Datsunland

by Stephen Orr

  But there they were, gathered around him, sitting down on the concrete. ‘Do you know any Coldplay?’

  ‘I don’t play pop.’

  ‘What do you play?’

  ‘Hard rock … grunge.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  He reluctantly played a few bars of ‘In Bloom’, but then stopped and said, ‘I can’t play that stuff on an acoustic.’

  ‘What about Taylor Swift?’ a girl asked.

  ‘Fuck.’

  Back in his lounge room, Charlie looked at Dave and said, ‘I couldn’t get rid of them.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I packed up and came home.’

  ‘Why?’ his sister said. ‘All those girls?’

  ‘So?’

  Nicole shook her head. ‘You should’ve asked one of them to meet you at the Plaza on Saturday.’

  He played a series of harmonics across the bridge of his guitar. ‘Twelve year olds?’

  ‘So, you gotta start somewhere.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  She grinned. ‘Charlie Price?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no special lady in your life?’

  He turned red and threw a cushion at her. ‘What about you?’

  She grabbed Dave’s arm. ‘I’ve got my man.’ They kissed.

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘I bet there’s someone.’

  ‘I go to a boys’ school.’

  ‘All the more reason. What about that friend of Dad’s … his daughter?’

  ‘Fuck off. Just cos you started early.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That kid from Magill.’

  She moved towards him. ‘Yeah, so what do you reckon—’

  ‘You’re the expert.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That day Mum came home, and you two were in your room, and she couldn’t get you out.’

  Nicole sat back and remembered, eventually sniffing and wiping her nose on the back of her hand. ‘I reckon you saw that in some movie.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘And so what if we did?’

  Charlie knew there was no point arguing with his sister, so he started playing again. He picked and strummed the chords he’d already worked out for William’s ‘Me’. There was a descending bass—long notes underscoring a melody all loss and indecision.

  The first thing he’d done when he arrived home was put William’s demo into his disc player, tune his guitar and start playing along. He soon had the melody in his head, and then the words, and the feelings behind them.

  Neat, he’d thought, that even a teacher could come up with something so effective. Which proved that music was within his grasp—and maybe that William, this unshaved, foul-mouthed excuse for a teacher, was someone far more than just report cards and scales, impatient eyes and the tedium of a thousand ‘Streets of London’.

  Me

  All of the bits that you see

  The broken glass and torn shirts

  The remains of the years, blown away.

  Nicole could hear the longing in his voice. He’s calling for Mum, she guessed.

  As he had for the weeks and months after she died, as he lay awake in bed, eventually turning over and burying his head in his pillow. Some nights it was tears, others loneliness, a catalogue of practical matters he’d now have to deal with himself. Who would be there, talking to the mums at school pick-up, or organising the notes on the fridge so he got to football on time? There were buttons that would never get sewn on and problems that would never get explained (such as why his aunt and uncle had separate beds). Who would cook his favourite chow mein and polish his shoes?

  Nicole was still living at home at the time and she’d come into his room and crawl into bed next to him. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ Turning towards the wall.

  ‘You better get to sleep,’ she’d say, choosing to avoid the mud they’d already waded through a hundred times.

  Months later, the longing was still there, as was his father, standing in the hallway at one am, his hands on his hips. ‘Charlie, just close your eyes and get to sleep.’

  The tears

  Sitting forgotten beside gas bills, and old shoes, and love.

  Which was the image Nicole had of Damien, towards the end of their mother’s illness, as he sat at night at the dining table surrounded by accounts, unfinished homework, X-rays. She would try to talk to him, but he’d only ever mumble, and return to his pink and yellow forms.

  ‘Come on’, Charlie, she’d say, and they’d go out into the backyard.

  Carol was there, sitting in a plastic chair in a ring of camellias, staring at the grass. She’d look up, smile and reach into the pocket of her dressing gown.

  ‘There,’ she’d say, handing them a ten-dollar note.

