts it around my shoulders.

  ‘That better?’

  ‘Heaps.’

  ‘Here you go.’ He gives me his mug of hot chocolate. It’s nearly full. ‘This will get you even warmer.’

  It’s sweet and hot. I feel myself warming up with every mouthful.

  ‘Hit the spot, Steve?’

  ‘Bullseye!’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Dad, I was thinking about Mr Smith.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I like him. Do you?’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose.’

  ‘How come Aunty Lola doesn’t want to be his friend?’

  ‘Don’t know, Steve. You wouldn’t need to do much to upset her. He might be better off without her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because she can be a cranky old thing; a bit stubborn, difficult. Don’t you think?’

  ‘She gave me a box full of cars.’

  Dad grins. ‘You’re like your mum, you know that?’

  ‘The way I look?’

  ‘Nooo. You look like me – tall, dark and handsome.’

  ‘But not bald – eh, Dad?’