Ironbark

  We go out to where the ute’s parked by the shed and he turns the old girl around, so she’s pointing down the track. He tells me all the stuff about the clutch, brake and accelerator. I know this, but figure I’ll let him have his say, otherwise he might change his mind. He goes on forever about safe driving, as well, and checking the mirrors, and looking over your shoulder into the blind spot. Pretty useful out here to be checking the mirrors. What’s that? It’s a tree. Oh, look, another tree. Better see if there’s a tree in the blind spot . . .

  Finally, he lets me get behind the wheel while he oozes into the passenger seat. It’s a column shift and adjusting the gear lever is like stirring a thick bowl of porridge. I force the clutch down to the floor and put the ute in first. Well, I try to put it in first. There’s all this grating and clunking going on and the stick keeps popping out into neutral.

  ‘Your gearbox is pretty much shot, Gramps,’ I say.

  ‘You’re an expert all of a sudden?’

  ‘Hey, keep your teeth in, Gramps. I’m just saying, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve gotta get used to it, find the right point, slide it in gently.’

  ‘Just like your women, hey?’

  He doesn’t say anything and I try the porridge stirrer again. This time, it engages and I’m ready to rock and roll. I give it some serious revs and let the clutch out, too quickly. The ute shoots down the track like horse manure off a stainless steel shovel and suddenly Granddad is yelling.

  ‘Get her into second, not so much accelerator, keep your eyes on the road.’

  The road?

  This is mad fun. I try to get her into second, but hit fourth instead, so we slow down quick and start chugging. Picks up after a while, though. I get her round the corner, and past the shacks, but it’s like trying to turn the Sydney Opera House. The only power steering is my arm muscles. There’s a long, straight stretch and I give it a bit more boot. Granddad is yelling, but I can’t hear him over the engine. As we get to the bottom, just before a sharp left, I try the brakes. Talk about spongy. My foot goes three-quarters of the way to the floor before anything grips. Even then, we don’t slow much, so I pump it like a maniac. The back end slides to my right and then corrects and we’re through it.

  Honest to God, I couldn’t have done it better if I’d been trying. It’s perfect. A beautiful slide round the corner and the track is laid out before us, the ute straightening just so. I whoop as all this gravel sprays off from the back wheels. I glance over to Granddad, but his mouth is puckered up like a poodle’s bum and he’s got both hands on the dashboard. They might be white, but it’s difficult to tell beneath the wrinkles and liver spots. He risks a quick glance away from the road. I don’t know why he’s staring so intently. I mean, as a passenger, keeping his eyes on the road isn’t going to give him much control. He yells.

  ‘Stop!’

  So I do. I pump the brakes again. My calf muscles nearly go into spasm. Just before we stop I even give the handbrake a tweak, so we fishtail a little. I forget to depress the clutch, so the engine dies, but I’m pleased with myself. I reckon I’ve done good, and done good with style. It becomes clear, though, that Granddad doesn’t see it that way.

  ‘Get out,’ he says, the words all growly in the back of his throat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Oh, c’mon, Gramps,’ I say. ‘That was good. Coupla skids, sure, but I was in control all the way.’

  But he’s already out of the ute and storming round to the driver’s side. I slip over the gear stick and into the passenger seat. I figure now’s not the time to get lippy. Granddad gets in, all stern-faced, and cranks the engine over. He does a three-point turn – a fairly lousy one – and we chug back to the shacks. In silence.

  I try a dash of reason. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Maybe I went a touch too fast. I admit it. But you’re not exactly a tortoise, Granddad. You were gunning it this morning.’

  ‘I’ve been driving for over fifty years, not five minutes.’

  ‘All right. Fair point. But that was my first time. Everyone mucks up their first time, right?’ I reckon he can’t argue with that. He doesn’t either. He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘So I just need some more practice, that’s all. Hey? Whaddya say? Give me another go?’

  He parks and takes the key from the ignition, puts it in his pocket as though there’s no way he’s going to let it out of his sight. Then he gazes at me, all serious, for about six months. It’s difficult to read his eyes, what with the wrinkles and the moisture and all.

