The Best Australian Stories

by Black Inc.

  For all this, Banerjee had escaped the bitterness endemic among piano-tuners. He was pale and had a small valley in his chin. One advantage of his profession was that it left his head permanently inclined to one side, which gave the impression he was a good listener.

  Banerjee was close to forty. Looking back he wondered where it had all gone. What happened in all those years? Most people didn’t know or care if a piano was out of tune; only a few could tell the difference. And yet there he would surely be, continuing into the sunset, crossing from one manganese brick house to the next, one suburb to another, adjusting the progressions of sound plucked out of the air, as it were. If anyone could understand it would be the officer who spoke of ‘deception’. On the street between the dusty box hedges time itself seemed to have slowed to a crawl. Any sign of life was at mid-distance; and all so quiet it was as if he was going deaf.

  Not that he wanted disturbance, disruption, surprise and so on. A certain order was necessary in his line of work. These thoughts he kept to himself. Yet increasingly he felt a dissatisfaction, as though he had all along been avoiding something which was actually closer to the true surface of life.

  *

  By early afternoon the officer had taken pity on them. The academic had lost his glasses. Further along another man was silently vomiting; Banerjee too felt dizzy – headache behind the eyes. There was paint on his fingers, elbows and wrists. Perspiration had also mixed with reddish dust and muck. The golden rule in his profession: clean fingernails. Now look at them. The one remaining sign of his previous life was the vibration in one leg, and he tried shifting his weight, for of course it reminded him of the final tremor of a tuning fork.

  As they made their way down, Banerjee lost control of the bucket and paint ran all over his pattern.

  ‘Leave it till morning,’ the officer said. ‘If the Japs come over we’re done for anyway.’

  ‘These blisters, I couldn’t grip.’

  ‘I take it you don’t, as a rule, work with your hands.’

  Banerjee was examining his palm. ‘Piano.’ He looked up. ‘I mean piano-tuner, that’s what I do.’

  All he wanted just then was to drink a gallon of water, and shut his eyes to the light, which he did with the help of an elbow, only to see the roof in all its glittering endlessness. He didn’t feel like eating.

  But it only took a few days for his body to grow into the work. His hands soon enough hardened. With his shirt off and sun on his back he became absorbed in the task. The undulating pattern of red-grey was interesting in itself; the idea behind it made them merry.

  A rivalry began with the men on the other roof to see who could finish first. These men Banerjee knew from the dormitory. In ordinary life some were successful painters of hills and trees – Horace, Arthur, Russell were names Banerjee heard. The picture-framer was apparently known to them. He suggested the artists sign each sheet of iron when they finished. The man with prematurely white eyebrows nodded. ‘That’s the only way you’ll make a killing.’

  Banerjee enjoyed this sort of banter, even if he was on the fringe. There was not much of it in the day of a piano-tuner; and it would never occur to him to banter with his wife, Lina, who had anyway become curiously solemn after having their child.

  Early one afternoon planes were spotted – three of them, high. Leaning back they shielded their eyes to watch. The officer on the ground had to clap and yell to get them down – ‘For Christ sake!’ – off the roof.

  Later that same day they had a grandstand view of the first two planes to land.

  And just when the dust had settled, and they were admiring the practised efficiency of the Americans parking the planes, they ran out of paint. There was nothing to do but come down on ladders and sit around in the shade, where it was still hot.

  Without effort, Banerjee was a man who kept his thoughts to himself; preferred to stay back than join in. Yet there he was more or less part of the group mumbling and wisecracking. Often they were joined by the camouflage officer. After all, he had nothing much to do either. Close up Banerjee noticed his face was infested with small lines.

  The officer looked up from scratching the ground with his stick. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to our paint.’ To Banerjee he added, ‘In war there’s more waiting than shooting. Always was.’ When the talk turned to music Banerjee could have said something, and with real authority; instead he listened while letting his thoughts wander among other things.

  On the third or fourth day one of the pilots squatted beside him. After talking about his hometown (St Louis) and his parents, he held out a hand and introduced himself.

