Desperate Husbands

by Richard Glover

  Add some fauna. Novelists not only know the names of trees and shrubs, they also—amazingly—know the names of birds.

  Dressed in his chinos and striding purposefully through the early afternoon sunlight, Jason disturbed a flock of sulphur-crested cockatoos. They rose as one, their distinct screeching filling the crisp air, before they settled back into the branches of a struggling European beech. Next, Jason walked past a potted Murraya tree, about two metres tall and just coming into flower, the orange blossom scent hitting him like an invigorating slap. A kingfisher bobbed in the nearby water, hoping to catch the silver perch which live in this part of the harbour.

  This is all very well, but how do they know these things? Whenever I read a passage like that I imagine the notes they must scribble in the margin of their manuscript: ‘Note to self. Check these details. What is a kingfisher? Is it a bird, or actually a fish? Are there perch in the harbour? Does Murraya flower in autumn? If not, what other scents are available to hit Jason like an invigorating slap?’

  Do make sure you remove such pencilled notes before submitting the manuscript to a publisher.

  Purchase a thesaurus. We couldn’t help but notice that you had Jason ‘walking’ back there. Clearly you have yet to purchase a thesaurus. Do so and immediately consult section 266: ‘locomotion by land’. Next time we see Jason, we expect him to be trudging with the despair of a man who knows he has lost Jacinta’s love for ever. Or alternatively moving with the carefree long strides of a man full of hope, through air heavy with the smell of hibiscus. If you’re going for an overseas prize, you could even have him perambulating.

  Add weather. According to novelists, the weather constantly reflects the emotional state of the characters. I have checked with the weather bureau, which describes this theory as ‘extremely unlikely’. Still, it worked for Emily Brontë, so get stuck in. No way do you want your character running joyously down George Street only to notice that around him the sky is full of anger, the day dark as a cave, the wind keening its lovesong of loss and desolation. I mean: ‘He laughed merrily as the rain lashed his darkened, windswept figure,’ is just not going to work. If in doubt, invest in a copy of Wuthering Heights and plagiarise Emily’s weather.

  Throw in brand names and food. People in novels love describing food. Apparently it’s a great way of keeping the sex scenes apart. They also love using brand names in a way that people in real life rarely do.

  ‘Let’s just take it slowly,’ said Jason, touching the back of her Versace capri pants, while she placed her hand on his freshly pressed Max Mara chinos.

  ‘Do you think,’ she said, unzipping him, ‘that normal people make a note of the brand and type of clothes they’re removing, as they remove them?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he replied, removing his pince-nez. ‘But I don’t even know what pince-nez are, so here’s hoping I’m removing the right thing.’

  Their bodies naked, the two embraced. Outside thunder clapped, and a train went over the bridge and into a tunnel. ‘That was great sex,’ she said with a satisfied sigh. ‘Now, let’s get ourselves some food. Something hot and really adjectival.’

  Which brings us to the adjectives. In the real world, the person who makes your tuna sandwich is ‘a young guy, nothing special really, just average looking’.

  Mostly the sandwich tastes ‘much like what you’d expect a tuna sandwich to taste like’. This is not the attitude which will get you invited to opening drinks at the Sydney Writers’ Festival. We want a sandwich which will push along the plot, and a sandwich maker whose appearance will add to the novel’s oppressive mood of despair. The sandwich maker should definitely be wearing a pair of Italian brown leather brogues. Or perhaps a pair of workman’s Blundstones, worn down on one side in a way that indicates a limp: a sort of back story in a boot. Also, once your protagonist receives the tuna sandwich, make sure he eats it in the street outside. That way he can be dramatically killed by a falling tree branch, loosened by a bolt of lightning, the extreme weather curiously reflective of his state of mind.

  Serves him right, I guess, for standing underneath a scarlet-flowered gum. With his horticultural knowledge, you’d think he’d know better.

  We’re all farmers now

  I’m standing at the back door watching the clouds. They’re dark enough. They could bring rain. But I’ve seen their like before. They tease you, then pass. Life’s tough in the suburbs.

