by Joy Dettman
For the first week he kept to his room during daylight hours, watching television, living on coffee, saving half of his breakfast for his lunch. He watched Days of Our Lives and Oprah, watched the kids’ shows and quiz shows, and ordered dinner at night in his room. He couldn’t pay Bill’s bill with his credit card, so he hit an autobank by night, paid cash and booked in for a second week.
His face was a gnarled stubble but his hair and eyebrows were not doing as well. It was this week that he discovered Chef-Marlet. He’d gone out to buy some clean clothes and he’d found a pair of sunglasses, wraparounds, and an Akubra hat.
Then he bought a book. The naked breast on it had got him in. He read it in a day and was waiting at the bookshop door when it opened for business the following morning. Safe beneath his hat and dark glasses, he bought Number 2. It had a naked bum on the cover, but he wasn’t looking at the cover when he returned with it to his room. He was reading about Mack Curtin, a bastard people loved to hate. Jack felt sorry for him.
He’d been a voracious reader in his youth, but twenty years had passed since he’d been able to lose himself in fiction. He was wondering what it was about the novel that was getting him in when the bloody thing ended, leaving too many unanswered questions. So he went out for Number 3 and read on.
‘When will you learn, woman?’ Mack’s voice was tired, bored already. ‘Everything is your fault. Life is your fault. Bella Reva is more woman than you’ll ever be with your pretty little blameless face and your pretty manners and your bloody cold bed.’
‘You’ve brought her and her problems into my house before, Mack, but it’s over now. I won’t have her name spoken in this house. She’s gone, Mack, and I’m glad she’s gone, and I hope she never comes back.’
‘Don’t you try to come the big bloody property owner bitch on me again or I’ll burn this one to the ground too, you mindless slut.’
His fist was raised, and his children moved to the eastern doorway as the fist swung.
Gretel cringed from him. Her lip cut by his first blow, her hands rose to ward off his next swing.
‘Please, Mack. Don’t, Mack. I’m sorry, Mack.’
Jack read faster, read through Numbers 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 and 9, while the billiard ball became covered in coarse sandpaper, and Mack Curtin was being pursued all over Australia by the cops. The silly bastard was wanted for a murder he hadn’t committed – or probably hadn’t committed, and Jack had to know if he got away with it.
On the Monday, on the dot of nine, he was waiting for the book-shop door to open. Once inside, he searched the shelves for Number 10. And discovered there was no bloody Number 10. ‘Where is it?’ ‘It’s coming soon,’ the bookseller said. He didn’t like the look of the scarred, aging skinhead who had forgotten his hat and sunglasses.
‘Coming soon! The story isn’t finished!’
‘The reps say it should be out by February. Would you like to place an order?’
‘Bloody February. A man will be dead by February.’
The bookseller looked now with sympathy at the bald head, the naked face, understanding, or thinking he understood. ‘Been through chemo?’ he said.
‘What?’ Jack wasn’t into conversation. He wanted that book. He walked back to his room where he studied the covers of the scattered novels. He read the blurbs again, then turned to the last page of Number 1, staring at the youthful author’s face, reading the brief biography.
A schoolteacher, Chef-Marlet was born in England. He moved to Australia with his family in the sixties and now lives in New South Wales.
It wasn’t much to go on.
But the moon face, those glasses, the stubby bloody little lump-of-putty nose . . . The dark hair put him off the track for a while, then he twigged and he sprang to his feet, pitching Number 1 at the hysterical fly who had stowed away in a plastic bag.
‘You bloody eavesdropping, obese old bastard,’ Jack said, his eyes wide. ‘You slimy bloody slug of a man.’ It was some time before he ran out of adjectives, and when he did, he picked up battered Number 1 and began reading it again, but more slowly this time.
Twenty days at the motel cost Bill Dooley dearly. Samuel Burton plastic couldn’t pay for him either. Jack footed it to a bank and the dame behind the glass questioned his signature. He pulled out Sam’s driving licence, and the dame questioned his photograph.