  ‘Maybe,’ he says finally. ‘Maybe you’re right. But you’ll have to prove you’re gonna take this thing serious, that you’re not gonna jerk around. If you can do that, I might give you another go tomorrow.’

  There’s no point arguing. There’s a lot at stake, here. Not least, persuading him to get me more smokes, so it seems sensible to pull my head in. Anyway, I’ve got a hint of a plan. You see, I spot about three jerry cans in the corner of the lean-to and I figure there must be petrol in at least one of them. For emergencies. They do that, don’t they? These guys who live in the middle of nowhere. For chainsaws and generators and all the other gizmos no self-respecting Aussie bloke would go without. I’ll give it a go tomorrow, when he’s having his nap.

  The kitchen is primitive, but I like it. I’ve never cooked on a wood stove before, so this’ll be a first. I always use gas at home; gas gives you control. But like so many life experiences – driving springs to mind – sometimes you have most fun when you aren’t quite in control, when you’re flying on instinct. Not that I want to give the impression that cooking is like hang-gliding or anything, but you know what I mean. I find the knives in a rough-wood drawer. They’re decent enough, but blunt as hell. I couldn’t cut my own wrists if I sawed on them for half an hour. It’s funny how that’s the image that springs to mind.

  I find an old-fashioned whetstone, which is cool, and spend about half an hour getting razor edges. There’s no wok, but there’s a heavy-duty frying pan. It nearly gives me a hernia lifting it. Granddad is sitting on the verandah – hey, that’s a surprise – waiting for the wallabies and hoping to hear the sound of steak sizzling.

  I love the preparation, swear to God. It’s my favourite part. The sound the knife makes as it slices through fresh vegetables, the smell of spices freshly ground. Well, without a mortar and pestle I have to grind the spices by putting them on a chopping board and smacking my fist down on the side of a knife. Can get a bit messy, but it does the job. I thinly slice the chicken and pour a film of extra-virgin olive oil over the pan. The pot of water on the stove top is coming to the boil. Time to weave some culinary magic.

  ‘What’s this?’ says Granddad when I hand him the plate. He examines it as though it’s something that might bite him, rather than the other way round.

  ‘Well,’ I say as I sit down in the chair next to him. ‘It’s a green chicken curry. Couldn’t quite get all the ingredients, but it’s close enough.’

  ‘A curry?’ he says, as if it’s a foreign word. Which I guess it is.

  ‘Man cannot live by steak alone, Gramps. Tuck in.’

  He fossicks around on the plate with his fork, separating out chunks of food. Possibly he’s hoping that underneath the basmati rice, the chicken and the vegies, he’ll find a slab of cow. Finally, as if he can’t put off the moment any longer, he lifts a piece of chicken to his wrinkly old mouth and takes a bite. I’m getting stuck into mine, but keeping an eye on him. I didn’t make it hot. Green curries aren’t particularly hot, anyway, but I’d spiced it a coupla of notches below mild. Granddad seems like the kind of guy who thinks that tastebuds shouldn’t be expected to handle anything spicier than barbecue sauce and I didn’t want him to spit his false teeth out into wallaby territory on the first mouthful.

  He doesn’t say anything, but I notice he takes another forkful. And then another, the gaps between forkfuls getting shorter. I suspect this is going to be the limit of the apprec
iation this chef is going to get, but I’ll settle for it.

  He finishes his food before I do. Honest. And he has seconds. Afterwards, I gather up the dishes and wash them. Normally, I’d avoid that. I mean, that’s not the chef’s job, right? But I figure I need all the brownie points I can muster and, anyway, it’s no big deal.

  When I’m done I go back to my seat. It’s real dark now and there’s the familiar scuffle of wallabies doing whatever wallabies do. Granddad has dug out a coupla stubbies and I open mine and take a long swig. We sit, staring at nothing.

  ‘Good meal,’ he says.

  ‘Guess I’m not totally useless, Gramps,’ I say.

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not totally.’

  I’m starting to warm to the old buzzard.

  We finish the cold ones in silence.