  Moments later, Nicole would have the pool ladder over the back fence and they’d escape down the laneway and around the corner to Nick’s fish shop.

  Once, coming back over the fence, Charlie slipped and cut his leg on the galvanised iron. And although she was sick, Carol came running.

  It wasn’t so bad, and soon all three of them were sitting on the grass eating vinegar-soaked chips.

  The sort of shit you remember, Nicole guessed.

  But this memory wasn’t so much in the words as the music, in the chords as the falter in her brother’s voice. There was nothing either of them could say that hadn’t been said.

  Damien came in and stood looking at them. ‘Go on,’ he said, as Charlie slid the guitar between his knees.

  ‘Go on,’ Nicole insisted.

  Damien dropped his keys in the ashtray on the coffee table and sat down. ‘Know any Neil Sedaka?’

  ‘No. It’s one of Mr Dutton’s songs.’

  ‘Mr Dutton? The musical guru?’

  ‘He plays in a band.’

  And then Charlie realised he was wearing his teacher’s T-shirt.

  ‘Something soothing,’ Damien said. ‘I haven’t sold a car in three days.’

  Charlie continued, avoiding his father’s eyes.

  Me

  Nothing left to see

  With the best bits taken away

  Brushed from the skin like a sting

  The years

  Emptied of someone I love.

  He slowed, realising, lapsing into a round of fingerpicking and hummed melody.

  Damien looked at Nicole. He’s good, he said with his eyes.

  Someone I love, that’s what he said, Damien thought. Which, he guessed, was a Neil Sedaka sort of thing. He waited for his son to clarify this but there were no more words. Just someone. Mr Dutton’s someone. ‘That’s very sad,’ he said, when his son had finished.

  ‘No, not sad, it’s beautiful,’ Nicole said, wiping the last of the crumbs from her top.

  ‘Nice,’ Dave said.

  Damien was studying his son’s face. ‘Who’s it about?’

  ‘I dunno, these sort of things are generic.’

  ‘Generic?’

  ‘Anyone, everyone.’

  Dave sat forward. ‘Play the Rudd, Charlie.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Go on.’

  So he sat up and tried again. The rhythm started slow, but then took care of itself. Nicole and Dave sang along and Damien tapped the beat on his polyester slacks. No denying it, he thought, as he sat back in the lounge—this boy’s a marvel, a proper little jukebox. Maybe there’s a few quid to be made somewhere: a couple of weeks on The Voice, Carols by Candlelight, Hi-5 or the classical set.

  Charlie looked at his father and saw the hint of a smile, and found the will to keep going, to struggle with the last verse.

  Half an hour later, Charlie was sitting in his room, sprawled across a bed that hadn’t been made for weeks, scribbling chords on manuscript paper. Occasionally he’d look up at the few posters tacked to the walls—stripped-down Chili Peppers, a Bavarian landscape his mother had put up, Hare Krishnas in a shopping mall, Ian Thorpe with a sharpened arr
ow drawn through his head, and a photo of Heinrich Himmler to remind him of school.

  He could hear his father, sister and the boyfriend in the lounge room. Long pauses. Someone rustling paper, then Nicole reading.

  On September three, two years ago to the day since you went away. And yet there’s never more than an hour or two goes by that we don’t think about you. Around the table, you’re still here, and every time we have scones, we think of how yours were the best.

  And his dad, in his gruffest, no-nonsense tone. ‘What have scones got to do with it?’

  ‘I was trying to personalise it. I hate all that forever remembered bullshit.’

  There was a long pause, maybe as Damien read. Then, ‘How much will this cost?’

  ‘We want to pay.’

  ‘It’s about eight dollars a line.’

  ‘Not that much.’

  ‘For a Saturday ad—’

  ‘Dad! We don’t care about the money.’

  ‘It’s money you can use for other things.’

  ‘It’s for Mum.’

  ‘She’d agree with me.’

  ‘It’s not the point.’