  *

  Banerjee married late. Lina was barely twenty-one. He had taken her away from everybody else; that was how it later felt. All her privacies she transferred to him. The way their habits became one she accepted with busy contentment; while Banerjee composed his face, unable to find his natural state.

  He was strong all right, in the sense that he practised a certain distance, the same way he had played the piano. But Lina, she knew more; she always had. It was part of her flow, along with blood.

  Whenever he paused and considered his wife he first saw her name, then found he knew very little, virtually nothing, about her; what went on in her mind, the way she came to decisions – no idea. He could not get a firm outline; and he knew only a little more about himself. More than anything else he was aware of her needs, and how he reacted to them. She had a slightly clipped voice.

  She had gone to him for piano lessons. When he appeared he said he was no longer taking pupils. But that didn’t stop her. Marriage was a continuation. Later, she explained how she’d heard him playing in the next room, and then his voice, though unable to catch his words. Without seeing him she had turned to her mother, ‘That man is for me. He will do.’

  ‘Even though you didn’t hear a word I said? I was probably talking nothing but rot.’

  But then Lina’s faith in situations invariably impressed him. She could be very solemn, sometimes. She was a woman who couldn’t leave things alone; constantly rearranging things on tables, plates, sideboards. She also had a way of peeling an orange with one hand, which for some reason irritated him. Banerjee knew he should be thinking more about her, his wife; and their own daughter. She complained, as she once put it, he was ‘somewhere else’. Very fond of her pale shape. Her spreading generosity.

  *

  One afternoon Banerjee and the picture-framer were invited by the pilot and another American for a drive to the nearest town, Katherine, about an hour away. The jeep had a white star on the bonnet; and, unusual for a pilot, he drove one-hand, crashing into bushes and rocks instead of driving around. ‘Know any songs?’ he called out over his shoulder. Both Americans began singing boogie-woogie, banging on the dashboard.

  They reached the town – a few bits of glittering tin.

  It was here the picture-framer spoke up. ‘I’ve got a wife called Katherine,’ he said. ‘She’s a wonderful woman.’

  Leaning over the steering wheel the driver was looking for a place to drink. ‘Well, we’re about to enter Katherine right now. All of us. You mind?’

  The other American was smiling.

  Some time later Banerjee played the piano. Nobody appeared to be listening. The flow of notes he produced seemed independent of his hands and fingers, almost as if the music played itself.

  The pilot and the picture-framer beckoned from a table. Between them were two women, one an ageing redhead. Her friend, Banerjee noticed, had dirty feet.

  Both women were looking up at Banerjee.

  ‘Sit down,’ the pilot pointed. ‘Take the weight off those old feet.’ Leaning against the redhead he said with real seriousness, ‘I’ve got my own aeroplane back at the base.’

  ‘That beats playing a piano. Any day,’ said the younger one.

  The redhead was still looking at Banerjee. ‘Don’t smile, it might crack your face.’

  ‘Hey, if a plane comes over and waggl
es its wings, you’ll know it’s me.’ Taking her chin in his hand, the pilot winked at Banerjee. From the bar the tubby American constantly waved, touching base.

  The drinking, the reaching out for women; the congestion of words. It was the opposite to his usual way of living. Banerjee went out and stood under the stars. He tried to think clearly. The immense calm enforced by the earth and sky, at least over this small part of it, at that moment. Also, he distinctly felt the coldness of planets.

  When it was time to return he found the picture-framer squatting outside with his head in his hands. And in shadow behind the hotel he glimpsed against the wall the tall redhead holding the shoulders of one of the Americans, her pale dress above her hips.

  On the way back the pilot kept driving off the track. ‘I need a navigator. Where are the navigators around here?’ He looked around at his friend asleep.

  Seated in front Banerjee didn’t know where they were. ‘Keep going,’ he pointed, straight ahead.

