by Stephen Orr
Christ, I’m drifting again, he realised, but then thought, So what?
He was happy to hear Charlie’s bung notes and buzzing strings. He was glad to smell him, sense him. He sat up and took the guitar from him. As he played ‘My Sweet Lord’, he taught him where to sing the ‘Hallelujahs’ and ‘Hare Krishnas’. After a while a few people joined in. He was happy, lost in the only world that seemed to make sense to him. But all the time there was the nagging feeling that he’d stepped out of reality and would have to soon return.
Then Charlie said, ‘Hare Krishna? I thought you were Christian?’
‘Blessed Edmund …’
‘Pray for us …’
William returned the guitar and said, ‘You know, since I’m not paid to be a role model any more, I may as well tell you: there is no God.’
Charlie grinned. ‘Nobody believes in that bullshit.’
‘Sinner!’
‘And, since you’re no longer my role model, what else would you like to admit?’
William looked at him, unsure. ‘One question each. Complete truth.’
‘Okay.’
‘So … why do you hang around with a sod like me, when you should be off chasing girls?’
‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘But I asked you.’
Charlie thought for a moment, then said, ‘Physically, I can see something in them.’
‘Yes?’
‘Coming from a boys’ school, it’s been difficult to find someone with … what I mean is, I’ve met some girls but then they’re taking your picture with a phone, and messaging their mates.’
‘You need someone you can relate to?’
‘Right, my go. Same question.’
William thought for a moment and said, ‘Same answer.’
Charlie was confused. ‘But you must have plenty of friends.’
William looked up and Greg and Justin were standing above them. ‘Come on,’ Greg said.
They started with Charlie’s ‘String of Words’. Charlie sang the verse and William joined him for the chorus. There was only one microphone, so they sang together, their faces an inch or two apart. They tried to avoid each other’s eyes but it was difficult, and they ended up smiling at each other, laughing.
Damien looked at his watch. It was after ten. He was angry, again. Still, he knew there was no point going over old ground. It was just a phase. He felt he was getting off lightly. Six, twelve months perhaps and Charlie would come good. He’d relearn the art of conversation (this time with actual thought-out words), mingle, appear to care about other people, lose his awkwardness, gain stature, strength and grace.
Perhaps.
A car pulled up further down the street. He stood behind his oleander and watched, and listened, as the engine idled. Loud, muffled music. A door opened and Charlie got out. He leaned into the car, said a few words then slammed the door.
Damien went inside. Turned up the television and sat in his recliner. Picked up the phone, held it to his mouth and waited. As Charlie came in he said, ‘Okay, Rob, gotta go. See y’ tomorrow.’ And rang off.
‘G’day,’ Charlie said, standing in the doorway.
‘Christ, you’re sunburnt.’
‘Am I?’
‘How’s Simon?’
‘Good.’
‘His dad still sick?’ He stared at the television, then his son. ‘What did you say it was?’
‘Liver cancer.’
A long pause. ‘Liver?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He in pain?’
‘He wasn’t there much. Anyway … good night.’
‘Night, son.’
Charlie went to his room, peeled off his shirt and smelt it. No smoke. Just the same, he took off his shorts, went into the bathroom and buried his clothes at the bottom of the wash basket. He returned to his room, found a pair of boxers in a pile on the floor and slipped them on. The birch tree was scraping his window, so he opened it, broke off the branch. Then sat on his bed, looking through his latest copy of Rolling Stone.
How depressing, he thought, looking at a picture of Keith Richards—sad, pathetic old man. Maybe I need a plan. Something to do when I’m too old to rock’n’roll. Write novels. Produce other people’s music. Or die.
Damien was standing in his doorway. ‘They go yellow.’
‘Who?’
‘People with liver problems.’
Charlie shrugged. ‘He didn’t look yellow.’
‘No?’
Damien sat on the end of the bed. He produced the leaflet he’d found in Charlie’s shirt pocket and pressed it flat on the sheets. ‘Look what you missed.’
Charlie read it, then said, ‘I didn’t think you’d let me go.’
‘How often do I say no?’
‘It was just cos it was Mr Dutton.’
‘What would I have against Mr Dutton?’
‘Because … I like to do stuff with him.’
Damien shrugged. ‘So?’ He looked at his son. ‘I trust you,’ he said, realising these might be the dumbest words he’d ever spoken. ‘Can I trust you?’
‘Of course.’
‘So?’
Charlie was studying the way his carpet had faded, and come apart. ‘Mr Dutton, he’s a top bloke,’ he said. ‘I mean, a good teacher, but not like the other idiots. You know?’
‘I know.’
Charlie met his father’s stare. ‘Thanks,’ he whispered. Then he pointed to William on the leaflet. ‘That’s him.’
Damien studied his face. ‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Where?’
‘At work. He was looking for a car.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘I reckon.’
Damien pushed the leaflet aside and said, ‘Your mother was always on about Jesus this, Jesus that, eh?’
‘And her rosary, remember her rosary?’
‘I still got it.’ In his bedside drawer, on top of a pile of freshly ironed handkerchiefs. ‘Remember how she used to say, Life is a gift from God?’
