Joyful

by Robert Hillman

  ‘In Yackandandah? In the town?’

  ‘Perhaps in the countryside, more likely?’

  ‘Called, did you say Joyful?’

  ‘Joyful, yes.’

  Craig Wilton put a hand to his chin and gazed frowning into a corner of the ceiling. The girl with the pink streak in her hair joined him at the counter.

  ‘Kelly, Joyful? Mean anything to you? Kelly’s my girl friday. Helping me out while Karen’s away.’

  Kelly, who appeared barely out of high school, reached up to Craig Wilton’s chin and with the uncompromising manner of a mother, brushed away some batter fragments.

  ‘Joyful?’ said Kelly.

  ‘It’s been here a long time,’ said Leon. ‘My understanding is that it’s a big house, dating from the first decade of the last century. Excuse me, this is an odd thing to ask for, but do you have any aspirin? I’ve a frightful headache.’

  ‘I noticed that bump on your head,’ said Craig. ‘How’d you get that?’

  ‘A cow,’ said Leon. ‘I swerved in my car and hit my head on… on the car.’

  ‘That’s no good. Kelly’ll fix you up with some Aspros, will you, Kell? This property, what, you’re looking to buy? Something like that?’

  ‘I own it already,’ said Leon. ‘I’ve never seen it, however.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I inherited it.’

  ‘Good for you. Good for you. And what, you’re thinking of selling, something of that sort?’

  ‘I don’t know. Possibly.’

  ‘What acreage are we looking at, Leon? Big place? Medium?’

  Kelly placed a glass of water on the counter in front of Leon and helpfully tore open the foil wrapping of two soluble aspirins. ‘Two enough?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought perhaps four?’ said Leon. ‘I’m happy to pay.’

  ‘Pay be blowed!’ said Craig. ‘Hasn’t come to that yet—selling Aspros!’

  ‘It’s a big place, I believe,’ said Leon after he’d swallowed the solution and dabbed his lips with the back of his hand. ‘A professor and his wife were staying there not long ago.’

  ‘A professor?’ said Craig Wilton.

  ‘A man of my age and height. Thinner. A thick moustache.’

  Kelly gave a squeal, put her hands to her mouth and stared at Leon out of amazed blue eyes. Craig Wilton turned an enquiring gaze on her.

  ‘The funny farm!’ said Kelly. ‘That’s what he’s talking about!’

  Craig Wilton threw back his head and struck his ruddy cheek with the flat of his hand. ‘Of course! Of course!’

  ‘So you know the place I mean?’ said Leon.

  ‘Been known for, oh, donkey’s years as the funny farm, that place! Some church people there ages ago. Odd bods. No disrespect. I’m not running your property down, Leon. Beautiful old building. Bob Dent in Wangaratta was looking after it for years and years, Dent and Beckham. Lady in Melbourne used to own it, I believe?’

  ‘My mother,’ said Leon.

  ‘Wasn’t well looked after, I know that. Shire’s had its eye on it, off and on. Has a heritage listing, I believe. Out on Beechworth road, ooh, say seven k on the left as you’re heading for Beechworth? That’ll be it.’

  Kelly jumped in at the opening. ‘See, when you said the professor I just twigged the moment you said it! Mrs Delli, her husband’s a professor. They were there for a while.’

  ‘Moved to Yack now, just beside the Lutheran church. Mad as a hatter, the husband, but his wife is as nice, as kind a person as you’d ever meet. Muslim apparently, but as nice and kind a person as you’d meet anywhere. Very intelligent woman. A doctor. Husband’s not a Muslim according to her, actually belongs to some sort of church. So it goes to show, shouldn’t jump to conclusions. He’s the dodgy one.’

  ‘But a fellow called Daniel someone was out there until a few months ago, that’s right isn’t it?’ said Leon.

  ‘He was!’ said Craig. ‘That he was! But not since the summer.’

  ‘He’s with Emily and Gareth,’ said Kelly. ‘Mostly Emily.’

  Craig must have seen a need for caution. He frowned at his girl friday, not fiercely.

  ‘Well, he is!’ said Kelly.

  ‘Friend of yours, Daniel, is he Leon?’ asked Craig.

  ‘No,’ said Leon.

  ‘I’ve got time for Daniel,’ said Craig. ‘Not everyone has.’