  We’re all farmers now. Ever since the water restrictions came in, we stand and watch the clouds. Will I do some hand-watering this morning or should I wait? What if I spent an hour hand-watering this morning only to have it rain tonight? I give my chin a contemplative rub and consider the clouds once more. It’s the not knowing that can drive a man insane.

  My eyes squint against the light as I survey the property. I stare towards the boundary fence, up to that distant back country, near the compost bin, where conditions are at their worst. They get a lot of sun up there. The country is steep, with some rough bricking around the clothesline. The rain, when there is any, doesn’t have the chance to settle.

  I push back the Akubra hat which I’ve taken to wearing and grimace against the heat. I look at the choko vine, curling limply over the fence. Production’s going to be way down this year.

  I wander up the road and pause outside the Charcoal Chicken. Some locals have gathered to talk, and naturally the conversation turns to the weather. There are blokes here who haven’t washed their cars for three weeks. One old fella has lost a couple of prize rose bushes. Another missed the Australian Idol final on Wednesday.

  ‘What were you doing, Terry?’ we all ask, concerned.

  He shakes his head grimly. ‘Hand-watering. And the time got away from me. Before I knew it, the clock had gone 10.30 and I’d missed Jyssyntah’s win. But at least the front hedge will be OK.’

  Most say it’ll rain tonight. Some say you can tell from the way the ants are swarming. Others swear by the behaviour of the local Sicilian grandmothers. If they’re carrying umbrellas, then rain can’t be far off.

  Back home I move the pot plants out, rolling the big tubs from underneath the eaves. I’ll let them catch any rain during the night, then roll them back first thing in the morning before the sun hits. With luck, I can keep the parsley going until next harvest.

  I see Jocasta watching me as I work, her face etched with concern. It’s always harder on the womenfolk.

  We’re still doing better than others in the district. Our neighbour, worried by evaporation, has installed a pool cover. The family used to have a whole menagerie of blow-up animals floating on that pool—giant pelicans, a sleek dolphin, a beautiful multicoloured swan with drink holders built into its wings. The day the pool cover was installed, they all had to go.

  I asked my neighbour how he got rid of them, but he just went quiet and stared off into the distance, his hands buried in his pockets, his lips tight with distress. Sometimes, in the quiet of early morning, I’ll hear gunshots from a distant suburb. Some other poor bastard has had to shoot his pool toys.

  The waiting, the watching, the hoping. The sky to the east is dark. It looks like it’s raining a few valleys away. Those lucky mongrels in Dulwich Hill and Marrickville. And here are we with nothing. A bloke can’t just stand still and do nothing. I ride the boundary—striding out past the hot water heater and up towards the recycling bin. Just a couple of years back, the water would cascade down these steps. There’d be water everywhere—leave a bucket out, even a wine glass, and it would be full of water, mozzies breeding like crazy.

  Not any more. I stare at the garden. Will any of the ferns be left by the end of summer? Who knows? And yet without the ferns the stone lion will look out of place, and the wooden Buddha thingy will look silly. If things get much worse, they’ll have to move on.

  And it’s then, when my despair is greatest, when I’m cursing this unforgiving land and its harsh ways, that the first fat droplet of water hits my upturned face. Rain! The dark clouds hover,
there’s a crack of thunder, then Hughie sends it down, giant sheets of water lashing the ground, drumming on the red tile roof. Soon it’s all flowing—great streams of water coming down the steps and pooling on the lawn.

  Jocasta and I stand and watch as the rain sets in and the water begins to spread onto the back paving.

  I push the Akubra back on my head and stare grimly out. ‘Looks like we might be in for a flood.’ I don’t know. Here in the suburbs, it’s either one thing or the other.

  Delusional

  He goes to the top of the

  mountain, straps himself

  onto a small metal cafeteria

  tray, then hurls himself off

  the mountain. ‘The winter is

  long,’ he mumbles through

  ice-chapped lips, ‘but death

  will be quick.’ Three minutes

  later, horrified, he finds

  himself at the bottom of the

  mountain, alive, safe and

  having invented the sport

  they call ‘the skeleton’.

