by William Lane
‘One thing I learned here is how to distinguish lies,’ said Regina.
‘Well, that’s one good thing,’ said Kenric. ‘That’s the idea –’
‘But you sold a fabricated story to the paper – did the paper pay you?’ demanded Tess.
‘Of course not!’
‘You maximise this and minimise that, until the world takes the shape you want it to take,’ said Tess, ‘and that’s how you tell lies, Regina.’
‘You went to the paper!’ Connie proclaimed loudly, ‘and the paper paid you!’
Connie and Tess began to force the two visitors, step by step, back towards the door.
‘We don’t want a rat here, do we, Judith, Justin, Robert? No,’ said Tess, ‘so you can go. And no more stories about us in the papers. You can return the books you borrowed too. Return them by post.’
‘You’re all under Kenric’s wretched spell,’ protested Regina. ‘He seems humble enough, but that’s what he does, and he’ll plead self-doubt and weakness, and he’ll come to you for comfort, and you’ll give him the benefit of the doubt – he depends on the women! He works through the women!’
‘Have any of your CDs gone missing?’ Robert asked Justin.
‘At least Kenric admits doubt!’ cried Tess. ‘At least he’s doing something about what corrupts you – rotten language and lies.’
‘Get out, out, out!’ cried Connie, flailing her arms. Regina turned, her friend taking her hand. Connie and Tess, berating them, marched them to the door.
Tess and Connie had scarcely finished chasing off the visitors when Kenric brushed past, the others briskly following; all were carried along, out into the afternoon. No one needed to be told when a sortie was on – all fell in behind Kenric, who led them to the Coles New World – yet not the new word; no, it was an ‘old and abused word, illegible in shrink-wrapping’. Along the way they met Teddy and Krystal, who carried shopping bags; the couple, still carrying the groceries, fell in with the group, and strangers, seeing this, began to follow. To some of these others it seemed almost sacrilegious that one should publicly disdain the writings in the shopping centre. ‘He made fun of that shop sign!’ some did protest – and what play Kenric made of the words on the way, and how light he felt, stripping the metaphorical enamel off the logos, ripping and riffing off the decals. And he felt purged as he talked, purged of the unpleasantness and gossip and innuendo and slander of recent weeks …
‘That never sold,’ he said, suddenly stopping before a large sign beginning to fade above them.
Dove Soap Suds. It was one of his few failures, a product of his last days at The Firm, when his powers had been waning. He looked about, and recognised the street as the one he had grown up on – the name he recognised, at least, but not the street itself. Once, across this road, a general store had stood on the corner, where the young Kenric had lingered over displays under glass panels. The shop’s windows had been filled with the elegant handwritten signage of the old days. Several tea brands had vied for space above the shopfront: Goldenia Tea, Kinkora Tea, Robur Tea (Tastes Better! Goes Further!). Schweppes was quick to quench, and things went better with Coke. Behind the glass to the side of the shop door, in perfectly even copperplate, little cards had advertised Indian Root Pills, Kruse’s Magnesia and Lane’s Emulsion (hard to believe Dr Morse’s Indian Root Pills were now forgotten; they had been advertised with such big and impressive hoardings in Reckitt’s blue). And over the neat displays in the shop window, in cut-out letters, Witch Soap and Nigger Boy Licorice – how long since those signs had been taken down? And on the window itself, just above the door handle, had been one of those gorgeous purple decals for Cadbury’s, and above the lintel, an enamel sign for Lux (For Colours That Bloom in Spring). Kenric had finally learned to read by laboriously matching the slogans with the words.
Now, for no reason he could say, Kenric was struck dumb. The members of The Word, waiting upon his frozen tongue, lined the pavement, but he only saw the place where once petrol bowsers had stood – bowsers illuminated with Golden Fleece icons; You Can Be Sure With Shell, Kenric recalled. Remember Purr Pull Fuel, and Gargoyle Oil?
‘That’s enough,’ Kenric told them, ‘I won’t say any more.’
