Ironbark

  It’s funny. Granddad looks pleased with the steaks, like he’s being reacquainted with an old friend, but he’s not sure about the rest of the meal. He does some prodding with his fork before he starts to eat. I reckon it’s good, though. The beans are just right – there’s nothing to beat vegetables that were picked thirty minutes before you eat them. They’re beautifully crunchy. The potatoes aren’t bad either, but they could have done with more seasoning. I make a mental note. The steaks are perfect and the sauce to die for.

  ‘So whattya reckon, Gramps?’ I say.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The food, man. Good or what?’

  ‘The beans were raw, but the rest wasn’t bad.’

  ‘Listen, the way you cook your vegies, you’d be better off throwing away the semi-solid stuff and drinking the water you cooked ’em in. It’d be more nutritious, I tell ya.’ I’m pleased, though. ‘The rest wasn’t bad’ is about as high as praise is going to go.

  I wash up, then slip over to my room to write my journal. I’m tired of squinting by the light of a torch and there’s still a little daylight left, so sooner is better than later. Anyway, I fancy a couple of beers tonight and I won’t be able to face this whole self-analysis thing afterwards, that’s for sure. It’s a good idea to get it over with.

  One part of the court case was a crack-up.

  A psychologist argued my ‘dysfunction’ was largely because of my relationship with Dad. She spread out all our dirty linen in court. That since Mum died I’d been brought up by someone who didn’t give a rat’s. How Dad, a high-flying businessman, had no time for me. A long list of expensive childminders since I was two. Conclusion? Dad, long on cashflow, short on parenting skills.

  And Dad sat there, looking like he was sucking on a lemon. People stared at him. Like he had a big arrow over his head and they were playing spot-the-anal-sphincter. Best thing, though, he was paying through the nose. I laughed – right there in open court. Probably didn’t give a great impression.

  But how good is that? To spend a thousand bucks, whatever it was, and have someone testify you’re a bag of crap?

  It was weird listening to someone talking about me as if I wasn’t there. Hear my life analysed, taken apart. Spin, all of it. Here’s the maths. Subtract a mother, add an incompetent father, take away the number you first thought of. Answer equals a kid with anger management problems.

  I know squat about psychology. If it was cookery it’d be a dodgy recipe. I had no choices in life? My IED was hard-wired? I don’t think so. But then again, no one asked me what I thought.

  Dad got the court judgement he wanted.

  One expert witness said the lack of a female role model was having an effect on my other relationships.

  What was that all about?

  Apparently, I see myself as the centre of the universe. Everything revolves around me. Dad encourages this by giving me material things. Probably some truth in that last bit. I am selfish. I have had the best teacher. I just don’t see the connection with other relationships. Not really.

  I asked Kris afterwards. She said the comments were spot on.

  Then again, I think she was angry with me. She sometimes gets angry with me. It’s often difficult to tell, though. She does it with looks. Or disappointed silences.

  At least I’ve got that in my favour. Trust me.

  There’s never any doubt when I’m angry.

  By the time I’ve finished, it’s dark and Granddad has a cold stubby waiting for me. He’s lit the citronella candles and I draw my chair close to the open door. The temperature dips along with the sun, but the warmth from the fire and the wood stove takes the edge off the chill. We drink, and sit in silence, listening to the scuffling of wallabies.

  I don’t know. Maybe it’s all that writing and thinking about relationships and women and stuff, but I decide to give the thorny topic of Gran another go.

  ‘Granddad?’ I say.

  He grunts.

  ‘You know that bizzo with Gran and how she roams the forest and all while you talk to her?’

  He grunts.

  ‘Is it like – how can I put it – regular ghost behaviour? You know, her drifting around in white with pointy wings. I mean, do you actually see her? Does she drop in for steak and a cold one, that kinda thing?’

  I know I’m being too light-hearted, but how do you talk about stuff like this? I can’t even begin to take it seriously. That’s probably hard on Granddad, I know, and it’s a fair bet he’ll get grumpy with me.