  Charlie looked up at a crack in the mortar, and studied it. He could guess why his dad had fallen silent. The usual response. According to his father, you just had to get on with life. Otherwise it would turn into a soap opera. There was a photo on the telly, and of course you could talk about the way she laughed, or used gallons of spray to kill flies, or never changed a toilet roll. Real things. Solid things.

  But there was no point going on all night, or too often.

  He heard his dad say, ‘You’re determined?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, let me pay half.’

  ‘No, we want to pay, Dad.’

  Charlie couldn’t hate his dad for this. After all, he was no more demonstrative himself. He looked at his new song, the piece he’d promised William—an ode to every foul-breathed science teacher on the planet. It was a string of words stuck together with attitude—half-thought-out feelings that described some mostly imagined angst. But that was okay. It was rock’n’roll, and allowances could be made. He picked up his new guitar, plugged it into the amp and switched it on. There was a hum, and he adjusted the volume. Then he started playing the sequence of chords he’d come up with.

  He followed his chart carefully. Yes, he was interested in his words, but this performance was more about introducing his new axe to his dad.

  Instead, there was Damien, standing in the doorway. ‘Where’d you get that?’

  ‘I’m buying it.’

  ‘Buying, or bought?’

  Charlie knew it wasn’t sounding good. ‘Mr Dutton was selling it, and he gave me a good price.’ He played a riff, high up on the fretboard, as if this might help his cause.

  ‘So you still owe him for it?’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘What’s a bit?’

  ‘Thirty bucks.’

  ‘D’you think you should’ve asked me first?’

  ‘I got it cheap. If I’d bought this in a shop …’

  ‘You’ve already got a guitar.’

  ‘An acoustic.’

  Charlie watched his dad waiting, thinking, biting his bottom lip, each of his thoughts advancing and retreating.

  ‘Mr Dutton asked you if you wanted it?’

  ‘Yes, when I went to his …’ He stopped, teetering on the edge, trying to think of other ways to justify a guitar. ‘It’s not gonna affect my grades.’

  ‘I didn’t say it would.’

  ‘It’s a hobby.’

  ‘How much was it?’

  And they were off, on a discussion of money—learning to save, part-time jobs, setting goals: a car, uni fees (yes, if you set your mind to it, you could be a doctor), a flat, an investment property (fella at work, his son’s nineteen, he rents out three places), a holiday (you and me, we could go to the Gold Coast). ‘My point is,’ he said, ‘just cos you got it doesn’t mean you have to spend it.’

  ‘What do I buy?’

  ‘Look at me, I haven’t sold a car for two weeks.’

  ‘You just said three days.’

  ‘Closer to two weeks. And don’t be smart. If there are no sales, there are no school fees.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with a guitar?’

  Damien pointed at his son. ‘Listen …’

  Nicole was in the hallway. ‘Dad.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Come here a minute.’

  As he stared at his son. ‘You can give it back.’

  Charlie sat up. ‘Why?’

  ‘If you want a guitar, ask me. We’ll get you one for Christmas.’

  ‘That’s another three months.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s letting me have this one.’

  ‘It’ll still be there.’

  ‘Dad!’ Nicole called.

  ‘What?’

  She took him by the arm, and led him back to the lounge room. Then she sat him down and said, ‘Calm down.’

  ‘Him telling me …’

  ‘Calm down.’ She sat beside him. ‘It’s what he needs.’

  ‘It’s not the point.’

  ‘He likes it, and he’s good.’

  ‘He can’t just go spend hundreds of dollars. He needs a new blazer.’

  ‘Kids don’t care about blazers,’ Dave said.

  ‘Well, they bloody well should. If he wants he can always go to a state school.’

  I don’t care, Charlie wanted to call out, as he sat listening in his room. I never asked to be sent there. Jesus and first fucking XI cricket. So, pull me out, if that’s all that matters.

  He turned to see himself in the mirror, and looked away. Breathed deeply, and then cracked the knuckles of his left hand. Wait, he told himself. Wait. He knew that when his father settled things would be okay. And Nicole, she could steer him around, in the same way Carol could.