‘Did she?’
‘Always. She said you repay it by doing what you’re good at.’ He stopped to wipe sleep from his eyes. ‘She’d get out her Bible at bedtime and off she’d go—“The Pharaoh ruled over the Israelites.” And there’s me, tuning into the races.’
Charlie sat forward. He could remember her with her Bible. ‘What would she say?’
‘“Turn that rubbish off!” And I’d say, “If you turn yours off.”’
Charlie took a deep breath and then asked, ‘So, you think maybe that’s what I’m good at?’
‘Who knows? But you’ve gotta try everything. Otherwise it’s off to Datsunland.’
‘But you like cars.’
‘Yeah, that’s right—I like cars.’
There was a light breeze coming in the window and the sounds of cats in the undergrowth. Damien stomped on the floorboards, but they didn’t stop. ‘How did your concert go?’
Charlie’s eyes lit up. ‘Great. We played my song.’
‘Ah, the bullshit song?’
‘Yes, it’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It is. The sort of thing people want to hear.’
‘And we jammed on a few more. “Revolution”. Want to hear?’
Before Damien could answer Charlie had his guitar across his legs. He bit his lip as he concentrated, and played the blues riff. Occasionally he’d look at his father and he’d nod approval.
Damien looked at the leaflet and the grainy, photocopied image of William Dutton. He was relieved.
In the moments after the noise subsides, he guessed, everything becomes clear. How the bits are just part of the whole, and how this drama of colour and movement is over before you know it’s begun. How the things you say, and do, mostly, can’t and won’t change anything. Almost like it’s all said, done, scripted, made, finished, and you’re just waiting as the clock ticks, the hours unwind, down to minutes, and the moments (smelling of cut grass, and hair oil, and s
pring mornings) coming away from whatever it is you thought was holding life together. But nothing is. Just chance, accidents, good fortune, sometimes. As he heard Carol (in her last few hours) saying, There’s no point worrying. Everything will be perfect … everything.
He looked at the boy and for the first time saw fine, black hair on his arms. He was surprised, but not concerned. Everything about his son was new—his proficiency with bar chords, the croak in his throat, the valley across his chest.
Yes, he thought, remembering awkward prayers. It’s all part of the deal—love and six months’ free registration. An eternity of agapanthus shedding their flowers.
William sat, lost, watching Langdon Hughes’ LA report. There was a mental breakdown, an unwanted pregnancy and a writers’ strike. Langdon had a habit of sitting forward, twisting his fingers together and smiling at his audience. William wondered why he appeared to be so happy. Was it surgical, well rehearsed? Was this a valid way of earning money? And who was watching?
He heard a knock on the door and muttered, ‘Fuck off!’ He waited but the knock returned. So he dragged himself up, walked across the room and opened the door.
It was John Mosby, principal of Lindisfarne College. ‘G’day, William.’
William searched for a response. ‘John.’
The older man wore a dark suit, white shirt and a red and green striped tie. He had a principal’s face—shaved and buffed, unemotional, waiting to sit in judgement. His eyes were small peas in a big pudding. He was well fed. His teeth were even, with the slightest gap at the front. ‘Can I come in?’
‘Of course.’
William showed him in and cleared junk mail and soiled clothes from the lounge. He removed an empty Coke can from the coffee table and asked, ‘A drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Careful where you sit. There’s a spring coming up there.’
Mosby checked before he sat down. William sat opposite him. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine.’
He could feel a tremor in his fingers and arms and hoped it wasn’t noticeable in his voice. ‘Everything going smoothly at Lindisfarne?’
‘Yes.’
‘I miss my little room. With my little window, and all that BO.’
Mosby tried to smile. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’
‘Well, maybe it’s because you want me back.’
No reply. A bad sign, surely, he guessed.
Mosby sat forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘It’s about one of your students.’
‘Oh … who’s that?’
‘A Year Nine, Charlie Price.’ He waited for William’s reaction.
‘I taught him for a while.’
‘I’ve heard you spend a lot of time with the boy.’
‘A lot of time?’
‘Time outside of school.’
‘He’s been to see my band. And he’s played with us.’
The principal waited. ‘And?’
‘And?’
‘He’s been here?’
‘Yes. He came to see my guitar collection.’
Mosby smiled. ‘William, you know the rules.’
‘What?’
‘Did he have his parents’ permission?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘So, whatever he says, a court will believe.’
William shook his head. ‘Come on, John, he’s not like that.’
‘That’s not the point. The thing is, you broke the rules.’
‘Okay, perhaps I shouldn’t have done it.’
‘You certainly shouldn’t have. You know who’ll end up wearing it, when it comes home to roost.’
There was a long pause.
‘And you socialise with him?’ Mosby asked.
‘I’m not breaking any laws.’
‘To be honest, it might be good for him to see these things. But—’ and he raised and lowered his voice ‘—you know as well as I, it’s not about reality, it’s perception.’
‘What’s supposed to have happened?’
The principal used his outstretched hand to make a point. ‘I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before, William.’
‘He hasn’t got a mum. I help him; he’s flourishing. Next thing you’re saying I’ve—’
‘I’m not saying anything.’