  He slowly rolls a couple of smokes, passes one to me and takes a long swig on his Boag’s. He stares into the nearest candle flame. There’s enough light to see the glistening wetness of his eyes, and the shadows playing over his wrinkles make him appear someone else entirely. It’s like the map of his face has been re-drawn. When he talks it’s as if there has been no pause at all.

  ‘I don’t see her,’ he says. ‘That’s not what I mean. But she is out there, watching over me, and I do talk to her.’

  I’m a little relieved. I’d hate to run over her out there on the motorbike. Plus it’s good to know Granddad is in possession of at least some of his marbles. I think the conversation is on a firmer footing.

  ‘So how does it work, then?’ I ask. ‘I mean, you just sense her, is that it? A feeling you get?’

  Granddad turns his wet eyes on me.

  ‘You seriously interested?’ he asks. ‘You’re not going to turn all of this into a joke?’

  ‘Dude!’ I say. ‘I am interested, I swear. I love the paranormal. I’m serious, man.’

  ‘Don’t believe in ghosts,’ he says, wiping beer drool from the corner of his mouth. ‘Not in the way some people believe in ’em. But I do believe we make a mark on things around us, that the more intense the feelings the deeper that mark is. Take Port Arthur down south, the old convict place. People swear it’s haunted. And maybe it is, but not by ghosts as such. I reckon the buildings are soaked with pain and suffering and we pick up on that.’

  My jaw must be close to the floorboards. This is the longest speech I’ve heard from Granddad and it turns out he’s just warming up.

  ‘When your gran died, well . . . I kept her here.’ He touches his chest. ‘But she was a strong woman and she hated being cooped up.’ He laughs. ‘I guess there’s not enough space for her inside me. So, yeah. I reckon if there’s something powerful enough inside you, it can get out and you can sense it around you. And that’s what I mean about Gran being an angel. Not with wings, not a physical thing. But her love. That’s what I mean. Her love is still here. And it looks after me.’

  I don’t know what to say. It’s kinda beautiful, all that. Veering dangerously towards the mushy – probably off the edge and up to its axles in it, frankly – but still beautiful. I open my mouth to tell him so, but before I get a chance he lifts his wrinkly old backside off the chair and lets go a real cracker. Like ripping a sheet. If it wasn’t so unexpected I’d be impressed. Stinks like hell, too. I’m wafting my hands around, trying to clear a space. Potent stuff. I swear I can hear wallabies toppling over outside the fence.

  ‘Get out and walk,’ says Granddad.

  ‘Jeez, Gramps,’ I say. ‘You weren’t kidding about powerful things getting out. And I sure as hell can sense it around me.’

  He doesn’t comment, but he does get us a couple more coldies.

  ‘You’ve discovered a rogue glacier back there in the bush, haven’t you?’ I say. ‘And drilled beer-sized holes in the icefloe.’

  He doesn’t comment on that either.

  We sit in silence, occupying our own heads. And it’s cool. It’s all cool.

  Still, I can’t help thinking it’s a good thing I won’t be responsible for washing Granddad’s underdaks in the morning. I mean, he was talking about intense things making their mark.

  I carve a fourth line on the bedpost and I like the glow from the fire and the sense of routine. The jailhouse symbolism has kinda lost its meaning, but it’s a fun th
ing to do. I still want to get back to Melbourne. Don’t get me wrong. It’s where Kris is. It’s where my life is. But stuck in the bush with a deranged old dude has lost some of its terrors.

  Granddad is a mad old geezer. But there’s all this stuff under the surface with him and it’s kinda fascinating to dig into it. I like him. And I don’t think I’m reading too much into it when I say I think he likes me too.

  It makes a big difference when you know another person has the good sense to see beneath the surface and find something in you to like.

  I think I’m turning into a philosopher. Maybe it’s got something to do with all the trees.

  It’s raining and colder than a witch’s nipple when I get up in the morning.

  First thing I do is gather together my dirty clothes and stick my phone charger in my pocket. I’m low on power. Maybe there’ll be somewhere in town where I can plug it in.

