Burning Eddy

by Scot Gardner

  Tobe’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. His mouth dropped open and he pointed. ‘Snate,’ he whispered.

  I nodded and the snake’s tongue darted out. I put my finger to my lips and walked gently away, holding his hand.

  ‘Beautiful, hey Tobe?’

  Toby nodded with a big smile on his face.

  ‘When you see a snake, go the other way. Okay?’

  He nodded and thought for a minute. ‘Walk or run?’ he asked.

  I chuckled. ‘Walk or run. They can bite you but they are frightened of you. Walk is good. Run if you want.’

  Two times last summer, Toby came up to me and pulled on the leg of my shorts.

  ‘Snate,’ he said, and proceeded to tiptoe through the yard to where he’d spotted a sleeping serpent. One turned out to be a piece of poly-pipe in the grass; the other was a tiger snake, up behind the aviaries again. It looked bigger and more vividly banded than the first time we’d seen it, if it was the same snake.

  ‘We should give it a name, Dan,’ he suggested.

  ‘Yeah, good idea. What?’

  ‘Zeb,’ he said.

  I looked at him. ‘That’s a good name, Tobe. Where did you get that from?’

  He shrugged. ‘I just made it up. Zeb . . . Zebbie . . . Zebra. From his stripes.’

  Word about me working on blackberries got around. Tina and the mayor of Greater Carmine, Antonio Calais, are good mates. Mr Calais lives in a posh house in Henning, the township at the western end of the Bellan road where Kat and I catch the bus every morning. I started doing a couple of hours on his blackberries after school and a few weeks later he got me going on his ride-on mower, cleaning his pond, weeding the rosebeds, planting flower seedlings, and clearing more blackberries. He paid me five dollars an hour, cash in hand, and I worked hard for him. He told me about the Dutch lady. Said her name was Eddy. He gave me her address. He said he’d told her that I was good but expensive. He told me to go see her.

  three

  Y E L L O W R O B I N

  Tina drops Kat and me off at the bus stop every morning on her way to work. She started providing that service a few weeks after we shifted to Bellan. Every second Thursday, Mum and Toby go shopping. They get a lift with Tina into Carmine and shop and hang around town until she knocks off work again. Tina’s a scientist with the EPA in Carmine. She makes sure all the power stations at Carmine and Milara don’t mess up the rivers and creeks and the air. Big job.

  I went to the Dutch lady’s place one shopping day. Straight after school. I raced out after the bell and told Kat that I wouldn’t be catching the bus, that I’d get a lift with Tina and Mum and Toby. She wanted to stay in town too but we don’t all fit in Tina’s ute. Well, we do fit — but not legally. Driving to the bus stop on shopping days, Mum sits next to Tina, Toby sits on Kat’s knee and I ride to the end of the dirt part of the Bellan road in the back of the ute. All the way to the tar. Like a kelpie. I love it. It’s okay on the Bellan road but we’d get in serious trouble if we were caught.

  No. 4 Concertina Drive. The number on the letterbox was obscured by vegetation. All the other houses, for as far as I could see, had a square of lawn and two shrubs. Four Concertina Drive was totally overgrown. A solid wall of greenery. There was no lawn, not a tuft of grass to be seen. The driveway was concrete but covered in fallen leaves. Trees had grown and met across the drive and I couldn’t see the house. Ten steps along the drive and I still couldn’t see the house. After pushing branches aside for what could have been a full minute, I found the residence. Well, cottage really, with smooth walls of earth and a chimney formed in blue-grey stone. It seemed to glow in the afternoon sun, filtering through the trees around it. I picked my way along a path to the leaf-laden front step. A small verandah protected a hairy old armchair. I rapped on the solid wooden door.

  ‘Ja, coming!’ sang a voice from inside. ‘Just having a pee-pee. One minute, hoor.’

  She told me she was having a pee then called me a whore. That couldn’t be right. I jumbled the sounds I’d heard and tried to make sense of them. My head was still rattling as I heard footfalls on a timber floor. The door groaned on its hinges and an old woman peered at me with half a smile on her lips. She was short — probably no taller than my armpit — and she wiped her hands on a blue and white checked apron. The shape of her face was familiar.

  ‘Come in, darling. Come in, sit down,’ she said, waving me inside.