‘I’ve been through bloody chemotherapy. What do you expect me to bloody well look like?’ He flashed the skin graft on his arm, flaunted his scarred brow. ‘It’s in my bones. I’ve got a month to live. Do you want me to waste a bloody week of it standing here, for Christ’s sake?’
She paid up and he paid the motel bill, then caught the night train to Melbourne. By ten the following morning he was holed up again at Narrawee, his answering machine flashing at him every time he walked by.
His head felt spiky, but his moustache and beard had done better, and his eyebrows were growing back. He’d do okay. So Samuel had had a haircut, and about bloody time. He had his scars now for identification. He didn’t need his poofter hair and lice. Some primitive tribes shaved their heads when they were in mourning, so good enough for them, good enough for Samuel Bloody Burton.
The grey sports slacks had given him haemorrhoids and the business shirts had rubbed his neck raw. His feet, accustomed to spreading in canvas sneakers, hadn’t taken well to leather, and for the first time in months the corn on his smallest toe was throbbing. He’d left the black shoes in the motel room, with his grey slacks, three filthy shirts and several well-used black socks. He didn’t want them. Jeans moved with him, bent with him, and looked better with his sneakers.
No doubt they’d post the clothes to Bill Dooley, Main Street, Goondiwindi. A lot of Bill Dooley’s dirty laundry was probably sitting in some dead mail department. Jack had used his name two dozen times or more when he’d gone on his benders, and Bill always left his dirty washing behind.
fletch.doc
Monday 8 December
Malcolm was gaining some control over the beast machine that purred like a lion ready to pounce and gobble up his labour. The trick was to name the file before hitting the Control and S keys every five minutes. This pasted his words onto the internal disc, took them out of the ROM or RAM or whatever it was and solidified them somewhere in bytes, to be called up again at his pleasure. Each day, just to be on the safe side, he also saved his work to a floppy disk, which was in fact quite rigid.
John had found the three lost chapters of Number 10; they’d been quite safe, down in the bowels of the beast. He’d found them in five minutes, using a search-by-date instruction. Once found he had somehow tethered and married them, then named the single file Fletch.
Six skeleton chapters had joined fletch.doc since that day. Not a lot in each, but they’d grow, Malcolm hoped. He was becoming familiar with the keyboard, larger than the confounded typewriter’s, and not as touchy either. And the text, once you grew accustomed to it disappearing off the face of the planet, was quite wonderful. He could make it small. He could make it large, which he did. He also had control over the size of text in his . . .
‘Hard copy,’ he said.
There was something almost deviant about selecting the print command then sitting back while his printer whipped out five pages a minute. He loved watching the pristine pages roll into the printer and his words roll out. Never tired of it.
‘Quite wonderful. A remarkable tool.’
There were games on it too, as he had discovered when Ann and her entourage had called in last week. She had been surprised by his progress and he, like a small child, delighted in showing off his developing expertise. Then young Benjamin had wanted to look at the games and the small boy had become teacher of the man.
‘You have to try to fit all those blocks in, sir, and not leave any spaces.’
Sir.
‘Ah, but how do we decide where they fit, Burt . . . Taylor?’ he’d said.
A fine boy, that one. He’d grow into a fine young m
an.
Long ago Malcolm had claimed Ann as his own. He’d planned for her, dreamed for her. He could see her young face in Benjamin, see her hands and quick mind in her first son. It would be a fine thing to watch him grow to adulthood.
And sweet Bethany. She may well be a duplication of her mother. How wonderful it would be to see her grow, to watch a woman emerge from this small female cocoon. Already she wanted what she wanted when she wanted it, her determined little jaw working on the bottle, her little hands already speaking. Malcolm did not want the complication, but perhaps he was falling in love with her.
‘Bethany.’ He liked that name. ‘Bethany Taylor.’ It had a prophetic ring to it.
John was playing a large role in Malcolm’s life these days. They spent many hours in deep discussion, and he’d read the three early chapters of Number 10. Malcolm could find no end for this novel as yet, so his fingers plodded on, hoping an end would present itself.
