Sylvie’s teeth grinding was practically audible so DB gallantly changed the topic.
‘Did you tell Nonna and Nonno that you’re going to have a birthday party?’ he pressed Rudy.
‘I’m going to have a birthday party,’ Rudy informed them, eyes remaining on his plate.
‘Eat up, Rodolfo baby,’ Guiseppa encouraged him. ‘Just like your clever daddy.’
‘A big party with all the kids from kindy,’ DB announced, looking to Sylvie for support. ‘We’re working on the invites right now. Shortlisting the fonts as we speak.’
‘Not all the kids,’ Rudy interrupted. ‘Not naughty Niki. She won’t share.’
‘Well, obviously. All the kids except naughty Niki,’ DB agreed.
‘Sure, don’t invite the one kid who really needs it,’ Sylvie muttered.
‘Why don’t you have the party here?’ Nino asked, gesturing around the room proudly. ‘Lots more room in our backyard.’
‘What an idea!’ Guiseppa cried. ‘Rudy can wear his little suit!’
DB glanced briefly about the Zambettis’ formal dining room. There was just so much cut glassware . . .
‘Rudy’s pretty keen on having it at our place, aren’t you Rudy?’
Rudy shrugged.
‘Because of the petting zoo we planned to hire, right, buddy?’
Rudy’s ears perked up. ‘Right! The petting zoo. Before all the animals die.’
‘But it’s so far for all those parents to travel,’ Guiseppa said. ‘They all live around here. Near the kinder.’
‘It’d be a bit far for the petting zoo, all the way out here,’ DB replied. ‘And the balloon guy. And the DJ.’
He glanced once more at Sylvie, who was presently draining her wineglass. He waited for her reaction – one of approval and support – but it seemed there was quite a bit of alcohol to imbibe.
‘What if they dob?’ Nino asked, pouring himself some more wine.
‘If who dob?’ DB queried.
‘The children. Or their parents. You said on your form you live here. What if they tell the council you don’t? No more kindy for Mr Rudy here.’
Guiseppa was nodding in agreement. DB placed his cutlery down on the plate.
‘No one is going to do that. People don’t do that.’
‘You never know.’ Nino shrugged. ‘The things you see on the telly. Maybe it’s safer if you just come out this way. You know, find a nice place nearby. All his friends are here . . .’
DB eyed Sylvie, trying to work out if this was all a grand set-up. She was presently occupied with cutting her food into tiny portions, which she pushed angrily around the plate, causing them to careen into each other like soggy billiards.
‘You leave him alone. He’s doing fine,’ Guiseppa said, playing peacemaker, her hands raised before her as though she were testifying. ‘Sure, it would be easier for everyone, and then maybe they could give Rudy a sister, but that’s their decision. If they move here they move here. And in the meantime we’ll have another little party for Rudy at our place, just in case any of his little friends can’t make it all the way to yours.’
She checked their plates to see if anyone needed more food.
‘Anyway, another topic. Sylvie, have you spoken with your brother today?’
*
They drove home in the dying light, soft rain falling as Rudy sat glued to his iPad. DB checked to make sure his earphones were in.
‘You know, it’s not a terrible idea.’
Sylvie turned to him slowly.
‘What isn’t?’
‘The whole double party thing. It could be fun. Rudy gets a morning with the olds then the afternoon with the petting zoo. Who could ask for a better fifth birthday?’
Sylvie turned back to the road ahead, bringing her feet up to the dashboard. Her face was drawn, shadows collecting about her eyes in the dim light. From this angle she looked like her mother, something DB saw often these days, but had swiftly learnt never to mention. The practical short haircut in place of the waist length tresses, the neutral mix-and-match tones where once op shop vintage had reigned supreme – all reminiscent of Guiseppa’s stoic approach to middle age. Sylvie yawned, her face transforming slightly, and for a moment DB caught a glimpse of the past.
‘You think I have time to organise two parties?’ Sylvie sighed, rubbing her eyes.