  Granddad isn’t in the best of moods. He grunts over his porridge, though it might be dry retching for all I know. It’s a possibility because I struggle with it myself – it’s cold enough outside for drastic measures – and the porridge still tastes like tiling grout minus the flavour. For a while there I think he’s forgotten about our deal to go into town. He plops himself down into his chair as if settling in for a long vigil, so I’m forced to remind him. Even then, he takes his time getting ready. God knows why, ’cos when he does emerge from the dark interior of his bedroom I can’t see any difference in his appearance.

  Finally, though, we set off, bumping along the old dirt track with my clothes in plastic bags in the back of the ute.

  The dog is tied up there as well. I can see him in the side mirror, his ears flopping around like wet windsocks. If he’s unhappy about going for a drive in the pouring rain he keeps it to himself. Granddad shows no sign of coming out of his verbal hibernation, the radio is either busted or they haven’t invented radio broadcasts in Tassie yet, and I have to keep my hand against the window to stop it dropping into the frame. It’s non-stop fun and that’s a fact.

  We eventually arrive in town and park on the main strip. The rain has eased to a steady drizzle. Granddad unties Jai and goes off to do whatever geriatrics and their dogs do in small towns. I immediately check my phone for messages, but there’s nothing. Kris will be in class, so I don’t ring, but text her to say I’ll be in range for a while if she wants to give me a call. Then I head for the laundromat. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to have a good time when I hit the bright lights.

  I’ve never used a laundromat before, of course. In fact I’ve never cleaned my own clothes. Dad employs flunkies to do stuff like that. We’ve got this bent-over old biddy who looks about two hundred who comes in and cleans the whole place four times a week. She doesn’t speak good English and he probably pays her about twenty cents a day. It’s called a free-market economy.

  I can’t stand thinking about my dad, so I stop and look at the directions on the washing machine. You don’t need a degree in applied science, that’s for sure. I buy some powder from a dispenser. Then I stick in the money and there’s this great whoosh as the water fills the machine. I watch for a while, but even for this place, the entertainment value is limited, so I decide to see if there’s anywhere in this technological wasteland that sells mobile phones. The chances, frankly, appear remote. It’s a reasonable bet they’ve never heard of a phone you don’t crank up by hand.

  The rain’s stopped, but there’s a fair amount of dark cloud around. I wander up the main road, checking out the shops. They’re mostly desperate gift shops, selling stuffed Tasmanian devils and T-shirts no one should be allowed to wear. And there’s the antique shops, of course. Nothing looks even vaguely promising, so I go back to the laundromat to check on progress.

  My load is coming to an end. Well, I guess it’s coming to an end. The drum is spinning like a mad thing. The clothes are a multi-coloured blur. It’s actually kinda cool. Tells you something, that. I’m being entertained by a washing machine.

  There’s this woman sitting on the bench beside me. She’s staring at her load, which is tumbling in a fitful way, swishing back and forth. I decide to tap into local knowledge.

  ‘You’ve got better reception on your machine than I can get on mine,’ I say as an opening gambit. Okay, it’s not the wittiest comment in the world, but she gives this little chuckle, like I’m a star of the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Maybe they haven’t invented humour down here.

  ‘Beats most of the programs I watch,’ she says, and I laugh even though it’s not very funny.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where I could buy a mobile phone around here, do you?’ I ask.

  She wrinkles her brow and I worry she’s going to ask what a mobile phone is. But it turns out she’s just concentrating.

  ‘I don’t know if I do,’ she says slowly. ‘There’s not many shops here, it has to be said. Milton is the place for shopping.’

  ‘Milton?’

  ‘Down the coast about forty kilometres. They’ve got a big shopping centre there.’ She says this like the existence of a shopping centre is a source of infinite pride for the locals, even if it is forty kilometres away.

  ‘You’ll be telling me they’ve got a cinema next.’

  ‘They do,’ she says earnestly. I get the distinct feeling that a trip to Milton is something the people in this town save up for special occasions, that when they do go it’s an experience that will keep them fulfilled for the next fifty years. Like a trip to Disneyland.