He led them back to The Word and they followed, some grumbling. He had lost momentum and could not talk; ideas did not form into words – ideas themselves failed to emerge. The small crowd following them thinned. A few tracked them back to the warehouse but soon dispersed. The members of The Word went to their separate rooms, avoiding one another. At least Maria, bedridden, had not witnessed his embarrassment, Kenric consoled himself.
Later, as it grew dark, he was summoned to one of the upstairs windows. A few people stood on the concrete apron below and held up placards: No to workplace bullying, We don’t want your cult here, Polygamy is wrong. The members of The Word gathered in the window, and as they watched a television crew set up outside the front door, the group began to laugh as one, before returning to the kitchen to eat – for they all had grown hungry, and Connie had prepared something special.
That night, while Kenric was tending to Maria, it was decided in their absence that The Word best move to Tess’s house at Whale Beach and Robert’s house at Pittwater. The proposition had been put to a vote around the kitchen table. Only Bruno voted against, as he worked near the warehouse. Barnabus, not knowing the geography of the city, and not wishing to offend anyone, abstained. Kenric was only informed of the decision as the meeting broke up. The members – suddenly aware Kenric and Maria might veto the result, and also conscious that rather than being led on by a rush of enthusiasm to live by the water, they should at least have waited until the pair were present before making any large decision on the group’s future – slipped away to their rooms, leaving Tess to break the news.
‘I thought as much,’ muttered Kenric mildly. It was late, he was tired and worried about Maria. Tess stood over him as he sank into a chair. They became aware that the building was quiet, empty-feeling – yet listening. Its interior had a curious tang – not of meat, but ammonia, a smell that occasionally emerged in place of the meat.
‘Maria always said it doesn’t matter where The Word is,’ Kenric said at last, ‘it’s the idea that counts. And she likes Pittwater. I think she’ll come round to moving.’
‘Everyone thinks we’ve run our course here,’ argued Tess, ‘and that the northern beaches would be a community more conducive to what we are trying to do.’
‘I never thought of The Word as a community-oriented project. But perhaps we need a change. We all need to move on sometimes.’
‘Exactly,’ said Tess, who, of all members of The Word, was the most enlivened by the prospect of a new situation by the sea. She described to Kenric her inherited beach house, where she had spent the summer holidays of her youth – he would love it, she assured him, they all would love it, it would be a new beginning for The Word. ‘And I want you to live with me,’ she unexpectedly added, sitting on the table before him, taking his hand. ‘I want you to live with me in the house by the sea, in the place I loved as a girl. It’s like a dream of mine, which we can make come true.’ She swung one leg across his. He was too tired to turn away. ‘To speak plainly, Kenric, I am the one who best understands and appreciates what you have been trying to do here.’
‘No, we are all in it, Tess.’
‘Robert is over everything, Maria is never here these days, and the others are just living off The Word because they don’t know what else to do with their lives – can’t you see? They’re lost, they’re a bunch of misfits. But you only need one other person to understand to keep the idea alive – and that’s me. I want you to come with me, to be close to me. Now is the time. We understand one another.’
‘We shouldn’t be talking like this – Maria’s lying there sick.’
‘Maria has Robert; Robert is in love with Maria, and always has been.’ Tess tilted Kenric’s face up towards hers. ‘You know that. They’ve been using you, y
ou know, even if unintentionally; they’ve been using you and your way with words, to relive their old dream. I’m not saying we break from them, but when we move to the beach, Maria and Robert can live with the others at the Pittwater house. The timing is perfect. Now is the time for us, you and me, to do this, together. It won’t be the end of the community, you’ll still be in The Word and so will Maria, only everyone will be in their right place.’
‘What about Antonia?’
‘We’ll just have to sack her.’
As Tess and Kenric were talking, Barnabus left his room and walked along the balcony above, his video camera to his eye. He failed to notice the couple below as he passed several doors between his room and Bruno’s. He was too intent on focusing the camera and refamiliarising himself with its operations.
Bruno gruffly answered Barnabus’s knock. The older man smiled, however, when he saw the camera.
‘It’s working,’ reported Barnabus, ‘works fine.’
