by Joy Dettman
‘Yeah. I’ll get back to that soon.’
‘You’d better.’ He placed his load down and offered his hand. She took it, pumped it hard, and he didn’t want to release her hand so he pumped it again. They laughed a while then grew quiet. ‘I’d like to say that it’s been nice knowing you, but you’re turning me into a nervous wreck.’
‘Thanks.’
His backpack and bedroll over a shoulder, her rubbish bags over the other, he moved towards the stairs.
‘Bye.’ She lifted a hand.
Two steps away, he turned. ‘Dare to dream, De Rooster. Dream big, and you’ll make it big. I’ve got faith in you.’
‘I will.’
And the bags were down again. ‘No you won’t. Once I’m not around to stir you, you’ll take some dead-end job to pay your rent and end up in the suburbs with five kids.’
She shrugged. ‘Worse fates, I suppose.’
‘Not much worse.’ His head was down, but his eyes, those big, soft eyes, were watching her face for a reaction as he said, ‘Pack a bag and fly with me.’
‘Too much junk to fly, Monk. I’m earthbound.’
He turned to the stairs, then changed his mind, walked to her door, peered through. ‘And that’s all it is. A nest of bloody junk. I don’t believe in furniture.’
‘Yeah. I’ve noticed that.’
‘It ties your dreams to the ground, De Rooster.’
‘I’ve been hauling mine around for so long now, I don’t know how to stop.’
‘Easy. Give it to the Salvos.’ Light words but no smile, just those eyes, and a hand fiddling with his watchband. Not his habit.
‘That’s the distilled essence of my best dreams.’ She looked at the window, and at the clouds flying free. Misty morning all gone now, sunny afternoon coming. Winter was on its way to Melbourne but it hadn’t arrived yet.
She sighed, wanting to fly. ‘I love your bike, Monk. I love the air blowing free in my face and no seatbelts to hold me down. I do.’
‘I love your fight and your fire, De Rooster. Not much of you, but what there is is gutsy stuff.’ He drew a breath, then a finger reached out and brushed her cheek. ‘Dust,’ he said. ‘The . . . the true fact of the matter is, I can’t see myself riding off into the sunset and leaving you behind. Pick up your bag. Come on.’
‘God,’ she said. ‘God.’ She looked at the carton of newspaper-wrapped ornaments, and at the bed, at the chest of drawers. ‘I’ve got a grandpa in Queensland, and three half . . . sort of uncles, younger than me.’
‘So we’ll visit them, beg a space on their floor.’
She shrugged.
‘No strings, De Rooster, just freedom and living, talking and singing, and maybe you’ll get to like my colour.’
‘I like it. It suits your face.’ Her thumb went to her mouth; she chewed a moment on a long strong nail. ‘You’re . . . are you serious?’
‘Me? Serious? No. I’ve just got used to having you around.’
‘You wouldn’t have room on your bike for my guitar.’
‘It’s part of the deal. You’re going to sing for your supper, or my name isn’t what it is.’
‘What is it, anyway? Your Christian name.’
‘Arthur George – but tell anyone and, phutt, you’re dead.’
‘I prefer Monk.’ She picked up her guitar. ‘It’s big.’
‘So we’ll buy a trailer.’ He took the guitar. ‘I’ve got a sister in Dubbo. We’ll camp there tonight.’
‘Sister in Dubbo, sister in Brisbane, sister in Dandenong, sister down on the Esplanade. How many sisters have you got?’
‘Nine of the buggers,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you about the rest of them on the way.’
She looked at her battered case and her zip-bag of important bits, shaking her head, but laughing as her eyes continued to scan the bedsitter, seeing what he could see – aged and battered junk.
No goose girl here. She’d grown up and left the carton full of rejects.
And wasn’t it about time?
Epilogue
‘. . . I could see you in the distance, so I planted my foot and the old Datsun flew.’
‘Did you catch me?’ Monk asked.
‘Yeah.’
‘Was I on the Harley?’
‘Yeah. And then so was I, and the dream changed; it wandered off to Lakeside and we were having a picnic in Ross’s top paddock.’ She picked up the pages of newsprint, blotting one with a tissue before glancing again at the photograph of Kermit and at the words below it.