  ‘I’ve solved it, Gramps,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Strange Case of the Unnaturally Chilled Stubbies,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. I reckon that just beyond the fence line, deep in the bush, you’ve got this alternative homestead, with mains electricity, town water, aircon, double fridge with the ice-making gizmo in the door, broadband internet facilities and a 42-inch plasma TV. This roughing it is just to build my character. Am I right, or what?’

  He ignores me, and who can blame him? I’m just about to ask for another stubby – I did pay for half the slab, after all – when I get a better idea. Well, it seems like a better idea. I decide to go for a walk. It was part of the deal that I would walk every day and so far today I haven’t done any. Unless you count an amble around the shops and a short hoof down a dusty track. It occurs to me that Granddad might care to join me. He doesn’t.

  ‘Are you nuts?’ he says. ‘It’s cold and pitch-black out there.’

  ‘We could take a torch.’

  ‘You take a torch. I’m staying put.’

  So I do. I take the dog as well. I haven’t forgotten that feeling of something out there in the bush tracking me. I’m ninety-nine per cent certain it’s my imagination. The one per cent suggests the dog would be a good idea. It becomes clear very soon, though, that the dog doesn’t agree. It ignores my coaxing cries of ‘C’mon, boy’, though its tail twitches slightly under the verandah. ‘Walkies’ makes it put its head on its paws and close its eyes. Finally, Granddad orders it to get moving and it lurches to its feet like a maimed soldier.

  I borrow the hardcore torch and head out the rickety gate, the dog limping at my heels.

  ‘Don’t go far. And stick to the track,’ Granddad yells after us.

  I shine the torch up under my chin and twist my face around. Makes me look like a monster. Or is it a loser? The dog casts Granddad a look that is real easy to read. You have ordered me to go and I am going, for that is in the nature of things. But I don’t like it and I hope you feel very bad. But Granddad doesn’t seem to be feeling bad. In fact, by the dim light of the citronella candles, I see him crack open a second stubby of Boag’s.

  He is a sly dog.

  It doesn’t take long for me to realise the dog would be useless in any kind of emergency. Maybe I’ve been conditioned into thinking of dogs as noble, fearless creatures, happy and willing to lay down their lives for their masters. This one is a founding member of the Dog Liberation Army. Canines first is its motto. Every little noise from the bush and the dog cowers against my calf muscles. If anything scary was to appear it would doubtless force its way up the leg of my jeans.

  Nothing scary appears.

  There are plenty of critter noises, though, but mostly they skitter into the undergrowth as I approach. And I have no sense of anything watching me, which is good. No – it’s great. Now would be the perfect time for paranoia to make a guest appearance. There is only a thin sliver of moon overhead and the track is almost completely dark. The torch beam seems to make the surroundings darker. The tunnel of light punches into the night, but the boundaries of darkness press harder around the edges, as though I’m travelling along an illuminated path and there’s nothing else in the entire universe. I could walk forever, a sole traveller in the night. It’s hypnotic.

  Finally, I stop. I turn the torch off.

  It’s never really dark in Melbourne. Even in the darkest places there are traces of light, a ghost of a streetlight, a glow from brightly lit buildings in the distance. Out here, the only light-source comes from above. I look up and see more stars than seems possible. The sliver of moon is off to my right, caught in the branches of trees. I float in darkness. The air is cold and fresh as I draw it into my lungs. The sheen of sweat on my exposed skin chills rapidly. I must have walked faster than I thought. The skitter and scuttle of unseen life among fallen leaves sounds like the bush is speaking to me. I get an urge to move off into the forest. Just take off. Keep walking and see where it leads me. Leave the torch and dog behind.

  I don’t, though. I’m not a complete idiot.

  Some parts are missing.

  The old buzzard owes me beer and it’s time to collect. I flick on the torch and head back up the track. The dog sticks close to my heels, panting in a way that suggests that if it collapses and dies of exhaustion it will all be my fault. But it actually seems cheerful now. It must sense its duty is nearly done. And the cobwebbed corners under the verandah are calling to it like a song.

  Granddad has gone to bed by the time I return from my ramble, so I never get the second stubby of Boag’s. I’m keeping score, though. That’s an extra one he owes me.