Hard, plodding work, this one. His characters refused to take off and run, to lead him a merry chase, but at least he had some words on paper and his phone was back on the receiver.
John had eaten dinner with Malcolm this evening. An interesting character. Assuredly his father’s son, but with a depth to him and a pleasingly cynical outlook on life. A watcher of life, was John, as was Malcolm. They had much in common. But not the bottle.
Malcolm measured a portion of brandy into his glass, tipping it down to meet, to greet, the beef pot roast, and a very nice piece of beef it had been too. The vegetables had soaked up its juices and flavour. He enjoyed a tender beef pot roast.
No more classroom to fill his days now. Perhaps he missed it. John was completing a revision course in primary teaching. The department bogged down in red tape as ever, had taken their time, but after the constant stream of replacements they had posted to Mallawindy in the years since Malcolm retired, someone had seemingly recognised the value of taking on a home-grown ex-priest.
What was it that drove teachers to teach? Was it a fear of leaving that classroom, or perhaps a desire to control? A need to have some say in the future? What was it about this town that drove the teachers’ wives away?
The single men had done better here. They had adapted – for a given time they had adapted, then run willingly enough. The married male is not an adaptable animal, Malcolm thought. Take away his dream, rip the carpet out from beneath his feet and he stumbled, fell, where a woman would find a reason to go on. Give her a child and she’d survive all odds for her child, but take away that child. . .
The observation of life was fascinating; watching the growth of those around you was a pastime like no other. He had spent some time spying on the Burton property last evening and through his binoculars, had seen Kerrie Fogarty’s car arrive, and later he had witnessed two walkers and a brief kiss. It had pleased Malcolm well.
‘A man with a quest,’ he said. ‘And your quest, Malcolm? One hundred thousand words and a title. And an end.’ He only had twenty-nine and a half thousand. Still a way to go. Perhaps he’d get there. Perhaps not. But he was out of words for tonight. His cursor honed in on File. Carefully he chose Close.
Do you wish to save changes to Fletch.doc?
‘Yes, you damn fool thing,’ he said, clicking. His machine whirred, purred, double-checking his every move until it gave in and its face went blank.
Always at this point Malcolm felt fear, which increased his heart rate. Would his words be there for him in the morning? He shrugged, turned the machine off at the power point and took a step away from it, waiting for it to complain.
Silence.
He’d dredged out seven hundred plodding words today. There had been days in the past when he’d churned out fifteen pages on the old Royal. What a world he had known back then, his life spent in a wonderland of his own creation, words following him, waking him from his sleep, demanding to be set free. Such a pool of words to choose from back then. But the well was dry. And he was dry. He poured another brandy.
eggs
Dear Sam,
I am so sorry it has been so long since I have written to you.
I was very sorry to hear of your sad loss. May was a very nice woman. I’m sure you must miss her very much.
We are all well up here. Johnny is now teaching at the school, and looking so much better every day. Bronwyn is still keeping well, and also Annie and her family. I hope you have gotten over your own injuries, and are feeling better now. Annie told me you were injured.
Half the reason why I am writing is to let you know we are having a memorial service up here for Jack on Christmas Eve. I am also having his name put on the children’s tombstone. I know he’d want to be with Liza, and I like to think he is now.
I’m going to get a new stone, and it will say: ‘John W Burton, [Jack] loved husband of Ellie, father of John, Ben, Ann and Bronwyn. Resting now with Liza, Linda and Patrick’.
A ghost walked over Jack’s grave. He dropped the letter, shivered, then he picked it up and read on.
If you could get up to the memorial on Christmas Eve, it will be in the beer garden at the hotel. I know this is a bit strange, but my friend said that knowing Jack, it would be more suitable to have it there than at the church. As you would know, Jack was never a one for the church. Father Fogarty will be there to say a few words and as Granny Bourke said, Jack will be there too, and probably laughing at all of us. You would be very welcome to join us for the night, Sam. We’ve got plenty of spare beds at the old place.
All the best to you for Christmas. Love from Ellie and family.
