On Friday morning he made a decision. Bugger school. Bugger the old man too. Be damned if he was going to allow him to drink himself stupid and neglect his chooks. The boy wanted to plant that garden. He wanted to beat the pants off him at chess. He missed his afternoon tea.
He missed the old man.
…
He waited until his mum had left the house. That was after ten o’clock, and she hadn’t even asked him why he wasn’t at school. He marched into the yard and jumped the fence before he could change his mind. Straight past the henhouse, past the barren vegie patch and up the back stairs. The door was unlocked. The kitchen was in an even worse state than it had been five days earlier. A foul odour emanated from the overflowing rubbish bin; plates crawling with flies sat stacked in the sink and on the table. The bottles had multiplied. The boy ignored it all and stomped into the lounge room but it was empty. He headed for the old man’s bedroom and pushed aside the door. More bottles lay on the bedside table and scattered across the carpet. The bed was empty.
After establishing the old man was not lying unconscious on the floor, the boy continued to the closed door of the bathroom. He put his ear against the peeling paint and listened. Nothing. He raised his hand and knocked lightly, suddenly aware of how out-of-place he felt here without the familiar tidiness and biscuits and chess game. There was no answer. He knocked again, the hollow sound echoing in the still house. This time, a groan, just audible. His irritation returned. He twisted the old-fashioned brass doorknob and squinted against the sun’s glare streaming through the high window and reflecting off the mirror. It took only a moment to assess the situation. The old man sat on the floor, his head resting against the rim of the bathtub. A mouldy shower curtain was draped like a vulgar headpiece across his hair. The boy raised his hand to his nostrils and tried to breathe through his mouth. Specks of vomit were spattered in the basin, with more of it in the bath. The toilet was filled with the vile stuff, and hadn’t been flushed.
The old man was clothed in a ragged pair of shorts and a yellowing singlet. His sunken chest rose and fell in an irregular rhythm. His face was a sickly grey, drained of substance, as if the skin no longer had any structure beneath it and was sagging over his skull. He was unshaven, grey stubble covering his chin and cheeks and upper lip in ugly patches. He had gashed his forehead at some stage in the last few days, and the puckered wound was red and inflamed. He looked old. The boy wondered fleetingly just how old he was. The old man had never told him, and he had never asked.
…
It was a long day. At first the boy simply sat beside the old man, breathing in the stink of him, sullen and quiet. But as his anger ebbed away, he began to make himself useful. He decided not to call the ambulance again, not yet anyway. Instead, he did what he could. He flicked aside the shower curtain, found a clean washcloth, soaked it in cold water, and sponged the old man’s face and upper body until he roused and shook his head and muttered nonsense. Satisfied that he wasn’t dying, the boy got a pillow from the bedroom and placed it behind his head. The old man opened one glassy eye and stared at him for the briefest moment, then rested his head down and recommenced snoring.
The boy started with the bathroom. He found disinfectant under the sink and used the whole bottle, rinsing out the basin and the tub, flushing the cleaned toilet, and mopping up the vomit crusted outside the bathroom door, working around the old man who slept on unawares.
He found a bin bag and collected the empties from every room, and then dragged the whole lot outside and into the recycling bin. It was well past lunchtime. He found half a block of cheese in the fridge, along with some stale crackers and an unopened lemonade in the cupboard.
He filled a glass with tap water, took it to the old man and held it to his mouth. Most of it dribbled down his stubbly chin, but the boy thought that at least some made it into his mouth. The old man’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down once as he swallowed.
Next he went through the fridge. He threw out the week-old milk and the putrid fruit, the mouldy bread and the opened cans of soup. He scraped all the leftovers into the rubbish bin, gagging as dozens of maggots squirmed at the intrusion, and heaved the bag into the wheelie bin. He piled the dirty dishes on the table, filled the sink with water as hot as he could stand and washed them all by hand, rinsing off the suds with clean, cold water. He had to stop three times to dry and put them away to give him more room.
Another glass of water for the old man; this time he drank about half of it. When he opened his eyes, a vague look of recognition passed between them.
In the bedroom, the boy threw open the window, letting a fresh breeze blow through the room. He pulled the sheets from the bed, wincing at the stains, then bundled them up in his arms and set off to find the laundry.
He found the washing machine under the house. It was in a corner with an ancient concrete tub, batons screening them off from empty plastic pots, spilled bags of fertiliser, a rusty rake and several sealed cardboard boxes. He dumped some washing powder in with the linen and started the machine.
Upstairs the old man had stirred and was attempting to crawl out the bathroom door. The boy stood in front of him. The old man stared first at the boy’s feet, then his gaze travelled to about the boy’s waist before the effort became too much and he sagged to the floor.
Drink, he muttered.
The boy went to the kitchen and returned with another glass of water.
No. Drink. There. The old man gestured towards the kitchen, from where the boy had recently disposed of several full and half-full bottles of booze in addition to the empties.
The boy squatted down so he was at eye level with the old man.
He shook his head, his stare unwavering.
Nope. Sorry. No more drink.
