Common People

by Tony Birch

  The old man started to laugh and the others joined in, including the patient wrestling with his gown. The old man got to his feet and clapped his hands together.

  ‘Guardami. Watch me.’

  He theatrically demonstrated a dressing technique he’d obviously perfected earlier. He lifted his arms above his head and slipped them out of the short sleeves of the gown. He then grabbed at the neck of the gown and turned the ties to the front. He untied them, exposing the white hairs on his chest, his decent belly, and a penis he saw only in the mirror of a morning. While Joe looked away, a little embarrassed, the man concentrated on the task at hand.

  ‘Questo è il modo per farlo,’ he smiled, re-doing the ties and manoeuvring the gown around his body until the ties had returned to the back. With all four men properly attired they sat and smiled at each other, occasionally laughing quietly. One by one they were escorted into another room until eventually Joe was alone. The room was cold. He looked down at his toes. They were slowly changing colour, from pink to blue. He draped an arm across his stomach and tentatively fingered each of the small circular scars on his left ribs. He’d forgotten nothing about what had caused the scars, and he was sure the doctor knew as much. In fact, once prodded by the doctor’s questioning, the details of the many occasions he’d spent in agony came flooding back to him. He sniffed the air, sure he could smell burning flesh.

  ‘Mr Roberts?’

  A nurse stood waiting. Although Joe had managed to tie his gown properly, he reached a hand around his back and grabbed at the draughty opening.

  The nurse winked at him and smiled. ‘Good morning, handsome. I’m your date for the day.’

  She took Joe by one arm and escorted him into an operating theatre dominated by machines and monitors attached by a weave of electrical cables and wiring. Joe quickly counted at least half a dozen staff, each wearing a light blue uniform. The nurse guided Joe to a long narrow table and eased him onto his back. She handed him a pair of sunglasses before switching on a bright light above the table.

  ‘If you have any concerns, Joseph, then you’re most welcome to hold my hand. But I have to let you know, I don’t kiss on a first date, even for a fella as good looking as you.’ She reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘But if you behave yourself, I will let you take me dancing next week.’ She winked at him a second time and placed a tourniquet on his lower left arm.

  Joe felt a cold sensation on his skin, above his wrist. ‘This may hurt a smidge,’ the nurse said. He felt helpless. A needle went into his arm. He could hear the quiet humming of the machines and one of the staff talking about an opera he’d seen the night before. The man walked over to the table and stood reading Joe’s medical notes. He then placed a hand gently on Joe’s chest.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Roberts. I’m Mr Lee, your specialist. Let me explain what will be happening this morning. And if you are uncertain at all, if you have any questions for me, please ask. We have just inserted a catheter into your arm. In a moment we’ll inject a substance into the catheter which will help us get a good picture of your kidneys. You’ll most likely experience an odd taste in your mouth, as if you’re biting on metal. And after a few seconds there will be another sensation, a feeling that you’re wetting yourself.’

  He lifted his hand for a moment then allowed it to return to Joe’s chest.

  ‘But don’t worry. It is only a sensation. It’s nothing to be concerned about.’ The doctor turned and nodded at the nurse. ‘You’re in the best of hands. Do you have any questions?’

  ‘No.’

  The feelings were exactly as the doctor had described them. Within thirty seconds of the chemicals entering his bloodstream Joe felt the taste of metal in his mouth, and a few seconds later he was sure he was peeing himself. The nurse noticed the worried look on his face and gripped his hand.

  ‘It’s okay, Joseph. It’s only a trick played on your mind by the drugs. You rest easy and let me take care of you.’

  Following the scan Joe was sent back to the changing room where he was told to dress, return to the original waiting room and arrange his next appointment. As he was about to slip his white shirt on he noticed his scarred upper body in the mirror. He lifted an arm and looked closely at the old burns for the first time in many years. The doctor had been right, he thought. The body never lies.

  Joe finished dressing but once out of the change room somehow made a wrong turn, following the purple line instead of the blue one. He opened a glass door into a room dominated by brightly painted walls with numbers, letters and stencils of farm animals. The room was full of young children. Some were quietly playing. Others were squealing with joy, chasing each other around the room. A few, who were clearly unwell, did not move. A young girl, who could not have been more than three or four years old, ran across the room to Joe. She stopped in front of him, smiled and offered him a toy, a cloth doll with plaited hair and a candy-striped dress. The doll had a tear drawn on its face.

  ‘She has all my hair,’ the girl said.

  Joe looked down at the girl’s pale skin and the wisps of fine hair on top of an otherwise bald head. The girl’s mother called to her and the girl turned and walked slowly across the room, holding the rag doll to her chest.

  Joe retraced his steps back to the waiting room. He sat down on a bench and closed his eyes. A few minutes later he was shaken by the receptionist.

  ‘You look worn out, Mr Roberts. Next time you should bring someone along with you. It really does help.’