  On the Thursday both hangars were finished. Everybody assembled on the ground and looked up, shielding their eyes, and were pleased with their work – about eight men, without shirts, splattered in paint. Still to be done were the long walls and ends of the buildings, the vertical surfaces. And there were sheds, the water tank, bits of equipment.

  The camouflage officer unlocked one of the sheds. It was stacked with tins of beef and jam. ‘Will you have a look at that? Not a bloody drop of petrol to send a plane up, but plenty of tinned peaches.’

  He stood looking at it, shaking his head. He wondered if Banerjee and the picture-framer could fashion a patch of green water and a dead tree out of packing cases and sheets of tin, to be placed at one side of the runway. ‘A nice touch.’ Gradually the pattern was coming together.

  *

  For Banerjee these counted among his happiest days. The last time he had been as happy was when he had been ill. For days lying in bed at home, barely conscious of his surroundings; it was as if the walls and the door were a mirage. There were no interruptions. Now away from everybody, except a few other men, Banerjee with the sun on his back applied paths of colour with his brush, observed it glisten and begin to dry, while his mind wandered without obstacles. As the sun went down, the pebbles and sticks at his feet each threw a shadow a mile long, and his own shape stretched into a ludicrous stick-insect, striding the earth – enough to make him wonder about himself.

  Since their trip into town Banerjee joined the Americans at tea-breaks or after meals. To squat down without a word emphasised any familiarity. The Americans were relaxed about everything, including a world war. Their talk and attitudes were so easy Banerjee found himself only half listening, in fact hardly at all. Without a word the pilot would get into the jeep, just for the hell of it, and chase kangaroos around the perimeter. A few times Banerjee and the pilot sat in the warm plane parked in the open hangar. When asked what exactly the plane was to be used for, the lanky American, who was flicking switches and tapping instruments shrugged. ‘Search me, my friend.’

  In the few weeks that remained Banerjee formed a habit of strolling down the runway after dark, joined by the camouflage officer, who came alongside in his carpet slippers. With hands clasped behind his back the officer recalled performances at the Town Hall, the merits of different conductors and pianists, but invariably turned to his wife and three teenage daughters in Adelaide. ‘Imagine,’ he said, in mournful affection, ‘four women, under one roof.’

  Banerjee had been receiving regular letters. Here were trust and concern he could hold in his hand – words of almost childlike roundness, beginning with the envelope. Willingly his wife expressed more than he could ever manage. For her it was like breathing. In reply he found there was little he could say. Months apparently had passed. It came as a surprise or at least was something to consider: what about him did she miss?

  He mentioned to the officer, an older man, ‘My wife, she has written a letter—’

  ‘Not bad news, I trust?’

  ‘She tells me the front gate has come off its hinges. A little thing. I mean, my wife would like me to be there now, this minute, to fix it.’

  The officer put his hand on Banerjee’s shoulder. ‘A woman who misses you. The warmth in bed. There was symmetry, it has been broken.’ He coughed. ‘The symmetry we enjoy so much in music is illusion. That’s my opinion.’

  In the dark Banerjee found himself nodding. More and more he was conscious of a slowness within, a holding-back, as if he saw other people, even his own family, through pale blue eyes, whereas his were green-brown. Even if he wanted, Banerjee could not be close. Not only to his wife but to all other people, to things and events as well. It was as if the air was bent, holding him just away.

  *

  On the day in question the officer inspected the paint job from all angles, as the men waited. It took more than an hour. He came back, rubbing his hands. ‘Well done. That should do the trick. Tomorrow we go onto the next.’

  The Americans looking on had their arms folded.

  ‘Only one way to test it.’ The pilot put on his hat. ‘You with me?’

  Banerjee hadn’t flown in a plane before. Soon the earth grew larger and the details smaller, reduced to casual marks, old worn patches, blobs of shadow. He twisted around to see the aerodrome. At this point the pilot tilted away and began diving; just for fun. He went low, then rose in a curve; Banerjee’s stomach twisted and contracted. As always he composed his face.

  Levelling out, the pilot now looked around for the aerodrome.