‘Bloody friend? What bloody friend? He’s doing better than me, isn’t he, getting you into a pub, you bitch,’ Jack said, crumpling the letter, tossing it at the wall. But he picked it up and threw it onto the table with everything else. ‘Couldn’t write a letter to a lost dogs’ home.’
May and Sam had always replied to Ellie’s Christmas greetings with a cheque. He had to play the game out to the end. His cheque book was on the table. He wrote one for five hundred, then he ripped it up. She and her bloody friend would have his insurance soon enough. He wrote a second cheque, this one for one hundred, and he found a sheet of May’s writing paper. Merry Christmas to all, love Samuel.
‘Love?’
He’d loved her once. Loved May too. Loved his mother. Loved Liza. Maybe he’d loved that black-headed little bitch, but he’d hated her too – seen too much of himself in that one. Seen himself and tried to kill it.
Bastard. He flinched from a memory, ran a hand across his scalp.
Women. No man in his life to care about, or to care about him. ‘Never has been – except old Pop,’ he said as he stood and walked off to search May’s office for envelopes.
He was folding the cheque and note when he changed his mind. He’d buy himself a decent tombstone. That’s what he’d do. He had money. Money to burn. He wrote a cheque for five thousand, signed it, and added a PS to his note.
Please find enclosed cheque. I’d like to buy a new stone for Jack and the children. I will be out of the country over Christmas, so have a drink for him, for me.
Sealing that envelope made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. He walked to the television room and turned on the box, watching mindlessly. Spent a lot of time watching the bloody thing mindlessly, sleeping in front of it. At least it talked to him. But he nodded off while it was talking, slept through Days of Our Lives, and was dreaming of Ellie when the phone woke him. He woke sweating, breathing heavily – and un-bloody-satisfied.
‘I said to do what needs doing,’ Jack told the phone and his manager. ‘Sell what you have to. Buy what you have to and send me the bills.’
‘Can I come over and talk to you, Sam?’
‘No.’ His hair was growing, but slowly. Over a week now since he’d returned from Sydney. Hadn’t left the house by day, but he walked the property at night, emptied the mailbox at his gate and twice he’d driven to the outskirts of Melbourne for a feed of take-away fish’n’ chips.<
br />
‘Old Harry has been around twice this week, Sam, jabbering about the garden.’
‘Let it die,’ Jack said. That gained him a few seconds’ silence. He started to hang up the phone and he heard the voice again.
‘Do you want me to organise someone to come in and cook you a meal – do a bit of washing for you?’
‘No.’
‘You’ve got to start getting out. People care about you. They’re worried about you, mate.’
‘Yeah. Right.’ Jack wanted to laugh, wanted to howl at the ‘mate’, but he hung up instead and went back to the kitchen to hunt for food. The room looked like a neglected pigpen, as did his bedroom.
He’d lost weight in Sydney, and more since his return. His jeans hung on him, and he hitched at the waist now as he searched the pantry, the freezer. No sugar left. No bloody coffee. He made a cup of tea. Black. No bloody milk.
‘Ah, shit.’ Again his hand brushed his scalp. ‘Bloody maniac bastard,’ he said. ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking of?’ He took the cup to the table and sat looking through his bills, ten deep.
‘Bloody manager. Got to pay him too. Can’t post his bloody cheque, can I?’
Pen in hand he made an attack on the bills, piled high since he’d been away. He’d never had to worry about bills. In Mallawindy, Ellie had paid them, and down here May had written the cheques. But he wrote them today, and signed Sam’s name, not once, not twice, but again and again, whittling the pile and his cheque account down.
‘Bloody electricity,’ he said. ‘Bloody telephone. If a man didn’t have a bloody manager, then he wouldn’t need a bloody telephone, would he?’
He’d been signing Sam’s name for thirty years, signing tax returns, adding his signature to May’s on many documents, but he, or his hand, didn’t want to sign it any more. He stared at the signatures. SJ Burton. It was the J buggering it up. J was for Jack and Jack’s hand had always been heavier than Sam’s. No wonder the dame at the bank had questioned his signature. He crumpled one cheque and wrote another, signed it, stapled it to a bill, then worked on.