by Stephen Orr
He heard footsteps in the hallway. Realised there was no point trying to hide the photos; the little bits of life he’d known, or heard about, forgotten, imagined. The dead people. The places other people had gone.
‘What you up to?’ Des asked, opening the door and coming into his room.
He didn’t reply.
‘The family jewels, eh?’ He sat down on his son’s bed. Picked up a photo, smiled, and threw it back down.
‘I finished everything,’ Adrian said.
‘Good boy.’
Adrian studied the bristles on his father’s face, the scars on his neck, the hairs poking from his nose. Smelled the eucalyptus and cow shit, the black mud on the bottom of his shoes.
Des took the photo from his son’s fingers. He looked at his father, and mum, and the girl.
‘Who was she?’ Adrian asked.
‘I’ve told you, haven’t I?’
Adrian didn’t reply. It seemed that would be disrespectful—like saying his father was forgetful, or hiding something.
‘No? Well …’
Maybe she was a family secret, Adrian thought. A retard. Like the ones in the special school in Berri. The boys and girls who sat on the porch watching him walk by in his Sunday suit. Maybe she was a relative who’d fallen pregnant and been sent to Querelle.
‘My sister,’ Des said.
He looked at him, confused. ‘But you don’t have a sister.’
‘I don’t, but I did.’
He reclaimed the photo. ‘Your sister?’ There was no way this could be his aunt. He’d never seen, heard or been told stories about her. And stories, he already knew, were the way people proved something was true. If you hadn’t done something funny or dumb or stupid, it was like you’d never existed.
‘Look closely,’ Des said to him.
He studied the girl.
‘See, she’s dead,’ his father said.
‘No …’
‘Yep. That’s a memento mori.’
He looked up.
‘A photo people used to have taken so they could remember someone.’
Adrian thought about this. It made sense. You could remember a face for a month, a year perhaps, but eventually you always forgot what people looked like. The boy who’d drowned at Pyap, for instance. Who’d been in his class. Blond, and a round face, but he couldn’t see him to think of him.
‘Elizabeth died when she was nineteen. No one never knew what of, cos she was just buried.’ His father was remembering. ‘See, the tallboy, the table, that’s our dining room.’
Adrian could even see their mirror, covered, and the old organ he’d never heard played.
‘So, this is what happened. Of course, I wasn’t around at the time. I was only told later. She got some infection, and took to bed, and sweated and tossed and turned for days. And then one morning your grandma went in and she was dead.’
Adrian kept studying the photo. ‘Was she upset?’
‘You would be, wouldn’t yer? But as I said, I wasn’t there. Anyway, after they dealt with the shock, Hugh said, We ain’t got no picture, have we? Sarah thought, and said, No.’
He noticed how Elizabeth’s hands had been arranged, each finger woven like his mother’s crochet. It was like she was praying.
‘Hugh said, I’ll drive to town and fetch the photographer. He got dressed and went out to the stable, but had forgotten the horse had slipped a shoe. So he just turned and started walking—out the front gate, towards Barmera.’
‘He walked all that way?’
‘It was a stinker. He walked and walked. No one went past to offer a lift. He slept under a tree on the first night, then walked the next day, then slept in a hay shed the next night—then he got to town.’
Adrian had never heard this story. He wondered whether his dad was just making it up, but knew (from his face) that this wasn’t so. Maybe it was something he thought he was ready to hear; maybe he’d never got around to telling him. Still, this was unlikely. This was a house full of stories: deaths, lost babies, drownings, people with their arms caught in mangles.
‘Meanwhile, Sarah was left with Elizabeth,’ Des said. ‘She wasn’t sure how long Hugh would take, so she stripped her off and put her in the bath and covered her with water. Then she just sat beside her … holding her hand perhaps.’
He knew his father was starting to improvise. There was no way he could know that sort of detail. But he didn’t care. A story was more real than the thing, after all. The thing just happened, but the story you could control. ‘For two days?’ he asked.
‘Two days. So it wasn’t like she was really going to … turn.’
‘Turn over?’