  Charlie heard his sister say, ‘How about, instead of putting this in the paper, we help him with his guitar?’

  ‘No, you wanna do that, you do it.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘He can keep his guitar. It’s just, he’s got no bloody concept of the value of money.’

  ‘He’s fourteen.’

  ‘That’s old enough.’

  ‘It’s self-expression,’ Dave said. ‘These are the angst years, Mr P. Remember?’

  ‘I was already running bets when I was fourteen.’

  Nicole held her father’s knee. ‘Dad, you shouldn’t expect too much too soon.’

  Later that night, Damien went into his son’s room. ‘Sometimes, Chucky-boy,’ he said, sitting on his bed, ‘you have a way of …’

  ‘Pissing you off?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s just that it was cheap.’

  Damien looked at the scar on his son’s leg. ‘I know. If you like, you stick with it. But get good.’

  ‘I want to.’

  ‘Treat it like a violin. You wanna be in an orchestra, you gotta take it seriously.’ Then he thought, If nothing else, it beats selling cars. ‘Still, I’d rather you be an engineer. I heard those fellas in the mines make a hundred and fifty, a hundred and eighty a year. And you’ve got the brains for that. You know you’ve got the brains.’

  ‘That might be okay too.’

  ‘More than okay. You don’t want to end up selling cars.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why not? Christ.’ He let his head drop.

  ‘I’d be an engineer, if it interested me.’

  ‘And have your band on the side?’

  Charlie waited, looking at, but avoiding, his father. ‘But you still like your job, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s just what you get used to.’

  No, not good enough, Charlie thought. Not when every day you get up and shower, pull on your pants, your shirt, your tie, your socks—forty years of pulling on your socks.

  ‘The thing is, th
ey just keep sending those bills,’ Damien said. ‘And engineers, that doesn’t bother them at all, but the guy that works at Datsunland …’

  Charlie looked at his new guitar, leaning against the wall. ‘So I can keep it?’

  Damien finished the last of a chalky finger bun and sipped sweet tea as he thought about a weekend already spoken for—lawns and a blocked gutter, shopping, a tyre to be changed on Nicole’s car (since the boyfriend had no idea how to do it). There would be a constant battle with Charlie—to get him out of bed, motivated, working on something apart from songs. He walked down the hallway, opened the door to his son’s room and went inside. ‘What a bloody disaster.’

  Charlie turned to face the wall.

  ‘You can deal with this today. Okay?’

  He produced a sound that wasn’t quite a word.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Damien turned on the light and started gathering clothes from the floor—a tie, shorts and seventy-five-dollar school shirt. ‘The laundry’s two doors away.’

  No reply.

  Socks—grey turned brown, embedded in the carpet—and at the bottom of the pile, his blazer. ‘You could at least hang this up.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Damien picked it up, brushed it off and sniffed the air. ‘What’s that?’

  It only took a moment for Charlie to remember. He’d gone onto the main oval to play soccer, but lost interest. Seen a few friends sitting under the scoreboard, staring at him, grinning. He’d wandered over and asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Sit down, Chucky,’ one of them had said.

  He had. The boy had looked around, and then at him, before producing a half-smoked cigarette. ‘Go on.’

  Charlie had scanned the oval and stopped to think. ‘You’ll get suspended.’

  ‘No one’s ever been suspended. Go on.’

  He’d looked at the cigarette—red-tipped, glowing and whispering his name. Come on, it said. One puff, no obligations. If I’m not as good as you think—stand up, walk away. But if I am … You’ll be joining our little group, Charlie. Don’t you want to?

  He’d taken the cigarette. Wanted to try it more than anything in the world. But like Mr Keane had said, for every action there was an equal and opposite reaction. It was a law of physics—you couldn’t get away with anything. Someone was always watching, writing in the detention book, asking for your planner and saying, Your parents will need to sign this.

  ‘Go on,’ the boys had urged. ‘It’s burning down.’