‘Who said anything about you organising it? I’ve got this, Sylv. You won’t have to do a thing.’
‘Why can’t we just have it at Mum and Dad’s? No one is going to come all the way to our place.’
DB tightened his grip on the wheel.
‘Why do we keep coming back to this?’
‘To what?’
‘It’s all sticks past Bell Street. We may as well move to the middle of nowhere.’
‘It’s not. It’s perfectly fine. It’s where I grew up. And if we wait long enough it’ll be the next big thing and we’d be the savvy investors who got in early.’
‘Yes, but only after a decade of boredom. They call them fringe areas for a reason,’ he sniffed. ‘Look at this place,’ he continued, gesturing to the suburbs around them. ‘It’s like a maze. A heartless maze. There’s no infrastructure, no public transport. Nothing. Nothing but a big shiny maze with a minotaur lurking at its centre.’
DB sat back in his seat, impressed with himself. He was really getting some mileage out of this minotaur metaphor. He’d have to let Jonesy know. Beside him, Sylvie’s brow was furrowed.
‘What are you even talking about?’
‘The minotaur,’ DB repeated, sailing through an amber light. ‘The outer suburbs are a big labyrinth-bound minotaur for young families like us, waiting to entice us in then gobble us up.’
Sylvia pursed her lips, reaching for the radio.
‘Raw milk and unvaccinated preschoolers. Let’s talk about which suburbs have the real savages.’
She turned the volume up and they were drowned out by Missy Higgins. DB reached over and turned it down a fraction.
‘Please, Sylvie. Not the outer suburbs. Trevor in Accounting is from there and he’s always so tired.’
Sylvie didn’t say anything but cleared her throat, signalling a change in topic.
‘Are you able to knock off early tomorrow? Mum and Dad have a dinner thing with friends and I’m meant to stay late to supervise practice exams.’
DB scrunched up his face.
‘I may have promised I’d put in some extra hours because this pro bono thing will be eating into my normal workload and I really want to get a jump on that.’
‘How late?’
Late enough that they’d buy pizza for the whole office. He shrugged helplessly.
‘That’s fine. Our child can just stay home by himself. I mean he’s, what, almost five now.’
In the back, Rudy let out a gentle cackle, his face lit up by the iPad, and they continued their drive to the centre of the north.
*
The weekend came and DB spent much of Saturday morning squirrelled away in his home office catching up on work. The pro bono mention was on Monday and you could never be sure how long you’d be stuck waiting to be called, so he didn’t want to risk losing a whole day away from the office. Every so often noises came from the house proper – bumps and clangs and bouts of hysterical tinny laughter – but he did his best to block it out. He emerged at midday, his stomach grumbling, and made a beeline for the refrigerator. He remembered there being a particularly creamy brie in there at one point and he hoped it was still salvageable. Sylvie was set up at the kitchen table, her feet resting on a chair opposite. She insisted she had a system but to DB it looked like someone had hastily ransacked a classroom then abandoned their haul for want of something worthwhile. This had been endearing at first, her eccentric approach to order, and DB had foolishly assumed it wo
uld change with age as the weight of responsibility made these things matter. It hadn’t, and where once he had delighted in the fact she kept her documentation in an assortment of shoe boxes, at thirty-seven this seemed closer to a travesty.
‘Year eight History?’ he asked, taking a bite out of a cold chicken drumstick and turning to the pantry. He half-hoped he might find a surprise supply of Turkish Delight but he knew Sylvie never bought them because she thought they tasted like rubber.
‘Year ten English,’ she countered, not looking up. ‘Practice exams. Richard III.’
‘They found his remains under a car park,’ DB mused, peeping behind some canned goods. ‘Ironically buried under a big R.’
‘Don’t tell Rudy or we’ll never hear the end of it,’ Sylvie replied. ‘You’ll take him with you?’
‘Under a reserved parking space, if memory serves. It was the back that gave him away. You could say they had a hunch . . . Take who?’