  ‘Hello, I’m Daniel Fairbrother. Mr Calais said . . .’

  ‘Ja, I know, darling. And I am Eddy. Want a cup of coffee? Come, sit down.’

  I moved past the old lady and into her lounge room. It was filled with fine leather furniture, potted plants and paintings — old sailing boats on high seas and one of a windmill that looked like a photograph. There was a TV in one corner and it was on but no sound came out. One of the guess-the-word game shows.

  ‘Sit,’ she insisted. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No thank you,’ I said as I sat on the edge of her leather sofa.

  ‘Lemonade? Juice?’

  I could see she wasn’t going to be happy until I had something to drink. ‘Water? Water would be nice.’

  ‘Ja. Water is good. I collect my own,’ she said, and vanished into another part of the cottage. She came back with two glasses of water and two strange-looking biscuits on a plate. She sat the plate close to me, took one of the biscuits and nestled into the armchair opposite the TV. Her chair was covered in a huge sheepskin rug. The old lady reclined a little and a footrest popped out. She sipped her water.

  ‘So tell me, darling, you are a good worker?’

  I shrugged and nodded sheepishly. If there’s one thing I do well, it’s work.

  ‘Tonio says you have worked hard on his garden. You work hard for me too, ja? You work hard, I’ll pay you well. If you don’t work hard, I’ll just pay you. Geld verzoet de arbeid. Money will make your work bearable. Okay?’

  I nodded. ‘What jobs do you have in mind?’

  She chuckled. ‘We can go outside and see. Finish your biscuit and your water.’

  She reached over to the table beside her and pushed a button on the TV remote. I jumped when the sound burst from the speakers and somehow resisted the urge to cover my ears.

  ‘Good show. I always learn something. My favourite,’ she yelled, and screwed her face into a smile.

  I picked up the lone biscuit from the plate and hesitantly pecked at the corner. A rush of cinnamon exploded in my mouth and before I could blink I’d eaten the whole thing. I finished my water and sat forward. The closing titles for her show flashed on the screen and she turned the TV off. She stood up and broke wind loudly. She took my glass and broke wind in time with her steps to the kitchen. I didn’t know where to look.

  When she returned, she was smiling. ‘Did you hear that? I played a little tune with my bum! A windje song. Ha ha!’

  She headed for the door. I held my breath and followed.

  ‘It looks like a mess, ja? It is mine yungle. Mine paradise. When I shifted here . . . when my Kasper died, it was just grass. Now look at it. I am only growing plants that are useful. Some have fruits, some have a beautiful smell, some I can eat. All useful, hoor.’

  I nodded. If I ever had to live in town, then my place would look like No. 4 Concertina Drive.

  ‘It looks a mess but it’s just wild. I am getting too old to tame it all. I tend my vegies. Here, look.’

  She took my hand. Her skin was warm and soft and she led me to an open area planted with spring vegetables. It wasn’t a big garden — the size of two car-park bays — but it was packed to the hilt with lush food plants. The fine leaves of carrots, a pyramid of stakes supporting beans with red flowers and long green pods, a neat row of cos lettuce and a border of what looked like garlic plants in full mauve flower. She took a hose and filled a concrete birdbath that was almost obscured by a citrus tree of some sort, and I noticed the birds. High in the branches were blackbirds, sparrows and a lone parrot quietly whistling and ch
attering to itself. On the ground, a wren family and a shrike-thrush were rifling through the leaf litter, hunting for dinner. It was an oasis for the birds of Carmine, I thought.

  She instructed me on how she wanted things done. Not too much chop-chop — only clear the paths. Her tools were in the shed and the compost heap was beside it. ‘If you run out of things to do, take the ladder and clean the gutters.’

  She went inside. I went like crazy. I cut a hole in the fruit-laden shrub that covered the letterbox. The fruit were green and smelled like perfume — probably poisonous. I gingerly sawed a few low branches off the trees that hung over the paths, raked and then swept them clean. The walk from the drive to the front door was paved in red bricks. With the leaves and twigs that had covered it now back under the trees, it looked like something out of a glossy garden magazine.