‘You know, start stinkin’.’
Adrian almost smiled. Almost asked, How long would that take then? But wasn’t sure how close his father had been to his sister. ‘Where were you all this time?’
‘I was busy elsewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘Listen. Hugh walks into town and makes straight for the photographer’s rooms. He walks in, and this man, Bernie Padfield his name was, looks at him and says, “How can I help?”’
‘Is this true?’
‘Believe me, it’s true. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t. And you wouldn’t either.’
Now Adrian was confused.
‘Hugh’s pretty messy, he stinks, covered in dust, so Padfield’s a bit curious. Hugh explains about Lizzy, and how they want a photo to remember her, but you know what Padfield says?’
He played along. Knew that questioning was one of his father’s story-telling techniques. ‘No.’
‘He says, “Sorry, no time to be drivin’ all round the country. You can bring her here.” “How am I gonna do that?” Hugh asks. “Sorry,” Padfield says.’
He could tell his father was hitting his straps. By the way he sat forward; raised, and modulated, his voice; spat as he spoke.
‘Hugh exploded. He shouted. “Padfield: You will come with me, sir!” Padfield shouted back: “I will not, sir!”’
Dramatic pause. Adrian knew what was expected. His eyes lit up, he sat forward himself.
‘Then, Hugh picked up a knife from Padfield’s table and held it to his throat. He’d had enough. His daughter was dead! He was tired, thirsty, sore all over. He said: “Sir, you will come with me, and you will take my daughter’s picture.”’
He waited.
‘Know what happened next?’
‘No.’
‘Padfield said no.’
‘No?’
‘Yep. Knife or no knife, he wasn’t going anywhere. So …’
‘What?’
‘Just then, the photographer’s son walked into the room. Hugh felt he had no choice. He sprang forward, took the boy by the arm and held the knife to his throat.’
He was lost in the story.
‘“You will come with me,” Hugh said to the photographer, as the boy just shook and …’
‘Yes?’
‘Wet himself.’
Adrian sat back. ‘How do you know?’
‘Don’t worry. I know. So, Hugh waited with the knife to the boy’s throat as Padfield went out and harnessed his cart, gathered his equipment, and loaded it. Then, Hugh led the boy out and they all got in the cart and set off.’
Adrian knew the drama had to surge and recede, like the river, wetting and drying the roots of big gum trees. But Des also knew that if the horse slows too much it stops.
‘They headed to Querelle. All lined up on the front seat: Padfield, the boy (his throat nicked, and bleeding) and Hugh Heyward. For the first few hours there was silence. But then Hugh started telling them about Lizzy. Her smile, her sense of … lightness, her ear for music, and the way she could make the organ sing like a choir of angels. How she was the light of her parents’ life.’
Adrian realised it was getting dark, and cold, but to stand and light a candle, or start a fire, would ruin everything.
‘The photographer listened to Hugh and, despite the kni
fe, started feeling sorry for him. As the sun started setting, he guessed the farmer was harmless.’
His father had left the room, and another man was telling the story. This man was someone like Dickens, or Twain, or even Kipling. He was the story.
‘Hugh told them everything about Lizzy. How she could tackle the hardest sums, and always get them right, and cook … how she could make old mutton taste …’
Adrian was in the cart, too, sitting, listening.
‘Then, all of a sudden, Hugh stood and threw the knife into the bush. Padfield pulled up. Hugh looked at him and said, I’m sorry. About all this, and your boy … for scaring him. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t never have hurt no one.” Then he sat down. And Padfield put his hand on his arm and said, “I understood all that. Right from the start. How about I come with you and take your daughter’s picture?”’
Adrian could tell his father had descended, on the verge of tears that were story tears, but real tears. He was slowing, savouring every word, every action, every smile, every second of pathos.
‘Hugh said, No. But Padfield didn’t care. He looked at his son and smiled, and the son agreed—they should take Lizzy’s picture.’
‘He was a good fella, this photographer,’ Adrian said.