‘Good,’ grunted Bruno, going to lie on his cot-like bed, putting his hands behind his head.
‘Want me to show you?’
‘Maybe – in time.’ Bruno looked at the ceiling and started quietly whistling.
‘So what do we film?’ Barnabus asked.
‘I’ve been thinking about it, Barnie,’ said Bruno, suddenly sitting up, ‘let’s make it a kind of home movie, full of those intimate moments, you know, like they have in film clips sometimes these days. Just show people going about their day-to-day business here at The Word. But you don’t want them to be self-conscious, so don’t let them see you at it.’
‘So film on the sly, sort of?’
‘You’ve got it,’ said Bruno. ‘Make yourself invisible, that’s what good camera operators do. You can zoom in, can’t you?’
‘Sure,’ said Barnabus, ‘I’ll show you –’
‘No, no, I’ll let you do it. I’m not so technical. So get shots of people going in and out of their rooms, for example – you know, pairs of people, getting along together, make it intimate.’
‘So going in and out of the bedrooms?’
‘That’s a good idea – I wouldn’t have thought of that,’ said Bruno, and grinned. ‘You’re a smart fellow, Barnie.’
‘Then we can edit it down and show it at some party or something.’
‘Right. Won’t that be fun?’
‘A surprise,’ said Barnabus.
‘And all the more valuable, Barnie, as it seems we’re about to move, and this place will be a memory to The Word soon. Soon they’ll all want to have a laugh at how things used to be – you know, the film will be nostalgic by then. So include everyone in the shooting, make sure you leave no one out.’
‘Got it.’
‘And you know how some people are particularly friendly with others? Try to capture that,’ suggested Bruno, ‘you know, the hugs and kisses, the little cuddles, the private conversations. That’s the sort of thing people want to see in a home movie.’
‘Good idea. I get it. Are you sure you don’t want to do some filming yourself?’ asked Barnabus.
‘No, I’ll leave it up to you. But we can edit it together.’
‘Okay. Deal.’
4
On the day of the move Bruno’s ute was packed with the members’ possessions – not that they had many, except for some boxes of books, Krystal’s Tibetan drums and the clutter Connie always accumulated about her. Most of them set off in Krystal’s Kombi van, with its extra bench seat, Bruno following. It took them over an hour to cross Sydney, but inside the Kombi the drive passed in great excitement – they behaved like children setting out on a holiday. ‘Is Bruno still behind us?’ they kept asking, waving to Bruno and becoming anxious when they briefly lost sight of him in the traffic. In his excitement, Barnabus began filming the ute from the back seat, Bruno waving at him to put away the camera.
On the journey it was decided who should sleep where. The three upstairs bedrooms at the Pittwater house would go to Kenric and Maria, Krystal and Teddy, and Robert, while Justin, Bruno and Barnabus would have the three downstairs bedrooms. Judith would sleep in the granny flat. ‘You get your own bar fridge and your own toilet,’ Robert told her. He began to distribute keys to each of them. ‘And Teddy, don’t go giving the key to any of your old friends – you’re not allowed to invite any friends to the Pittwater house.’ Teddy had a habit of inviting old hippies to sleep on the floor. ‘There won’t be enough room.’
Tess and Connie had gone on ahead to the Whale Beach house. Initially it had been suggested to Judith that she also live at Tess’s place, but Judith resisted. Connie was to travel across to the Pittwater house to cook the group dinner every other day.
The moment they reached Robert’s house Justin threw open the sliding door of the van and raced Barnabus down the zigzagging path from the garage to the house, then down an external staircase to the house’s lower storey. ‘Bags this room!’ cried Justin, entering the room with the best view of the water. He plastered a large spider against the wall with a slap of his thesis manuscript.
Meanwhile, Krystal was delighting in the upstairs area; she walked about pointing out how spacious it was and how useful it could be. It was a simple but effective plan, she enthused, the bedrooms, the kitchen and two bathrooms coming off the large central space of the living room. ‘And this is where we can do our classes,’ she said as she paced the room, ‘we’ll join two tables together. This space is catching the afternoon sun. It’s perfect. Look at the view – you can see the beach. And there’s already a bookcase for the dictionaries.’