  My machine clanks to a standstill and I empty it. Huge, industrial-size dryers are perched above the washing machines. So I load one up and dig in my pocket for change. The woman watches me, sizing me up and finding me wanting in the dryer-operator stakes.

  ‘You should use that machine,’ she says, pointing to one a few away from my machine. ‘It’s hotter and lasts longer. Better value for money.’

  I don’t want to appear rude, even though it seems an excessive effort to save a few cents, so I empty the dryer and stack the clothes in the one she indicated. She’s all smiling and nodding, as though I’m a prize pupil who’s doing real good.

  ‘The post office,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Australia Post sells mobile phones. I’ve seen them in there.’

  I should have thought of that myself.

  ‘It’s probably closed for lunch, though.’

  Of course it would be. But I feel better now. Once my washing is done I can get the phone sent off to Kris and it’ll be a one-shop deal. Then I get an even better idea. See, another thing that Kris occasionally gets up me about is a lack of surprise presents, though it seems mobile phones don’t count. I have no idea why not. Apparently, buying flowers occasionally – without being asked – or small items of jewellery, is being considerate and caring. I’ve pointed out to her that a bloke carrying around a bunch of flowers is almost as embarrassing as forgetting to zip up your old fella, but she’s not sympathetic to that argument. So much for her being caring and considerate of my feelings. Plus, I’ve got a problem with buying flowers, anyway. They cost a fortune and you throw them out about a day later. A decent CD lasts forever.

  She tells me I’m missing the point.

  Anyway, it comes to me with all the force of an internal nuclear explosion. I’ll buy her something from one of the antique shops – a brooch or some crap like that – and post it off with the phone. Kris likes old stuff. And I can only imagine the number of brownie points I’ll have in storage. Mind you, given that she can’t be bothered to even text me once in a while, I reckon it’s her that should be sucking up to me. Still, never let it be said that I don’t know the mature way of proceeding.

  So I duck out of the laundromat and head for the antique shop I visited before. The bow-tied dude had a display of lumps of misshapen metal dotted with bright stones and I reckon there’d have to be one item there worth buying. Even if there isn’t, it won’t matter. Something ugly suddenly has value if it’s also old. B
y those standards, my English teacher must be the most precious commodity on the planet.

  I’m in a good mood, I tellya. Just how caring and considerate can one guy be?

  The bow tie is still there. Actually, it seems to be in exactly the same place as a couple of days back, bent over a dusty ledger on an equally dusty counter.

  ‘Morning,’ I say, and I couldn’t be brighter or cheerier. ‘I wonder if you could point me in the direction of some decent antique jewellery?’

  The guy frowns. He actually frowns. He couldn’t look more disagreeable if I’d come in with a sawn-off shotgun and a pair of tights over my head. Making money obviously ticks him off big time. Grudgingly, he indicates his collection of misshapen metal. He doesn’t remove the display, so I have to crouch and peer through the dirty glass. All the time I’m looking he hovers close by. Not to be of help apparently, but in case I grab a handful of his wares and leg it. I tell you. In this shop you’d be more likely to leave your own junk and sneak out hoping no one would notice.

  I’m staring at a brooch that might be a dolphin – that’s foolproof, by the way; girls can’t resist dolphins, in my experience – when the bell over the door tinkles. I don’t pay any attention, naturally. I’m a little hypnotised, and entirely gobsmacked, by the $220 price tag on the dolphin. Actually, it might be some other kind of sea critter. At that price, you’d expect to know straightaway.

  ‘Hi, Richie. How are you?’

  ‘G’day, George. Good, mate. Good.’

  I don’t even properly take in the bow tie’s greeting at first. Then the floor vibrates with the clatter of a penny dropping. I straighten and turn round.

  Richie makes the place look darker and I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. He stands in the middle of the shop and pulls back his shoulders, like he’s stretching or ironing out a few kinks before a fight. His eyes are fixed firmly on me.