‘Richard the Third. He’ll be accompanying you to golf?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Rudy. Your child. You’ll be taking him to golf with you? I’ve been watching him all morning and I’ve got loads more to do.’
DB glanced over at Rudy who was happily ensconced in front of the Discovery Channel. Something – a seal of some description – seemed to be in the process of maiming something else. DB squinted at the screen. He couldn’t quite make it out. The seal surfaced, whipping the object into the air where it cartwheeled in a bloodied arc before the seal snatched it back up again.
‘Oh, it’s a penguin,’ DB cried out.
‘Huh?’
‘On the telly. You couldn’t tell because the seal had torn it apart somewhat . . .’
Sylvie’s eyes jerked towards the television.
‘For god’s sake. This is why you’re taking him to golf with you.’
She leapt up and marched to the coffee table, grabbing the remote and switching off the television.
‘Who’s up for a round of golf with Grandfather?’ DB announced cheerily as Rudy collapsed into a shrieking thrashing rage.
*
The car park was alive with activity as DB’s father swung the Merc aggressively towards a parking space. About them, grown men in chequered trousers and brightly hued tops dove for cover, their expensive cart bags collapsing onto the rockery.
‘Are you sure you want to park in this space? It’s members only.’
‘I am a bloody member,’ his father barked, circling the wheel sharply.
‘Since when?’ DB asked, flinching as his father shaved past the beamer parked to their left.
‘Since today. I come here every second Saturday without fail and if that doesn’t make me a member I don’t know what does,’ his father huffed, shifting the car into reverse and preparing for another attack.
‘I’m sure it has something to do with an invitation, an exchange of money and some paperwork, but what would I know,’ DB replied, his body tensing as the car lurched forward again.
He knew better than to offer to park the car on his father’s behalf. Real men parked their own cars, which he supposed was a marked improvement on the previous decades when real men had drivers who wore little demeaning caps and were paid the minimum wage.
‘How are we on your side?’ his father demanded, skewering the car forward in little hops.
‘We’re about to hit –’ DB began, as the car grunted into the BMW.
The BMW trembled a moment, then burst into a procession of lights and sirens. His father threw his hands in the air as if giving up on some utterly lost cause.
‘You were meant to keep watch.’
A crowd was gathering, dusting themselves off from their recent escape.
‘Stay here,’ DB muttered, unclipping his seatbelt.
The car was sandwiched against the BMW so DB had to slither into the back seats and out the opposite passenger door. Rudy watched from his car seat, his eyes delighted as he surveyed the damaged car out the window. DB walked round to the BMW. There was a sizeable dent, exactly the shape of his father’s bumper, which had slotted into it like a piece of miscoloured joinery.
‘Bloody oath!’
DB turned. Standing there, hat on a jaunty angle and pants hitched high above his belly, was Mr Williams.
‘You just don’t expect this in members parking,’ Mr Williams continued as DB felt the blood rush from his cheeks.
‘Mr Williams, sir. It’s DB. From work.’
Mr Williams looked momentarily confused. ‘Who?’
‘D– Ben Arnolds. From the Banting-Nicholson patent case. I’m working the pro bono case . . .’
‘Ah, yes. Young Ben Arnolds. What’s this DB business?’
‘Just a family nickname. It’s nothing.’
There was the sound of a car door opening.
‘Benjamin, what’s going on?’ his father called.
Mr Williams looked towards the Mercedes.
‘My father,’ DB said hurriedly. ‘He’s . . . he’s getting on.’
DB looked over his shoulder. His apparently fragile father was hoisting his golf clubs from the boot. Rudy had crawled out of his car seat and now wrapped himself around DB’s legs.
‘I’m so sorry about the car,’ DB began, but Mr Williams held up a hand.
‘Nothing insurance can’t take care of. Is this your little fellow?’ He hitched his trousers at the thigh, then bent forward onto one knee. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Rudy Rodolfo Zambetti Arnolds Elephant Seal,’ Rudy replied.