‘Bullshit! You think …’ He trailed off. ‘He’s a smart, curious kid.’
‘Good.’
‘He loves music. The guitar. And not just the stuff he gets at Lindisfarne.’
Mosby stood up. ‘Well, that’s good. I didn’t come for a fight, just a friendly word of advice. If the gossips take over, you know how it is, I’ll have parents writing, questions from the board.’
William looked at his old boss. ‘But what about the kid?’
‘I’ve got eleven hundred kids, William. I don’t want Today Tonight as well. You want people talking about you?’
‘They won’t.’
‘They will. Keep going, they will. Then it won’t be me, it’ll be the cops at your door.’
William was caught in the middle of multiple truths.
‘So,’ Mosby continued, ‘I’ve spoken to you, I’ve made the school’s position clear.’
‘Fine.’
‘And I’m going to make a note of this, and date it, and sign it.’
All at once William remembered how much he hated schools, their bitumen yards, their fences, their drabness on warm spring days. ‘Okay, John, you’ve made it clear.’
‘I tell you, William, something like this would travel like wildfire. Some of those soccer mums, they’d have it around the school in hours.’
‘Should I ask where you heard?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Pete?’
‘I’ve known it myself. You feel all chummy with a kid, and then you stop and realise … something you’ve said.’
William lowered his head. ‘Okay.’ Then he shot up, walked to the door and held it open. ‘All the best.’
‘You too.’
‘I take it you don’t want to ask me back?’
‘That’s a separate issue, isn’t it?’
An hour after William’s talk with the principal, he entered the grounds of Lindisfarne College. His feet slipped on the gravel and he could smell pine oil around the chapel. He was still furious. He walked with fast, measured steps that left indents in the soft grass. Entering the music suite, he looked around for signs of life. A brass ensemble playing a chord full of slightly flat notes. Then he heard Pete’s voice: ‘What was that?’
‘Bar nine,’ someone replied.
‘No, no.’
He walked into the rehearsal room and saw Pete standing in front of a group of seven or eight primary boys. ‘Hello, Mr Ordon.’
‘Mr Dutton. You wouldn’t mind coming back in an hour or so?’
‘Have you got a moment now?’
Pete put down his pencil and followed William out of the room. The door closed after them and William turned on him. ‘So?’
‘What?’
‘Cut the bullshit.’
They stood facing each other.
‘Why the fuck would you do that?’ William said.
‘What?’
He wiped his brow with his forearm. Pete looked at the food stains on his T-shirt, his unshaved face, slumped shoulders and bloodshot eyes. He could smell his breath. For a moment he wanted to help him, to be truthful, to return to what they had just a few weeks before. ‘You look a mess,’ he said.
‘John said, “I’ll be writing all this down, and dating and signing it.”’
Pete didn’t reply.
‘He says, “I’ll pick up the phone, and I’ll call the cops.”’
‘Could you blame him?’
‘You could’ve talked to me first.’
‘I did.’
The students filed out of the rehearsal room carrying their instruments and music. ‘Bell’s about to go,’ one said.
‘Make sure you practis
e.’
The boys left. Pete decided it had to be said. ‘What’s going on with Charlie?’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’
‘He asked to swap teachers.’
‘So?’
‘The way he looks at you. I’m not blind, William … or stupid.’
They stopped as a cleaner passed through. Pete took him into his office. He sat him down and said, ‘I read about this teacher who was deregistered. He took the boy for hockey, and used to drive him home …’
‘Fuck. Come on then, say it.’
‘This stuff’s always in the papers. People see it. That’s what John means.’
William knew there was no point continuing. ‘You think I’ll get another job now?’
‘Of course.’
There was a pause, then William stormed from the office. He walked from the music suite and stood on the grass in front of the windows dressed with teddy bears.
What was done was done. There was an order at Lindisfarne. It was reflected in the Neo-Gothic columns on the music suite. The smooth rendering on the walls. The rows of office windows in the administration block. There was no point imagining circles, or abstractions, or conceptual lines. It was about the solid, the real. The way things always had and would be done. Lindisfarne belonged to people who were happy navigating these lines. Who moved slowly, in small steps, or invented algorithms to move at a faster rate. People who saw the lines as something to be gotten up for in the morning. To dress in a suit for. To eat toast and drink No Frills tea for.
William sat on the grass overlooking the main oval. He watched a group of boys playing rugby. Some had their shoes off and nearly all of them had their shirts untucked. They tackled roughly and once they were down they rolled on each other, fighting for the ball.
He squinted and noticed Charlie among the group. He was standing back, eating a roll or sandwich and occasionally, when the ball came near him, he would approach it, push one of his mates, laugh, and then shout something across the oval.
A feeling came over him as he watched. A suspicion, a hunch that became solid, real—like the poplars moving in the wind on the edge of the oval as the distant city sweated fuel and light. His feeling concerned the boy, Charlie Price: a child, still, roasting in the glow of a long, hot childhood.
The mind I’d have, if I had my time again, he thought. The body I’d walk around in. The nose I’d turn up. The tongue I’d stick out. The songs I’d sing.