He offered him the water.
With more strength than the boy would have given him credit for, the old man swiped at the glass and sent it clattering across the floor.
Whisky! he said, and tried to get up off the floor. But again it was too much effort; he crawled on all fours towards the kitchen and sank back into semi-consciousness.
The boy collected the glass, refilled it and placed it within easy reach. Then he set about searching for clean sheets.
The contents of the linen cupboard were sparse but organised. The boy found double bedsheets and two pillowcases. In the bedroom, he banged the pillows together out the window, and then jumped on the bed for good measure. He spread his arms wide and the sheets billowed out like sails on a ship. He tucked in the corners as best he could and folded the top sheet over, as he’d seen his mother do.
With a glance at the sleeping man, he surveyed his day’s work before slipping outside.
Back at home, he wrote a note to his mum:
Dear Mum, gone next door to help him with something.
I might be back late. Dont worry I ate.
xxx
He found some leftover pasta and an apple that wasn’t too soft, and packed them in a bag with a bottle of Coke and his book.
When he returned, the washing machine was silent. He tried to hang the sheets on the rotary clothesline in the backyard, but they kept dragging on the ground. In the end he doubled them over and hoped for the best. He said a quick hello to the hens, threw them some feed, and went back into the house.
The old man was sitting where he had left him, but the glass of water was empty. His eyes opened as the boy approached. He held out the glass. More?
Please, he added.
The boy refilled the glass and handed it to the old man, then sat down beside him on the floor and opened his book. He didn’t speak. The man gulped the water.
After a while, the old man struggled to stand. The boy held his arm and steadied him, then helped him stagger back to the bathroom. He flicked the switch and light flooded the room, gleaming off the clean surfaces. The old man stood very still. Whe
n he turned to the boy, his eyes brimmed with tears.
The old man leant over the toilet, one hand on the wall, the other reaching inside his pants. He glanced over – beseeching, embarrassed – and the boy moved away.
The boy heard the bath running. He fetched a fresh towel from the cupboard and placed it on the side of the bathtub. The old man stood naked, his skinny limbs pale under the fluorescent light, his buttocks pressed flat from sitting on the floor. He looked at the boy in gratitude and contrition. Still the boy said nothing.
He searched timidly through the dressing-table drawers until he found a clean T-shirt and a pair of Y-fronts with the elastic gone. That would have to do for now. He left them folded inside the door.
When the old man came out of the bathroom, the boy led him to his bedroom. He pulled back the sheets and the old man slid gratefully under the covers. The boy gave him more water and set a jug beside the bed. He retrieved his book and made himself comfortable in a chair under the window. The whine of mosquitoes kept him awake for a while, but eventually sleep overcame him.
He dreamt of whisky bottles and billowing bedsheets, of endless glasses of water and droning mosquitoes.
31
That bloody kid. Why can’t he leave a man to get pissed in peace. The taste so smooth, like velvet wrapping itself around my throat. Flowing through my limbs to the tips of my fingers and toes. Encasing me in warmth and softness and forgetting. Taking me to a place where nothing means anything, where the past is more real than the present, where the future is far, far away. When I’m drinking, I’m in a place of nothingness. No pain, no happiness, no regrets. No feelings. Nothing but a void stretching out before me like an unending horizon on a jewelled sea. And when reality begins to prick at your skin, you down another shot and everything becomes blurry again.
Just like when I saw Girl Seated at Mirror.
And when I walked out on Edith and Sarah.
But most of all, most of all, it comes back to her. The one who will never leave me.
Love is a fictional place.
But grief and betrayal – all roads lead there.
Life doesn’t take kindness into consideration, I’ve learnt. It’s not the natural order of things. Kindness is something that has to be eked out, little by little, dug out of the cold, hard ground like gold out of rock. And when you find it, you’d best pass it on quick smart to someone else, before some other sod sees that kindness and beats it out of you. I’ll tell you something for nothing – when you get to my age, you’ve got a right to a blather. Even a drunken blather. There isn’t nobody who can take against you for it. Especially not some snotty-nosed kid with enough life experience to fill a thimble. Especially not him.
32
When the boy opened his eyes on Saturday morning, he had to turn his face from the sun’s glare. At some point during the night, he had slipped from the chair and onto the floor, his head on a cushion, his book askew. He stretched, his body stiff, the skin along his legs and arms patterned with the imprint of the carpet. The old man jerked in his sleep, mumbled something, and then continued his raspy snores. The boy peeled himself off the floor and stood over the bed, watching. The old man’s eyelids fluttered. A line of spittle ran from his mouth down the side of his stubbly chin. The boy replaced the cushion on the chair and left the room.
His own house was quiet. He saw from the kitchen clock that it was after eight o’clock. He went into the bathroom and shut the door, stripped off his clothes – caked with dirt and filth from the day before – and stood for a long time under the shower, the cool needles of water piercing his skin. When he was dressed, he returned to the kitchen. The only teabags he could find were all used, tangled on an old saucer. He chose the least disgusting one, brushed off the grey mould and made a cup of tea, adding lots of sugar and a dash of milk.