Then everyone at the house lined up on the verandah overlooking the water and asked Barnabus to film them there, for news of the camera had spread.
‘Smile, Bruno!’ urged Barnabus, the rest joining in.
‘Let’s see how the girls are going over at the other house,’ suggested Justin, once they had cleared the ute of their things. Connie was already cooking a dinner at Whale Beach, and they were expected there before dusk.
Robert, Kenric and Maria, tired by the move, remained at the Pittwater house that night. The others, keen to explore the new sister premises, drove the short distance to the Whale Beach house, where they found Connie banging pots and pans in a kitchen separated by a bench from an open living area – a gritty, sandy-floored space with walls of glass facing seaward. The house was nestled seemingly below sea level, under a sandbank crowned by the old, waxen-fronded, dark-hued pines that fringe the Sydney beaches. Impermanence permeated the house, night seemed hard up against the glass, and the sandstone floor might have been the base of the coast itself.
‘How many of you are there?’ demanded Connie the moment they walked in. She was placing a tureen on the oven top. ‘I’ll never manage to feed the lot of you if you’ve all come. And this gas stove is no good, the large hotplate’s loose.’
The garden table was dragged in from the sandy front yard through glass doors that folded back, and the table joined to the one in the living room. Here they ate and drank – drank a lot of wine – Tess presiding, telling them they were welcome to stay in her beach house whenever they tired of Pittwater, as she knew inevitably they must.
After the first course Krystal and Teddy slipped outside ‘to explore the ocean’. The practical men, Bruno and Barnabus, were directed by Connie to attach a new gas tank to the taps outside the kitchen, and to change a few outside light bulbs while they were at it. Justin remained inside to drink in the kitchen with Tess, Judith and Connie, who was perfecting dessert.
‘Isn’t it nice not to have Krystal about?’ laughed Tess, happy in her new house. ‘I always feel I’m on some program or other when she’s around. I feel I’m at school.’
‘Thelf-improvement.’
‘And it’s good not to have Maria and Kenric here,’ said Justin, sighing. ‘Don’t you always feel you’re being marked in their presence? Everyone knows that feeling, right?’
‘Oh, of course all of us were only half complete before Kenric an
d Maria saved us from the evils of the advertising world,’ said Tess, suddenly bitter-sounding.
‘I think you’re just a wee bit jealous, Tess,’ Justin sniggered. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve had one of your tiffs with the master? Or is it the mistress?’
‘I don’t care to be mastered or mistressed,’ said Tess. ‘Kenric doesn’t realise Maria’s got a man up north, that’s why she’s always slipping away to “funerals” and “hearings”. She’s got a man.’
‘Did she tell you that?’ Justin asked.
‘I just know it,’ claimed Tess, ‘it only makes sense. But let’s not talk about them. Now, listen, you know I’ve been writing a play, and I’ve got a scene I’m more or less happy with, so now I want you all to workshop it with me.’
‘The writer who’s never had anything published,’ said Justin, smiling.
‘Don’t be tho nathty,’ said Judith, slapping his wrist. ‘Teth can write, we all know thee can.’
‘Is this your cannibal play?’ asked Justin.
‘Yes,’ said Tess, ‘it’s about a man who murders a writer, and then eats him. The murderer’s not insane, he’s just transgressive.’
‘I’m glad we’ve finished the first course,’ said Justin, who poured himself more wine. ‘You’re staging the murder and the cannibalism?’
‘No, the crime is in the past by the opening scene – the play consists of the cannibal talking to an analyst while still serving his sentence. Now, the thing is this: the cannibal, who never wrote anything before – he had no interest in literature – has become compelled to write ever since eating the author. He is convinced he has to write the stories the writer left unfinished, or even unwritten, at the time of his unfortunate demise.’
‘So the cannibal feels he has to write not the writer’s voice, but the writer’s characters’ voices?’ asked Justin.
‘Exactly,’ said Tess, ‘he is compelled to write out the voices his victim carried in his head.’