  ‘The ones with wives and girlfriends,’ said Kelly, and she glanced sideways at her employer in a challenging way.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s fair, Kell.’

  ‘Excuse me? His eyes are all over me every time he sees me! And Tish! Truly!’

  ‘Well, I’ve never known him to be anything but civil, I have to say. Anyway, I’m sure Leon doesn’t…’

  ‘He was on with Emily same time he was with Tess, ask anyone!’ said Kelly.

  A mist of silver and black passed Leon’s eyes in wisps. He thought for a moment he’d faint. ‘Tess?’ he said. ‘You knew Tess?’

  Kelly looked at Leon blankly for a moment, as if she had to recall who he was and decide whether he had the right to interrupt. ‘Me and Tish knew her. Why?’

  ‘I knew her too,’ said Leon.

  Kelly was instantly delighted. ‘You knew Tess?’

  ‘Do you mind me asking how you came to know her?’

  ‘You know she’s d…umm, passed away, right?’ said Kelly. ‘For like, a year?’

  ‘Six months,’ said Leon. ‘But how did you come to know her?’

  Kelly’s interest had turned entirely away from any contest with Craig Wilton. ‘Okay, because she’s famous sort of, was, I mean, Tish’s mum recognised her in the newsagent, right? Tish’s mum always listens to her on the radio, and so blah blah blah, “Oh my God I’m your greatest fan blah blah blah, my daughter does piano!” And Tess comes to Tish’s mum’s—this’s about a month later—and listens to Tish because Tish’s mum’s thinking about Tish going to a posher school if she’s good enough, maybe. And she wants Tess to tell her if it’s worth the money? Which Tess says she is, absolutely.’

  ‘Small world!’ said Craig, returning from the sidelines. ‘Everyone seems to know everyone else! So, Leon. Tentative plans to sell, would I be right in thinking that?’

  ‘Possibly. I have to look at it. Daniel is still in Yackandandah, I take it?’

  ‘Very much so. Shop five or six doors down called Enchanted. You’ll find Daniel there, this time of day.’

  ‘I’m assuming that he’d have the keys. I certainly don’t.’

  ‘Could do. Could well do,’ said Craig. ‘Listen, take our card and anything comes into your head for your property, a valuation, leasing, just give me a call, absolutely no obligation.’

  Leon took the card and slipped it into the side pocket of his jacket. He thanked Craig and Kelly and said goodbye, but then remembered his other mission.

  ‘One other thing,’ he said. ‘Is there anywhere in the town where I could purchase a gun? A pistol?’

  Kelly let her mouth drop open. ‘A gun?’ she laughed. ‘What for?’

  What for?

  ‘In case there are foxes at the property,’ said Leon. ‘Or…kangaroos.’

  Kelly giggled musically. Craig shook his head and gave a laugh of his own. ‘You can’t go shooting roos, Leon! You’d need a licence to do that. And what, with a pistol?’

  ‘Sorry. Yes, it’s foolish, I agree. Well, thank you.’

  =

  The shop, Enchanted, was a vast barn of bric-a-brac and oddments piled on shelves and trestles, most of it second-hand but unaccountably including such new items as six-packs of Cashmere Bouquet soap and bottles of Rosella tomato sauce, priced at a hefty discount. Racks of clothing were on offer, too—largely the sort of garments that people only ever wear to advertise their politics: coarse wool jumpers with tassels, parti-coloured dresses stitched together from fabrics of different sorts; denim jackets with appliquéd leather patches; shawls of wrinkled velvet. In the dim light of low-wattage lamps, Leon f
ound it difficult to locate the woman humming along with the song playing on an old RCA phonograph next to the vacant counter. He waited by the phonograph until the record—Teddy Bears’ Picnic—reached the blank grooves closest to the label. As he expected, the lady who’d been humming appeared out of the shadowy mess to lift the stylus. She greeted Leon cheerfully and promised to assist him once she’d attended to the phonograph. This woman could only be Emily, for she was wearing a version of the eponymous garment Tess had lampooned in her emails: a fuzzy cardigan, featuring a pattern of blue llamas on a grey background. She was pretty, in an unscrubbed way, but her complexion was pale and blemishes showed out here and there, perhaps the result of poor diet. She wore loose-fitting black corduroy trousers and a cheesecloth shirt, untucked. Her long brown hair was streaked prematurely with grey (she could only have been in her early thirties) and partly gathered back with a tartan ribbon that made Leon wince. This surely was the woman Tess had accompanied to the clinic more than a year ago; the woman who had sobbed for the entire journey. Leon experienced a throb of tenderness for her. ‘You must be Emily,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ said the woman, glancing up from the stack of 78s. ‘How’d you know?’