  Snow business

  The northern winter is long and depressing. There are endless periods of enforced idleness, and much of daily life takes place in total darkness. Insanity is common, as are suicide and alcoholism. Perhaps this explains the sports featured in the Winter Olympics—all of which seem to involve new and ingenious ways of throwing yourself off a mountain.

  Imagine you’re in Finland and it’s February. No one has seen the sun for months. And so Olaf climbs to the top of the highest mountain he can find, puts on his beloved skis and throws himself off. It’s so cold, it’s so boring, the vodka has all gone, he’s thinking, ‘I just want to die.’ Miraculously, he lands upright on the skis and glides safely to the bottom. His suicide bid has tragically failed, but he’s created the ski jump called ‘the aerial’.

  His friend Sven sees what happened to Olaf and is determined that his own suicide bid will not fail in a similar way. His vodka ran out weeks ago. He has only two rollmops left in his pantry. His wife ran off with a holidaying truck driver from Spain. So Sven takes no chances. He goes to the top of the mountain, straps himself onto a small metal cafeteria tray, then hurls himself off the mountain. ‘The winter is long,’ he mumbles through ice-chapped lips, ‘but death will be quick.’ Three minutes later, horrified, he finds himself at the bottom of the mountain, alive, safe and having invented the sport they call ‘the skeleton’.

  At a meeting that night, the citizens try to work out why people are throwing themselves off mountains—and yet constantly surviving. Says Hendrik: ‘It may be because they can see where they are going.’

  He suggests throwing oneself off the mountain, feet first, one’s body strapped flat onto a board so one cannot see the track ahead. The next day, Hendrik gives it a try and finds himself at the bottom of the mountain, shaken but alive. Unbelievably, yet another Olympic sport has just been invented. This one they call ‘the luge’.

  The village now breaks into mass insanity. There’s still nine months of winter to go, no vodka left, barely the smell of a rollmop, more Spaniards have come and departed with anyone good-looking, yet all the previously trusty methods of suicide are failing. The villagers take a vote and decide they’ll just have to shoot each other.

  Arming themselves with guns, they strap on their skis and stomp up the mountain, blasting randomly in both prone and standing positions. Some work in teams, some individually, while others blast while in pursuit. Tragically, no one dies. The villagers return depressed but alive. They discover they have invented the biathlon.

  Some will argue that not every event in the Winter Olympics is life-threatening. They will give the example of figure skating. To which I will respond by mentioning Tonya Harding. They may then give the example of curling. To which I will respond that death from boredom is still death.

  Again one struggles to imagine the moment the sport of curling was invented: the Finnish farmer inviting ten friends over to play carpet bowls, then realising he didn’t have any bowls, nor any carpet. Even finding ten friends was hard going. But he did have some large rocks and a frozen pond, so maybe the seven who turned up could push the rocks from one end to the other then back again? ‘Ah, Johannes,’ his friends will all say, ‘break out the rollmops. One snowbound village, and now we’ve invented all the sports of the Winter Olympics.’

  The war on error

  For a month now, those closest to me have been acting most suspiciously. The government’s anti-terrorist pamphlets have finally come in useful. The pamphlets remind you to look out for suspicious behaviour and suggest a list of purchases—including a radio, torch and latex gloves. I decide to throw myself into the war on terror.

  6.15: With the coiled stealth of a panther I ease my upper body off the mattress and peer beneath the bed. If anybody is under there, they’ll get the shock of their life. Thankfully, the coast appears clear. I check my bedside table. My ‘kit’ is still there in place. The battery-operated radio, the torch and the latex gloves. There’s also my glass of water, across the top of which I’ve placed a strand of hair. With a flood of relief, I see the strand is still in place. We’ve survived another night.