  He gave a brief laugh. ‘You sure as hell have done a job on the ground.’

  Banerjee thought he saw wheel marks but it was nothing. The earth everywhere was the same – the same extensive dryness, one thing f lowing into the next. When Banerjee turned and looked behind it was the same.

  Climbing, the plane reached a point where it appeared to be staying in one spot, not making any progress. It was as if he was suspended above his own life. Looking down, as it were, he found he could not distinguish his life from the solid fact of the earth, which remained always below. He could not see what he had been doing there, moving about on it. Knees together, the dark hairs curving on the back of his hands.

  Everything was clearer, yet not really. Plane’s shadow: fleeting, religious. In the silence he was aware of his heartbeats, as if he hadn’t noticed them before.

  Now the earth in all its hardness and boulder unevenness came forward in a rush.

  Briefly he wondered whether he – his life – could have turned out differently. Its many parts appeared to converge, in visibility later described as ‘near perfect’.

  Two Wrecks

  Dorothy Johnston

  Of the many wrecks I learnt about when I was a child, only two retain anything like a reliable place in my memory. These two, while undoubtedly stories of shipwrecks, were also much more ambiguous affairs, and one was almost certainly untrue.

  Early settlers arriving at the bit of coastline where my parents lived had far from an easy time getting there. Many drowned, in the days before a permanent lighthouse was erected on the point, their ships turning to splinters on the rocks at the mouth of the rip. My parents, both self-taught past the age of thirteen, when, for different reasons, they’d had to give up school, were curious people, with acquisitive, restless minds. It took them no time at all to learn the names of wrecks and pass them on to me and my sister.

  They had come, my father from the city of Geelong, my mother from the bush, to build their own house at Point Lonsdale. They borrowed a lot of money to do it. As a child, my father had made many trips to the seaside, but my mother, growing up inland, on a farm, had seldom had holidays of any kind, and had never learnt to swim. As for me, I soon took the ocean in my stride. It was within running distance, at my fingers’ ends.

  When we were not at school, or helping in the house, my sister and I built our own shelters and cubby houses out of driftwood, in the bush between our new home and what was known as
the back beach. Elegant bungalows fill that land now, and gardens full of European plants, but in those days it was tea-tree scrub, acacias and eucalypts, and then, closer to the beach, small bushes flattened by the southerly winds.

  The surf was wild and dangerous, and we were not allowed to swim. Life savers patrolled on summer weekends, but even then a rip could lift a person off her feet and carry her right out, in a twinkling, under watchful eyes. My mother was frightened, yet she let us play on the back beach, dragging our bits of driftwood to and fro, making up the games that children do, on sand.

  She trusted us, she said, to stay out of the water. ‘Yes, Mum,’ we replied, quietly obedient in her presence, and in our father’s, who became an increasingly shadowy figure after we moved, having taken a second job in order to keep up with the mortgage payments. On Sundays he worked on our house, on carpentry he did not think it worthwhile paying tradesmen for. He let us help with painting. We painted the whole outside of the house, my sister and I on stepladders with a plank between, proudly wielding brushes, at first clumsily, then with growing skill.

  Our mother worked inside, and in the garden, where she built windbreaks to keep the gales from f lattening her vegetables, and spent precious shillings on bags of loam to spread over the poor, sandy soil. Increasingly, she left us to our own devices, and we did not ask why.

  ‘You didn’t go in the water, did you?’ she might ask when we came back, wet with salt spray, our shoes with lines of rusty white up to the instep.

  ‘No, Mum,’ we always answered her.

  My sister, who was two years younger, more truthful and obedient than I was, might add that a wave had tried to catch us, and we’d run away.

  Our mother told us cautionary tales then, repeating names I have since made it my business to research, though not a great deal is known about most of them. The earliest wreck for which proper documentary records exist was the cutter Lively, on her way to investigate sealing and whaling prospects in the Antarctic. The Princess Royal smashed to pieces on the Lonsdale Reef, followed by the schooner David and the barque Victory. The names of all the vessels lost will never be discovered.