  ‘Mister Wilton in the estate agent’s told me.’

  ‘Craig? Did he?’

  ‘He said I’d find Daniel here.’

  Emily had been holding a disc but now placed it on the counter. ‘You’re looking for Daniel?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’ All of the cheerfulness had drained from Emily’s face.

  ‘I have business with him.’

  ‘He’s got no money.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with money.’

  ‘Is this about Courtney?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then who are you?’

  ‘I’m Leon Joyce. I’m Tess’s husband.’

  ‘Tess’s husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you want with Daniel?’

  ‘The keys to my property. I assume he has them.’

  A door opened and closed. A man appeared on a brief stairway to Leon’s left—a stairway guarded by two large statues of the Buddha painted to give the appearance of gold leaf. Noticing Emily’s alarm, the man stopped before descending the four steps to the shop. He was tall, lean, bearded, strikingly good-looking, dressed very like Emily. He didn’t ask Emily what the trouble was but seemed to be waiting to be told.

  ‘It’s Tess’s husband,’ said Emily.

  The man nodded. He came down the stairs and stood beside Emily, hands thrust into his pockets, narrow shoulders hunched. Up close, Leon was aware of a wounded, wincing expression, as if he lived eternally on the threshold of capitulation. He smelled like freshly burnt marijuana.

  ‘He’s wanting Daniel,’ said Emily.

  The man nodded, then brought a hand from his pocket and offered it to Leon. It was a pale, hairless hand with fingers so long that they seemed almost a fascinating deformity. Leon offered his own hand and found it laced in a grip of surprising warmth.

  ‘Gareth,’ said the man, in a light, piping tenor.

  ‘Leon Joyce.’

  ‘Suppose you two’ve got things to talk about?’ said Gareth. He seemed to be responding to some sign from Emily that he was superfluous. He made his way, reluctantly it seemed, back up the Buddha steps.

  Emily moved a step closer to Leon. She put a hand on his arm and an imploring look came into her eyes. ‘Please let this not be anything awful,’ she said. ‘I can’t take much more.’

  ‘It’s nothing awful,’ said Leon.

  ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through.’

  ‘I only want the keys.’

  ‘But please promise me it’s nothing awful?’

  ‘I promise you.’

  Emily took a further step and before Leon could prevent her, put her arms around him. ‘You’re a good person,’ she said.

  Leon urged her, as gently as he could, to let go. It was possible she thought the mild repelling pressure he exerted was a responsive embrace. Her breath in his ear made him queasy; also the raw, woolly smell of her cardigan.

  Still holding Leon, Emily drew her head back and looked him in the eye. ‘If you make him go away,’ she said, ‘I’ll kill you.’

  ‘Please!’ said Leon, and he pushed, unavailingly, with more force. ‘I have no intention of…’

  ‘I know. But I had to say it. Daniel’s taken the ute to Chiltern to pick up some stuff. He’ll be back soon. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Leon said no in his mind, but before he spoke aloud saw the chance of being rid of Emily for a few minutes. ‘Thank you,’ he said. He was not going to leave the shop until he saw Daniel.

  ‘Peppermint? Or fennel?’

  ‘Peppermint, thank you.’

  ‘With redgum honey?’

  ‘Yes, with honey. Thank you.’

  Emily picked up a mobile phone from the counter and dialled. A telephone rang behind the door at the top of the steps.

  ‘Make Leon a cup of tea. Peppermint with redgum honey.’

  Emily returned to the business of selecting a new disc from the pile of 78s. Apparently oblivious of her effect on Leon, she lowered a disc onto the turntable and wound a handle on the side of the phonograph. ‘Bing Crosby,’ she said.