‘Yes,’ Des agreed. ‘A decent man. Ones you don’t see so much these days.’ He knew the story had to continue. More than anything, once started, it had to be finished. ‘They stopped for a rest and the photographer fetched his equipment, and set up, and took a photo of Hugh and the boy.’
Des took out his wallet. Produced an old, torn photo Adrian had never seen. He handed it to his son, who studied it. It made sense. It all made sense. Hugh and the photographer’s son stood together against the bush, and the distant river that ran through their lives. There was blood on the boy’s neck and shirt. He looked at his father. Lifted his hand and touched the scars on his neck. ‘You …’
Des smiled. ‘I was gonna tell you …’
‘But … how?’
‘We went home, and Sarah was waiting. They got Lizzy ready with her dress, and her pearls, and Dad, my dad, took the photo.’ Des reclaimed the memento mori and studied it.
Adrian sensed the story had stopped, and something else had begun. My dad … Hugh, or Bernie Padfield? It wasn’t clear to him anymore. ‘I still don’t understand.’
Des was lost. ‘I can still remember, standing watching as they got her ready, adjusting her hands in her lap.’
‘I don’t understand …’
‘Later, we all went out onto the porch for a cup of tea. I went off to play and Dad, Bernie, talked to Hugh. This bit I’ll have to make up.’ He smiled. ‘Bernie said, “Listen, Mr Heyward, I can see you’re a decent man. The thing is, I’ve done you a favour, and you could do one for me.”’
Adrian felt cold. It was almost dark outside. The room was full of shadows. He could barely see his father’s face.
‘“Hugh,” Bernie said, “my wife, she went to Sydney, and she never came back.” Then, I imagine, there would’ve been silence. Then, Bernie would’ve said, “I was wondering if you could watch my son. For a few weeks at most.”’
From a knife at the throat to a favour; threats to something that already resembled friendship, perhaps even love. This is what Bernie Padfield had come to think of Hugh, and Hugh of the photographer.
‘So?’
‘Hugh said yes. What else could he do? The poor man’s wife had run off, with some other man as it turned out.’
‘And he never came back for you?’
‘No.’
Des took the photo of him and his father, Hugh Heyward, standing before the bush, and put it back in his wallet. ‘He never came back. Couple of years later, Dad told me, he heard he’d been stabbed. Maybe by the fella that my mum had run off with, maybe someone else.’
‘And?’
‘I was angry, cos he’d dumped me. But later, I realised he’d gone to get my mum because he loved her. Didn’t mean …’
‘And Pop?’
‘Once he’d heard about the stabbing. Once a year had passed with no word. Then he knew. He was always a practical man, so he said, “No use waitin’, son.” He went to town and signed some papers and that was that.’
Adrian still wasn’t sure if the whole thing wasn’t the most ambitious, grandest story his father had ever invented. But, he concluded, it must be true. And if one bit was true, then it was all true. He guessed that it had taken his father eight years to tell him this, simply because it had taken eight years to tell him. ‘How did you feel?’
Des sighed. ‘Not good … not good. I came back to the porch and … Dad, Bernie, told me what they’d decided. And he left me there. He messed my hair, kissed me, and told me he’d be back soon, and that Mr Heyward was a good man and would look after me. And then he got in his cart and drove off. And that was it.’
Now it was pitch black. They sat in silence.
‘That’s me, the photographer’s son,’ Des said, packing the photos into the box.
Adrian felt happy, and sad, that he was here because of this story, and these people, and their weaknesses, and goodness, and charity. He felt love. A dad was a valuable thing, no matter where you found him, and if his stories went all night, into the dark and cold, you listened. You never moved. Not an inch.
Des was still watching his father drive through the gates at Querelle. He was still waving. His father didn’t look back. He supposed this was because he was busy planning his trip east. He turned and looked at Hugh, the farmer in the torn and dusty suit. ‘Will you need a hand digging?’ he said.
‘Tomorrow, son.’