‘That’s not his name,’ DB interjected.
‘And are you here to play golf with your daddy and granddaddy?’
‘I guess,’ Rudy said reluctantly. ‘The penguin was dead so Mummy got angry. But it’s natural.’
He gave a little sigh to suggest that these things tended to happen in life. Mr Williams held out his hand and Rudy stared at it for a moment then Mr Williams took his hand back.
‘Clever little chap. Full of moxie. Now you pass on my details to your father and have his people call my people about this little bingle. And don’t let it get to you, young Ben Arnolds. I’ve big things in mind for this pro bono business should it all go to plan.’
And he raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested to DB that some of those things most certainly involved an office with a view of the Yarra.
Later, once they’d moved the Mercedes to allow Mr Williams to remove his own vehicle from the scene of carnage, DB followed his father out onto the golf course. Rudy travelled seated atop his grandfather’s golf cart until his grandfather decided that was enough of that. They played a few holes in relative silence, Rudy trotting diligently beside them, picking up sticks and leaves to place in his little backpack. Occasionally, DB’s father would give an order and DB would relay it on to Rudy.
‘Fetch the ball, son.’
‘Fetch the ball, buddy.’
Then, as DB was preparing to tee off, his father let out a low whistle.
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, nothing, nothing. Just thinking that there’s something almost spiritual, isn’t there, about three men and a round of golf.’
DB stepped back from the tee. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Three generations of Arnolds men. Five generations of lawyers. Sometimes life is so fortuitous one wants to pinch oneself.’
DB peered at his father. Perhaps he was having a turn?
‘Niki pinches me,’ Rudy announced from where he sat on the green, colliding two golf balls into each other. ‘Not always, though.’
‘Well, you better be pinching that young Nick back,’ DB’s father advised. ‘You show him who the alpha is.’
‘Okay, firstly, Niki is a little girl, and Rudy, don’t you pinch her. Don’t pinch anyone. And secondly, he’s in kindergarten, Dad. There are
no alphas.’
His father brushed this off.
‘There’s always an alpha, Benjamin. Now best you hit that ball before the sun goes down.’
DB lined up the ball and took a swing. It veered off to the side, landed with a thwack in a sand bunker.
‘There’s always an alpha,’ his father repeated, then set off with a whistle.
It was a merry whistle, looping and modulating as DB set himself up in the sand preparing to chip at the ball. He busied himself a while, trying to work out the angle, then looked up again.
‘Where’s Rudy?’
His father raised his eyebrows to the opposite end of the bunker.
‘He appears to be making sandcastles. That’s where you need to aim, by the way, if you want to redeem yourself.’
‘You mean aim at my child?’
‘Of course not. Aim over him. Forty, forty-five degrees, I’d say.’
DB repositioned himself, practising the shot in his head. As he prepared to swing, his father gave a throaty cough.
‘I just want you to know you’re doing well. The house, the job, the promotion. Rudy, even with this whole toilet training fiasco. You’re on the right track, Benjamin.’
DB felt the praise pierce his chest and dagger towards his heart. He smiled to himself and swung with a sudden burst of confidence, then watched the ball sail gracefully and smoothly straight into his son’s back.
Later, DB stood outside his house with a subdued Rudy, waving as his father drove off down the street.
‘Don’t worry,’ his father called as he pulled away from the curb. ‘I did the same thing to you, only it was your head.’
Rudy’s hand hovered protectively over the little round bruise on his shoulder as he nuzzled into his father’s neck. His backpack had absorbed much of the impact, but it was tender still. They stood like this for a while, DB taking in the front of the house. The wide sweeping verandah. The restored heritage eaves with the delicate rail and ornate brackets. The double garage that was so envied in these parts. He’d worked hard for this so that his family could have what he had had, so that he could leave something tangible behind for them.
‘One day all this will be yours, buddy,’ he whispered to Rudy, who gave the house the briefest glance.
The Book of Ordinary People Page 11