  Unable to bear the proximity of Emily, Leon shuffled about the shop pretending to be interested in the stock. Everything he saw deepened his sense of having blundered into a newer, more tawdry hell. He gazed at a shelf of vases, as many as fifty of them, every vase hideous in a different way. The crockery on offer was dusty, chipped and undistinguished. Mass-produced knives and forks with plastic handles were being sold as Charming Fifties Cutlery. Biscuit tins with painted scenes of English gardens and palaces were advertised as Rare and Original. As wretched as anything on offer were the books. It was not their lack of any claim to status that depressed Leon, but the prices: nine dollars for a battered 1972 Catherine Gaskell paperback; twenty-two dollars for a Reader’s Digest abridgment of four novels by Sinclair Lewis. Soft toys of the sort that were seen piled outside two-dollar shops in the city were selling here for twenty dollars each. The avalanche of ugliness spread itself over every available surface: ramshackle suitcases of cardboard with faux-leather finish; soapy smelling packs of incense; tennis racquets with broken strings; a fibreglass fishing rod (Early 80ies CLASSIC); plaster figurines of animals with appealing expressions; embroidered coathangers; astrological figures carved from timber; lacquered clumps of driftwood; framed reproductions of autumnal landscapes; garden statuettes of naked dryads with pouting lips and D-cup breasts; neon-bright posters of Hindu deities; crocheted throw cushions. It wounded Leon to think of Tess associating herself with people who could preside over such shoddy clutter.

  Gareth brought the tea in a mug decorated with an illustration of the Eiffel Tower. His wincing expression irritated Leon with uncommon force. ‘Stand up for yourself!’ he wanted to hiss, but then had to remind himself that whatever squalid arrangement had been struck between Gareth and his wife would resemble to the untrained eye his own arrangement with Tess. And surely this fellowship of wife-lenders was what gave Gareth the right, as he apparently saw it, to loiter fraternally and offer sympathetic smiles while Leon sipped his tea and suffered.

  ‘I met Tess a few times,’ Gareth said. ‘So special. You must miss her.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Flossie adored her.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sorry. Emily’s called Flossie.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leon. He seized a Snoopy statuette from a shelf and tried to give the impression that he was studying it. He dreaded a possible explanation of the name Flossie.

  ‘Emily’s first name is Florence, and she got called Flossie as a kid. Florence, Flossie? Emily’s her middle name. She thinks it’s more grown-up. She was conceived in Florence. Florence in Italy.’

  ‘Ah, that Florence,’ said Leon, without
taking his gaze from the plaster dog.

  ‘You’ll probably call her Flossie when you get to know her. She pretends to hate it, but no, she doesn’t really.’

  Leon restored Snoopy to his place on the shelf beside the figure of a cat that Leon seemed to remember was called Garfield. He turned to Gareth. ‘I have no intention of getting to know your wife. None. Nor you.’

  Gareth averted his gaze and nodded slowly. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

  He wandered off through the debris and up the steps. Emily, or Flossie, busy with a customer, didn’t seem to have noticed. Leon cleared a surface of jars and jugs and an old electric juice extractor and sat himself down, out of sight.

  Bing Crosby was permitted to sing a song about darkies on the Mississippi for a third time. Customers came and went after a desultory perusal of the stock. Leon lost track of time, except as a poisonous drip, and was unaware of Daniel’s entry until he glanced up and saw, standing a few metres away, a man of about sixty in a battered Afrika Korps cap. Emily in the background was mouthing the words, ‘You promised!’

  ‘Leon,’ said Daniel. ‘Up here in Yackandandah.’

  Love and loathing can hold no surprises for most people of middle age. What we haven’t gorged on, we’ve sampled. But this wasn’t true of Leon. He had never experienced hatred before this moment and was therefore surprised by the desire to seize the screwdriver from a pile of second-hand tools and stab Daniel through each of his eyes. Instead, he came to his feet. He faced Daniel and, for a moment or two, allowed his loathing to feed itself. Why in God’s name had Tess, with all her gifts, fastened on this starved dog of a man?

  Leon said: ‘I want the keys to my property.’

  Daniel nodded, but not in agreement. ‘You know Tess gave this house to me?’

  ‘She had no right to do so. It wasn’t hers to give. I want the keys.’

  Daniel smiled and spread his hands. ‘Okay,’ he said, with a smile of concession. ‘No big deal. But she did give this house to me.’

  The keys were produced from a drawer below the counter. Daniel put them into Leon’s open hand. ‘Nice place you got,’ he said. ‘I liked it there.’

  Leon couldn’t control his disgust. ‘You made a whore and a thief of my wife. Does that give you satisfaction?’