  As I stood and admired my work, a yellow robin flitted out of the bushes and landed on the broom in my hand. To the bird, I was just another tree, the broom just another branch. It froze and watched the leaves I’d swept off the path. It seemed to fall from the broom onto the leaf litter, grab a white grub and then, in a sharp brrrt of wing beats, moved to a branch on an apricot tree. It beat the grub against the branch.

  The old lady stood motionless on the front doorstep. There was a faint smile on her face.

  ‘I . . . I have to get going,’ I said.

  She surveyed my work and nodded approvingly. She disappeared inside and returned a few minutes later with an envelope, which she handed to me.

  ‘Geld moet rollen,’ she mumbled. ‘You can’t take it with you . . .’

  I stuffed the envelope into the pocket of my shorts.

  She blinked and smiled. ‘You have worked hard, Dan-ee-el, please come to me again. Clean the gutters. Come when you can.’

  I wasn’t at all certain about our arrangements for payment. On every other job, I had agreed on a price before I’d started work. I walked down the old lady’s drive and along about four houses before I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. I ripped open the envelope and was delighted to see a red-orange twenty-dollar note. My mouth dropped when I pulled the money out and found that there were two twenties folded together. I looked at the envelope and with disbelief at the money, then turned to look at number four. The old lady was standing on the footpath watching me. She waved. I waved back and bowed a little.

  four

  W O M B A T

  Our Leyland P76 was in the driveway, which excited Toby and Toby alone. Dad was home. We unloaded the shopping from the ute and Mum thanked Tina. Kat was in her room; she would have got a lift with Graham. I could hear her singing ‘Waterloo’, loud and out of tune — like she does when Dad’s home. When she has her headphones on. Toby grabbed a bag of shopping that looked like it was heavier than he was and struggled into the kitchen. Mum and I, both hands full, carried the rest. Dad was at the kitchen table reading a letter. Toby was telling him excitedly about the new coin-operated digger at the plaza. Dad nodded and kept reading. Mum said hello to him and he grumbled. Toby tried to climb on him and Dad growled and told him to get down.

  ‘Come on, Tobe, let’s go get the eggs,’ I suggested.

  ‘Ohh-kay,’ Tobe huffed.

  We walked through the vegie garden to the gate of the chook pen. The chooks had been out all day and they were flapping and beginning to roost in the half-light. I got six eggs from one nesting box. Toby got three from the other.

  I held my hands low so he could see. ‘How many eggs have I got?’

  He was quiet as he counted. His lips moving, pointing at each egg with a nod of his head.

  ‘Six,’ he whispered triumphantly.

  ‘Yes. How many have you got?’

  ‘Three,’ he said, and held them up.

  ‘How many is that all together?’

  He was silent again, head nodding. ‘Seven.’

  ‘No, try again.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Six?’

  ‘No. You’re guessing. Count them.’

  He counted them again. ‘Nine!’

  ‘Well done.’

  We started walking towards the house. Toby was looking at the lounge window with a frown on his face.

  ‘Wanna go up the cubby, Dan?’ he asked.

  ‘We could do that, mate. For a little while before tea.’

  We put the eggs in a carton and whispered to Mum that we were going up to the cubby. She nodded and whispered that she’d come and get us when tea was ready.

  The first week that Dad had worked at the Milara coalmine he’d brought home a huge packing crate on a borrowed trailer. He’d used it as his shed until he’d built something more substantial for himself, then I had inherited it. The crate doesn’t have any windows and it only has one door but I ran a power lead from Dad’s shed and set up a light and a radio. When Toby was three, I built a desk for him and a platform for myself so that we could still see each other, but he didn’t have to be looking over my shoulder at what I was reading. Toby has his colouring books; I have my full-colour books locked in a small cupboard attached to the wall.

  Toby wanted to paint so I brought up a cup of water and he sat and hummed as he slashed brush-loads of colour onto the page. I flicked through a magazine.

  ‘Dan?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Why is Dad always so drumpy?’

  ‘Grumpy? He works hard, Tobe. Gets tired.’

  ‘Yeah, you work hard, too. You’re not tranky all the time.’

  ‘No, but some days I get cranky. So do you.’

  ‘Yeah, but not all the time.’

  ‘Yeah, not all the time.’