Datsunland
William Dutton was still walking towards school. Two decades after he’d finished, still. Carrying his guitar, head down, mumbling to himself, resenting that he had to go, waste another day, fill in shitty little forms that he always got wrong, screwed up, started again, or forgot to attach, eliciting a reminder email. He didn’t even like schools, but where else could a guitar teacher get work? He didn’t like how the bell was the same bell as in the seventies, loud, metallic, unable to compromise, still cutting days into geography-sized pieces, unwilling to allow sunshine, Ginsberg’s hipster funk or fun. Fun. Fancy that. Fuck he hated schools. The way teachers stood in hallways discussing assessment criteria and performance standards, like the boys were goats to be fattened to fetch the best price at the abattoir. He hated his pigeonhole, because it never contained anything he was interested in, just more work, more shit to fill in, more complaints from parents. And he hated them too. Why couldn’t they just teach their own kids, or feed them, take them to sport, imbue manners? Yes, manners. They had to be imbued. He couldn’t understand what people talked about in staff meetings. What did it matter if socks were worn below the knee? Or if no one had completed their sixty hours of professional development. What was professional development? How to make an effective rubric? Rubrics. Fuck. More shit, less interest than Mein Kampf, although at least that started a war.
He entered through the big iron gates, crossed the Brother Blah-Blah Memorial Lawns and stopped to admire a life-sized statue of Mary. She was wearing a smock filled with needles from nearby pine trees, and there was mud on her feet from where the principal’s car drove past every morning. And the principal, Mosby, he was a barrel of laughs too. Anyway, Mary’s arms were missing. A sign explained how this was the work of vandals.
Good Friday. 1954. The Virgin was desecrated, and partly restored. Due to a lack of marble, and suitable craftsmen, the Holy Mother was left in her present state to reflect the suffering of Jesus on His cross.
Nearby, a brass plaque beside a carpark told the story of Irish monks who’d inspired the founding of Lindisfarne College—a lifetime spent copying Bibles, developing cataracts and freezing in a cave. That was devotion, the boys were told by the college’s surviving Brother (as he squeezed their shoulders). Eadrifth and Ethilwald, the love of God and porridge.
Tons and tons of it
, still served in vats in the boarding house.
William Dutton was suffering on his own cross: the prospect of seven hours of guitar lessons. His small room in the music suite. Eight teenage boys murdering Deep Purple, each of them fresh from PE lessons, smelling like old plums gone bad on someone’s back lawn. He’d taken to keeping a can of deodorant in his room but only used it after they’d gone, unable to tell them they stank. Again, their parents’ job. Why the hell couldn’t they say something?
He walked past a sandstone mansion that had once been the centre of this forty-acre property. Now it was the administration building. The tiles on the entry porch had sunk, and cracked. The white paint was peeling. There were proud flags, but these too were threadbare around the edges. Still, there were iceberg roses, figs in giant pots and BMWs and Audis left running on the gravel drive as mums ran inside to pay their fees.
Lindisfarne House, as it was called, was the college’s showpiece. For years its floorboards had creaked under the weight of black-robed Christian Brothers, the boys who carried their books, red-necked boarders and Van de Graaff generators. Now it was home to HR managers, finance officers and assistant principals with massage chairs. He’d seen them, at four in the afternoon, gathered around the mini-bar in the boardroom (as another fee increase was discussed).
Lindisfarne College was the poor cousin of a family of elite schools. It had managed to borrow and beg enough to build an Olympic-sized swimming pool, a new science centre and library, but it still had plenty of hot-in-summer, cold-in-winter classrooms from the forties and fifties. Cracked mortar rooms, their old wiring covered with asbestos, cornices coming away and walls crumbling where nails had been hammered in. Threadbare carpet and the smell of boys—eighty years of them, caught in an eternity of Pythagoras and cold showers, waiting for Godot as the smell of paint and more perspiration filled their rooms, and dreams.
Boys—foursquare and basketball in the twenty minutes between Latin and Bach. Pasties with burnt edges dropped over the Thoreau Wing balcony. Cricket bats in cracked leather cases. Leftover spag bog in Tupperware eaten cold under dying jacarandas. Boys—grunting, spitting, picking fights over whose brother had the hottest Monaro.