  6.17: I grab the torch and disappear under the doona, making a full visual inspection. Jocasta is asleep beside me, which leaves me wary. It’s very difficult to assess whether someone has become a ‘sleeper’, especially when they are actually asleep. I pounce on her and give her a thorough check, paying especial attention to all possible hiding places. It has not escaped my attention that when I first met her she owned a T-shirt printed with a verse from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. Suspicious behaviour indeed, even for 1979.

  6.18: Jocasta awakens and commences to shout, wriggle and even strike me about the face and head. I feel sure this indicates guilt. If a person’s got nothing to hide, why should they object to a search? The alarm clock is about to go off so I disconnect it from the wall and throw it in a bucket of water. Jocasta says I am behaving oddly, which gives me pause to wonder just whose side she’s on.

  6.19: Decide to launch Operation Retrieve Morning Newspaper. Have some concerns about my neighbour who claims to be Irish but appears not to drink. This, I’m sure, is what the government means by a ‘suspicious type’. I disguise myself by turning my dressing gown inside out and wearing a hat.

  6.20: Gather up the paper in one long, crouched run, keeping my head down and the car between myself and my ‘Irish’ neighbour. Notice lack of grog bottles in his recycling. Irish, my arse!

  6.21: I read out sections of the government’s terrorist kit—telling Jocasta she should watch for someone buying large amounts of fertiliser. ‘Perhaps you mean the Prime Minster,’ she says. ‘He’s in possession of vast quantities of bulldust.’ I make a mental note of her disloyalty and resolve to deliver a more thorough frisking.

  6.22: I walk up the hallway armed with my tennis racquet. I pause in front of each door then jump into the room James Bond-style. All goes well, except for my leap into the living room, during which I land feet-first on the dog. The dog gets an appalling fright, as do I. My heart is pounding and I’m feeling strange pains up my left arm.

  6.28: I’ve appointed myself chief warden of our street but have elected to keep the appointment secret from my neighbours (security reasons). I discover that the people next door have closed their venetians in a way that completely blocks my telescope. What are they up to? I decide to bring the whipper-snipper inside from the shed lest I need a weapon.

  6.32: Jocasta appears rather truculent after this morning’s frisking. I consult the fridge magnet for tips on how to handle her. Strangely, it provides no assistance whatsoever. Only when the dog walks past does she speak, inquiring as to why Darcy appears to be limping.

  6.35: Using binoculars I spot my ‘Irish’ neighbour picking up his newspaper. He has recently grown a beard, even though it doesn’t suit him. This strikes me as extra suspicious. His wife has also taken to wearing pedal-pushers, whi
ch are not even in fashion any more. I decide to plug in the whipper-snipper and set it going using a long extension cord.

  6.40: ‘It’s all very well for us,’ says Jocasta, studying the government’s anti-terrorist fridge magnet, ‘but what about people with the stainless-steel fridges. The magnets don’t stick to them. Come a terrorist attack and the Smeg-buyers of Woollahra and Toorak will be completely unprotected. It will be a yuppie massacre.’ Her tone is unhelpful and I make another note of her possible disloyalty.

  6.41: Holding the whirring whipper-snipper in one hand, I lean a ladder against the back of the house and climb up in the hope of getting a better look at the ‘Irish’ neighbour and his wife. Naturally, I take the full anti-terror kit—grasping the torch between my teeth, the radio under one arm and wearing the latex gloves. Balancing the spinning whipper-snipper, I manage to train my telescope into my neighbours’ bedroom, at which moment they look up, and spot me. Mine being an unofficial position, I rapidly deploy myself back to the ground, slipping in the process, and tumbling out of control—my terrorism kit flying from my hands.

  6.45: Jocasta runs out to find me lying on the back paving, bleeding. The whipper-snipper is broken, the radio is in pieces and I have landed heavily on the upturned torch, which has inserted itself in a new home: one where the sun does not normally shine.

  6.50: ‘Good thing you’ve not become a victim of terror,’ says Jocasta as she attempts to retrieve the torch. ‘Still, I finally understand the need for the latex gloves.’

  I make a further note of her unhelpful tone. She really is behaving quite oddly.