  I heard the jangle of Dad’s keys and folded my magazine. Toby must have heard him, too. He looked up from his painting and stared at the door of the cubby. I held my breath. Knock, scuffle, knock as Dad fumbled with the lock on his shed. Then rasp-tink as the key slid home and the lock opened. Clunk of the pad bolt. Klomp, klomp of his work boots on the wooden floor. Scree; curtain closes. Click; light switch. I often hear in pictures. I heard all that and in my mind I saw a movie as clear as if I was watching him. Then another key rasped home and a lock clinked open. A drawer slid. Rustling papers. That’s where the movie ended. That’s where the movie always ended.

  Dad has locks on everything. There’s a lock on the P76’s petrol cap. There’s a lock on each of the four aviary doors and there’s a lock on the liquor cupboard. If we had a phone, there’d be a lock on that, too. And there’s a lock on the red tool box in the back of the car. The red tool box with the faded ‘Steven Fairbrother’ in black texta. All the keys live on his hip — a shining collection of brass and nickel that clips onto a belt loop and jangles whenever he moves. He should have been a security guard but he works in an open-cut coalmine. Twelve-hour shifts operating a conveyor. He’s either working or tired from working so Mum, Kat and I have learnt to avoid him. Toby gets told off. Look out if the radio in the cubby is on when he gets home — he reckons he can’t stand the noise. That’s probably why we don’t have a TV. Well, that and the fact that we could only get one channel, like Tina and Graham, and then only when it’s not windy or raining.

  I’ve never had a friend over to stay. Not that I have many friends who would want to visit but when I was in grade six at Henning Primary there was Chris. I visited his place and we caught skinks under the rocks beside the dam. Mum wouldn’t let me invite him over. She said it wasn’t worth it; it’d only make things worse with Dad. I wish I’d made more of a fuss.

  Mum called Toby and me in. Dad said he’d eat his dinner in the shed.

  ‘Come and eat with us, Steve. Please,’ Mum said.

  ‘Yeah, Dad. Have dinner with us,’ Toby echoed.

  There was a long silence. ‘I said, I’ll have my dinner in the shed.’

  It’s easier to eat when Dad’s not around anyway. That night Mum and Kat joked, sticking their tongues out with mushed-up food on them and I played a game with Toby so he�
�d eat his dinner.

  ‘Let me feel your ear muscle, Tobe,’ I said.

  Toby leaned forward and I tweaked his ear gently.

  ‘Now, have a forkful of rice — no, two forkfuls — and let me feel your ear muscle again.’

  He obligingly shoved two huge forkfuls of rice into his mouth and leaned forward expectantly.

  I tweaked his ear again. ‘Cor, that rice made your ear stronger.’

  He grinned and chewed hard until his mouth was empty.

  ‘Dan, Dan. Feel my eye muscle,’ he said.

  And the game went on until his plate was empty, then we headed off to our bedroom and rumbled on his bed until it was a total mess and we had to make it again before he got in. I read him a story and he nodded off soon after. Mum thanked me for that. I sat next to her on the couch and she rubbed my back. We heard Kat start to sort-of-sing ‘Mamma Mia’ from her bedroom and I looked at Mum.

  She laughed. ‘Kat sure knows how to torture a good song.’

  I nodded. They were Mum’s old tapes. Dad didn’t like them.

  ‘When we were in the cubby Tobe asked me why Dad was so drumpy all the time,’ I said.

  Mum sighed. ‘Yeah? What did you tell him?’

  ‘Told him he was tired.’

  She grunted. ‘Tired twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and seventy-two days a year.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he go to a doctor or something?’

  ‘He’s not interested in getting any help. Thinks he can sort it out himself.’

  ‘I think we should bundle him up and take him to the vet.’

  Mum laughed. ‘Don’t be horrible. Besides, who would drive?’

  ‘I would. I reckon I could drive.’

  ‘It’s much harder than you think, Dan.’

  ‘I’d give it a go,’ I said, and something else occurred to me. ‘We couldn’t take him to the vet; they’d want to put him down. “I’m sorry, Mrs Fairbrother, he’s got terminal cranky-pants.” ’

  Mum slapped my back and we both heard a dull thump and a squeal. The house shuddered. We looked at each other. Kat was still singing away, oblivious. Thump, squeal, squeal. It sounded like a fox. It was coming from under the house.