He knocked on his mum’s door. No response. He turned the doorknob. His mum stirred as he crossed the room, and dislodged her arm from under her sleeping companion. She reached for the boy, groping the air as her eyes attempted to focus.
Made you some tea.
Thanks, precious. You’re up early, she whispered. Why don’t you go back to bed? Last time I checked, you were sleeping like a baby.
The boy held her gaze, willing her to ask him, ask him anything, to admit the lie. But she only stared back at him until her eyelids drooped shut again.
Must’ve been years ago, he muttered. His mother exhaled – a long, ragged sigh – but made no reply.
He fixed himself a Vegemite sandwich and then made a second one, which he wrapped in greaseproof paper. It was after nine by the time he slipped through the old man’s back door.
He put the sandwich on a plate and made another cup of tea, this time with a decent teabag and lots of sugar to make up for the lack of milk. He carried the mug into the bedroom and placed it on the bedside table, then went back for the sandwich and a glass of water. He settled himself into the chair and began reading his book, glancing occasionally at the sleeping form in the bed.
After a particularly exciting bit – the first pirates had boarded the ship belonging to the second gang of pirates, taken them all hostage and raided their treasure and were about to make the captain walk the plank – the boy looked up to find the old man peering at him.
Good morning. I made you some tea. And a sandwich. From home. Hope you like Vegemite.
You been home? Good. I thought I remembered you sitting there half the night.
The whole night, actually. Only went home to have a shower.
Bloody hell, kiddo. What’ll your mum think?
The boy returned to his book. She didn’t even notice, he murmured.
Shit. The old man attempted to find some of the bluster he had felt the night before, some of his irritation at the boy refusing him his whisky and curtailing his bender and disallowing him from continuing to wallow in alcohol and self-pity. But the sheets were cool and fresh, the foul taste had all but gone from his mouth, his eyes were less gritty and the pounding in his head had dulled to a subtle ache. He found he couldn’t be bothered complaining.
The boy glanced up again, this time with a level gaze, and said, And watch your language.
The old man’s eyes fell; he stared at his trembling fingers picking at the threads of the blanket.
Thank you, he whispered.
The boy gave an almost imperceptible nod.
…
An hour later, when the boy returned from feeding the chooks, the old man was sitting up in bed, licking the last of the Vegemite from his lips and sipping at his cold tea.
Lots of worms in that weed patch, said the boy. Be good for vegies if we ever get around to planting any.
He waited a beat.
Want some fresh tea?
As well as the tea, he came back with a couple of aspirin and a bowl of fruit salad from a tin he’d found in the cupboard.
The old man ate in silence, sipped his tea in silence. The boy sat on the chair and read about pirates.
The old man took a deep breath, his shoulders shuddering with the effort.
The boy focused on one word on the page – swashbuckling – his eyes travelling over the letters. The wave of the s, the curve of the c, the straight lines of the l and h and b. The old-fashioned g like a pair of sideways spectacles, not at all like they taught it at school.
The old man started to mumble something, but the words floated in the air, incomplete.
He rubbed the heel of his hand across his eyes. The boy saw them shining. The quiet of the room hung heavy, disturbed by the occasional buzz of a beetle in the corner. The old man stared into the recesses of the room, lost in his thoughts. The boy traced the letters with his eyes. Any word began to seem pretty strange if you stared at it long enough.
A lawnmower started up a few houses away and the room filled with the smell of petrol and cut grass.
<
br /> I’m sorry you’re sad.
The old man turned to the boy’s steady gaze, his book propped open on his lap.
When my chick died, I got really sad. And angry. I smashed eggs and stuff.
The old man nodded in acknowledgement.
But you have to stop drinking now. Do you see? You have to stop. I don’t like it. I miss our chess games and my special afternoon tea and we haven’t even started planting the vegies yet. And the chooks miss you too. They’re all squawking and running around like they’ve lost something. That’s you. You’re lost. But I came in and I found you and now you have to stop and get better and get up and start being normal again.
The old man reached out and grasped the boy’s thin, brown fingers. He took in the boy’s earnest stare. He squeezed the boy’s hand and felt the small fingers squeeze back.
33
Took years before the last traces of printers’ ink faded from the creases round my fingernails. Replaced by chook poo and fertiliser. Dying art, printing. All done with computers now.
These days I’m amazed at the transformation everywhere. South Bank, the beach, all those manicured paths and well-planted gardens, the ferries coming and going at all hours. Couples strolling hand in hand, kids riding their bikes and scooters at breakneck speed. Mind you, I don’t move much from my own suburb and surrounds anymore. Don’t see the point. Any change happening further away than my own neighbourhood doesn’t affect me. Buildings being demolished, politicians breaking promises or changing sides, luxury apartment developments, riots and protests and people sitting in trees … none of it touches my day-to-day life. Now if the corner store puts up the price of bread by five cents, well, that affects me. Or if the taxi driver can’t speak English or doesn’t know the most straightforward route from here to Toowong, that affects me.
The Promise Seed Page 15