  She offered Joe a pen and pointed to a blank line on the admissions sheet. ‘You never filled this out. Next of Kin. We need the contact number for a family member.’

  Joe looked up at the woman, confused. She could have been speaking a foreign language. Finally, realising what she was asking, he was too worn out to evade the question. ‘I don’t have any family,’ he answered, shrugging his shoulders.

  ‘Well, we still need a name. A friend?’

  Joe looked down at his black leather shoes, annoyed that one toe was scuffed. ‘There’s no one to contact.’ He gathered himself and stood up. ‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked, raising his voice and surprising both the receptionist and himself with his tone.

  ‘Okay. That’s fine, Mr Roberts. Let’s organise your next appointment.’

  She handed him a pink slip of paper. ‘There you are, Mr Roberts. We will see you next week. It might be a good idea to also mark the appointment on a calendar. It helps.’

  Joe took the slip. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry for what?’ She seemed genuinely puzzled.

  ‘I raised my voice to you just now. I’m sorry. It’s been a tiring day.’

  She left her desk and walked to where Joseph was standing. She took hold of his hand. ‘This can be tough going. I know, Joseph. I’ve been on both sides of this counter. Whatever happens, we stick with our patients, all the way.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Now don’t tell anyone I was nice to you. I’m supposed to be the hard one around here. We’ll see you next week.’

  By the time Joe arrived home it was close to dark. The wind had picked up. He wondered if it was about to rain. He could see the boy from the flat below sitting on his doorstep. Joe was surprised. He’d occasionally seen the boy walking to and from school on his own, but he never played in the street or hung around the landing.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ Joe asked.

  He’d not been around young boys since he was a teenager, and was unaware of his brusqueness, which appeared to have startled the boy. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked, a little more gently.

  ‘I’m locked out of my flat,’ he answered, pointing at the door.

  Joe stared at the door, as if it might offer an explanation. ‘Is your mother not at home?’

  The boy shook his head from side to side.

  ‘Do you know where she is?’

 
; The boy looked up at Joe. ‘She’s working. At her job in the factory.’

  Joe was puzzled as to why the boy would be left in the street on his own. ‘Does she know you’re out here?’

  ‘No. I lost my key and don’t know where it is.’

  Joe wasn’t sure what to do. ‘What time do you expect that she’ll be home?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘Most days she’s here when I get home. But on Wednesdays, today, she works late. She already cooked my dinner for me, last night. It’s ready to eat.’

  The boy was clearly distressed. Joe sunk his hands in his pockets and began nervously tapping the toe of his shoe as he thought about what he could do to help.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ Joe asked

  The boy nodded his head. ‘Yes’.

  ‘My name is Joe. You are?’

  The boy hesitated before answering. ‘I’m Charles.’

  ‘Okay, Charles. If you want to come upstairs, I can make some spaghetti for us to eat and you can wait with me until your mother comes home.’

  Charles vigorously shook his head from side to side. ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m not allowed to go with people I don’t know.’

  ‘Oh.’ Joe felt the pain in his side. ‘Well, that’s good advice. I’m not good with strangers either. Let’s see. What about if you wait here and I bring you a bowl of spaghetti? Would that be okay?’

  Charles smiled, slightly. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good. First let me get you a rug, so you don’t get cold before we eat. And then we can have some pasta down here on the landing.’

  Joe boiled water on the stove, opened a container of pasta sauce and grated some cheese. He went out onto the landing several times and looked over the balcony but could not see the boy. When the spaghetti was ready he left the flat with a bowl in each hand and two spoons and forks in his back pocket. Charles was sitting on his doorstep waiting, with Joe’s rug wrapped around his legs.

  ‘Here you are,’ Joe said. ‘I learned to cook this for forty boys when I wasn’t a lot older than you.’ He handed Charles a bowl and they ate together in silence.

  ‘What do you think?’ Joe asked after Charles had finished, leaving a small amount of pasta in the bowl.

  ‘It’s good. Thank you,’ he said, politely. ‘Do you have any friends who live near here?’ he asked.

  If Joe had been honest he would have told Charles that he had no friends. He decided against saying so. ‘They live somewhere else. In their own houses. What about you? Where do your friends live?’

  Charles gave the question serious thought. ‘I play football with some boys, but they’re not my friends. They are only boys from school.’

  The comment made perfect sense to Joe. He’d seen many boys pass through the Home, but made friends with none of them. As he took the bowl from Charles, he heard a cat’s meow and turned. The black cat with white socks jumped from a shrub edging the landing. A long silky cobweb hung from one ear. The cat sniffed the air.

  ‘I think this cat is hungry,’ Joe said. He placed Charles’s bowl on the ground and pushed it towards the cat. ‘You want some, kitty?’

  The cat backed away, sniffed the air, walked forward, stuck its face in the bowl and began eating, ferociously.

  ‘Do you like cats, Charles?’

  ‘I like them, but I’ve never had a cat of my own.’