  Richie – muscle-bound woodchopper from hell – was right. Well, about one thing. Dad did grease the wheels of justice. He’s lavish with grease.

  Don’t think he actually bribed anyone. Doubt it. Not because that would be unethical - Dad believes in winning at all costs. But because it’s risky. He wouldn’t want the chance of it coming back to bite him. So he threw money around. That’s what he does. Most times, he gets results. Throw enough cash at a problem, it generally goes away. Sneaks off to South America and lives under an assumed name.

  That depresses me. Doesn’t seem to have the same effect on others.

  He hates that my real problem – the IED – is dollar-resistant.

  First thing Dad did after he bailed me from the cop shop was talk to the general manager at the fast food place. The cops told him I might be charged with resisting arrest, disorderly conduct, and violent and threatening behaviour. Everything except riding a bicycle on a public road without a helmet. And property damage, which was up to the management of the fast food joint.

  Turns out they wanted to press charges.

  Dad flung money like confetti. Offered a generous sum to repair the damage. Offered to make a substantial donation to the youth fitness charity associated with the fast food chain. They could fill young arteries with fat, then balance it with a widely publicised fitness promotion. Conscience clear.

  The store manager was an easy mark. He’d have taken the cash and run. But Head Office said, ‘No deal.’ They didn’t need the money. Small change. Anyway, the damages claim was cut and dried. Might take years to get to court, but Dad would have to cough up eventually. No hurry.

  Two ways of looking at this. 1: Dad as concerned parent, doing the best for his son. 2: Dad as protector of his own best interests, avoiding bad publicity.

  I don’t know. Maybe the tooth fairy exists.

  As for the court case, money didn’t talk. It yelled.

  Expert witnesses – psychologists, psychiatrists – took the stand and argued the IED defence. I was the victim, the way they presented it.

  I found it embarrassing. Dad didn’t.

  The court decided against detention. Not tricky to work out why. Too expensive. The taxpayer pays through the nose. Anyway, youth detention centres are bursting at the seams. Plus, those places are for the working class. My dad is loaded. No way I’d get banged up behind bars.

  Society doesn’t function that way. Three cheers for society.

  The wealthy have other
options. And Dad knew them all.

  My high-profile barrister – the real crime was how much he was getting paid – gave the magistrate a neatly packaged get-out:

  I get shipped off to stay with my grandfather in Tasmania.

  I complete a reflective journal.

  I take long walks where my IED is unlikely to flare up (and if I do get angry here, it’s mainly trees that are in danger).

  I undergo a full psychiatric evaluation – paid for by Dad – on my return to Melbourne.

  Tick the boxes. Done deal. Everyone happy. Case closed. Time for an expensive lunch.

  And the human element? Magistrate, police officers, psychologists, learned counsel. They’ve forgotten about it by now. Just another case.

  But I’ve still got to deal with it. That’s fair enough.

  What about Granddad, though? What about a little girl in a restaurant, clutching a tacky plastic toy? Who cares about them?

  I almost sympathise with the demon woodchopper.

  He didn’t invite me. No one asked if it was okay. Then again . . . perhaps he deserves me. Perhaps I deserve him. Whenever I see him, I’m going to have to be careful. He could trigger an explosion.

  If that happens, it won’t be pretty. Guaranteed.

  It’s weird. I’m a city boy, through and through.

  Never known anything else. I can’t shop here. No shops. I hate nature. Trees most of all. I can’t stand old people. Nothing personal. It’s just that . . . they’re old.

  I’m addicted to all things electronic.

  Figure this. Put me in a place where there’s no electricity, no shopping and only an old dude and trees for company. What are the odds on me having a full-scale nervous breakdown? A miracle it hasn’t happened.

  Why? I don’t know.

  Yet.

  I close the exercise book and place the pen straight along its edge. The fire has died down and the embers are glowing. I think about putting another log on. It’s toasty in here, but once the fire goes out, it’ll take no time at all for the chill to invade. It’s probably a good idea to get another log. And there’s something comforting about going to sleep with light and shadow from the flames dancing on the ceiling.