It was a good interview. She had to admit that. It didn’t sound like Lakeside Sally, or the one who had sold the unsaleable at Phonepross. In it she was Sally De Rooze, with partner, Ajie Moncton. The reporter had called him AG during the interview. Confused reporter. Monk refused to admit to his given names.
Thank God for him. Thank God for the years that had passed. Thank God that the past was just that.
A glance then at the frock spread ready on the motel bed. A few hours yet before she’d need to dress and put on her make-up, step outside the door. But he’d be with her, and he’d be standing offstage, as he always did.
The dress would give her confidence too. It was long and black and glittery. She loved it. She’d bought it yesterday, at Myer – hadn’t even asked the price. Money to waste was still new to her, but she had an image to maintain these days. No more flowery hats and op-shop gear for Sally De Rooze. She’d left them behind with her junk and bad memories.
Monk’s phone rang at five. He spoke of family for a while, spoke of sisters and nephews. ‘Butch,’ he said as he placed his phone back in his belt. ‘She’s at the airport now. Mum and Cassidy have just flown in.’
‘Good. Sue and Cocky said they’d be there. I rang Ross and got Carol. Their baby is overdue but, baby or not, you wouldn’t catch Ross inside a casino.’ She looked out the window towards Lakeside and shook her head. Hadn’t been back there. May not ever go back there. ‘It’s a boy. Isn’t it a bit weird, Monk – I mean, wanting to know the sex of your baby before it’s born? I wouldn’t want to know.’
‘Are you planning something, De Rooster?’
‘I suppose we ought to have one some day. We’ll have to give Papa’s brooch to someone.’
‘You’re talking house here. You’re talking furniture!’
‘Some day. Maybe when I’m forty. That’s a fashionable age to start a family these days.’ She smiled as she watched him brush his hair. She loved that hair, loved its length, loved his strength and his honesty, loved his family. Her family now. She’d have three sisters-in-law in the crowd, and Mum, his mum, fat and cuddly.
‘How are you wearing the brooch tonight?’
‘On the long chain around my neck. It will look good against the black.’ She always wore it on stage. Papa was so proud of her, and her young uncles thought she was ‘big time’.
Her mind wandering, her eyes turned towards the window where a skywriter was painting his white message on the blue.
GOO
Baby talk? Was the big clock in the sky trying to tell her something? She pushed her chair back and stood, watching the forming of a perfect D.
What a clever pilot. How did he do it? She couldn’t see the plane, just the fine lines of white and the occasional glint of sun on metal as the plane turned. She saw the straight line of an L and tried to outguess the skywriter.
Then it formed a U and a C, a K.
Just a message for one of the three million Melburnians. Not for her, but she could steal it for herself if she wanted to; the plane and the rest of its message were out of view.
GOOD LUCK.
‘Monk. Come here. Melbourne knows I’m back in town.’
He came to stand with her at the window, and together they looked up at the smoky, white words painted in the sky.
She placed her arm around his waist, and his hand slipped over her shoulder. For five minutes they stood that way, their eyes concentrated on the letters, now elongating, plumping into dr
ifting clouds, blurring. And when the last smudge of white had moved away from their window, he kissed her. ‘Okay. That’s enough slacking off for one day. You wanted to run through some of your songs again, didn’t you?’
‘I should. That second one, Monk. I’m not certain of the words yet.’
‘You’re sure you want to do that one?’
‘Don’t you like it?’
‘What do you think, De Rooster?’
‘I think you like it. I think you like it a lot, but you’re bashful.’
He winked at her and took a small CD player from the cluttered bench, loaded it and found the second song. She didn’t play her guitar these days, not on stage. She left the backing to the professionals.
Her foot picked up the rhythm while she drained her coffee mug, then she sang. Sang to him. Sang for him.
He fills my world with fantasy
There is no fence to hold me
My realm the sky, the air, the sea
While his broad arms enfold me.
I swing on the rim of the rainbow
I steal moondust to tint the dawn sky
I fill up my pockets with embryo stars
Stole from my true lover’s eye.
He gave to me Aladdin’s lamp
And polish-cloth so fine
And now I have my wishes three
He’s mine, forever mine.
So I swing on the rim of the rainbow
Stealing moondust to tint a dawn sky
And I fill all my pockets with embryo stars
Stole from my true lover’s eye
Stole from my true lover’s eye.