  ‘Me either,’ Joe said. ‘They know how to look after themselves. That’s a good thing. It’s the cat that decides if it wants to be friends, not the other way around.’

  Charles sighed. ‘I think my mother will be here soon.’

  The cat finished the pasta and licked the bowl.

  ‘Would you like me to sit here with you while you wait?’ Joe asked. ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘If you like, yes.’

  They watched as the black cat turned away from them and disappeared into the garden.

  THE WHITE GIRL

  I fell in love with Heather Moran the first time I saw her, on the morning I fronted up to school in a pair of piss-stained shorts. She wore a clean dress. I was eleven years old and no other kids would let me sit next to them on account of the bad smell. Riding my bone-shaker bike to school along a two-mile dirt road I was so scared of being late, which I was most mornings, and earning the strap for my trouble, I pissed my pants rather than stop and take a leak behind a tree.

  Most of the kids in class laughed and teased me and I hid down the back of the room, trying my best to wipe the tears from my dirty face with one hand and making a fist with the other. I wanted to slam that fist into someone’s face, and didn’t care whose it was, as long as I caused some pain and drew blood. Mr Wrench, our teacher, marched into the room, banged his books down on his desk, stared at me through his coke-bottle specs and pointed a bony finger in my direction.

  ‘Sexton, find yourself a seat. And not on your own. If you prefer solitary confinement I can call the constable and have you hauled off. You can join your delinquent older brother.’

  The class giggled like a mad choir. I searched the centre aisle for a place to sit. Any kid with a spare seat moved their arse to the middle of the bench and spread out, letting it be known there was no place for me.

  Heather was the new girl. She got up, walked to the back of the room, tugged at my T-shirt and pointed to her desk.

  ‘You can sit next to me, if you like,’ she whispered. ‘My name is Heather.’

  The other girls in the class looked at her in disgust, like she’d asked me to put a hand in her pants for a play.

  I shuffled behind her and sat down, as close as I could to the end of the bench without falling off. I didn’t want her passing out on account of the stink. I sniffed the air to get a whiff of myself, but all I could smell was something like Velvet soap coming from her golden plaited hair.

  She sat back, looking at the blackboard, paying attention to old Wrench. I took a good peep at her. She had to be the cleanest person I’d ever seen. Her dress had no stains or repair work, and there were no marks on her fair-skinned arms except for some freckles. No insect bites or old scars like I had.

  Wrench’s stick of chalk scratched the board as he wrote up the lesson and the swinging heels of school boots scraped against the floorboards. I listened closely to Heather breathing quietly in and out, and decided right there and then that I was in love with her. I’d never loved anyone before, except for Angie, and she didn’t count, she was just a wild cat that had befriended me three years back after I threw her a chicken carcass in the side yard.

  At lunchtime I took up my usual spot, under the peppercorn tree in the far corner of the schoolyard, trying hard not to think about the hunger pains in my gut. Heather stood in the middle of the yard, the sun catching her hair. She smiled and walked towards me, holding a lunchbox under one arm. She stopped, opened the lid, took out a sandwich and held a half in each hand.

  ‘Would you like some? It’s Vegemite and cheese.’

  I looked up at the thick slices of bread, knowing I could gulp the lot in one mouthful, even if the filling had been nothing more than dripping with pepper sprinkled on it for taste.

  ‘Nup. It’s not mine to have.’

  She leaned forward and offered me the half sandwich anyway.

  ‘Please take it. There’s more here than I can eat.’

  I took the sandwich and dirtied the white bread with my grubby fingers. Heather took two shining apples from the lunchbox and offered one to me.

  ‘What’s your name?’ She smiled. Her teeth were straight as light posts and even whiter than her skin.

  ‘Noah.’

  ‘Noah who?’

  ‘You a copper or something, with all the questions?’

  She took a bite from her sandwich. ‘I’m sorry. I won’t ask another one. Are you going to eat your sandwich?’


  ‘It’s Sexton. Noah Sexton. Didn’t you hear Wrench call out to me?’

  ‘Why do you sit over here?’ she asked.

  I stared at the sandwich. I wanted to get a good look at it before taking a bite. ‘You said there’d be no more questions. And you asked another two already’

  ‘That was the last one. I promise.’ She scratched the end of her nose.

  ‘I sit over here because I’m a Sexton.’

  My surname would normally be explanation enough. Being a newcomer, she didn’t get it.

  ‘What about it? That’s just a name.’

  ‘Not our name. We’re cursed. Don’t get too close to me. You can catch it, like a disease.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I bet I can’t catch anything from you.’

  To prove her point she sat next to me, close enough that I could smell the sweet soap of her again.

  ‘Can I ask you a question this time?’

  She wiped crumbs from her dress. ‘Of course.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Under this tree,’ she laughed, but not like she was making fun of me.

  ‘Nup. At this school? In this town?’

  ‘My father is the new policeman. He’s going to be in charge of the station. And my mother does a lot of work with the church.’

  So she was a copper. Sort of.