I do it for you.
For me?
Yeah, for you. They say playing chess and stuff, doing crosswords and Sudoku, all that stuff, they say it keeps your mind healthy, keeps your brain working right. Keeps the Alzheimer’s away.
The old man was a good shot. The cushion got the boy directly on his forehead.
You cheeky sod. I’ll give you Alzheimer’s. He threw another cushion. The boy ducked. He scooped the ice cubes from his glass, crawled commando-style across the floor, then lunged at the old man, stuffing two ice cubes down his shorts and rubbing another up and down one of the old man’s legs. He squealed as half a glass of iced water was dumped on his head and dripped onto the carpet.
Hey! Don’t think I’m cleaning that up.
The old man lay back in his seat with a sigh. Doesn’t matter. In this heat, it’ll evaporate before you know it.
And sure enough, as the boy watched, the puddle on the carpet shrank, the edges fading to the same grey, until you could never have said where the water had fallen, or even if it had fallen at all.
39
I headed on down to the Village today. I’d run out of canned soup and bread and there weren’t any teabags left either. And the boy goes through my biscuits like there’s no tomorrow. But the real reason I made the effort wasn’t the food. Thought I might find the boy a Christmas present.
At my age braving the shops is quite a feat. By the time I get moving, get dressed (easier said than done with the arthritis in these hands), and wait for the taxi to show up, it’s damn near lunchtime as it is. I get the driver to drop me right outside the doors. I could use the crossing but I have no desire to be scraped off the road with a shovel, so I avoid the traffic as much as possible, especially the lead-foots with letter Ls and Ps displayed. Downright dangerous, these learner drivers. So I lever myself out of the cab and make my way to the lift, which must be the slowest in Brisbane. Still, I don’t mind having a gander through the glass to see what’s going on in the world. It would be quicker to ride on the travellator but I don’t trust myself to get on one end or off the other without causing myself an injury. Getting older seems to consist mainly of keeping watch over your body to make sure it stays in one piece.
The Christmas crowds today didn’t help. All over the Village I could barely see for the glare of tinsel and gaudy baubles hanging off every available surface.
Bit overdone, isn’t it? I said to the girl behind the counter at David Jones. She waved her hand in the air like she was shooing a fly.
Been up since October, she said. You wait. Soon as Christmas’s over, we’ll have hearts and flowers everywhere and before you know it there’ll be hot cross buns for sale down at Coles.
She was a nice enough kid, bit heavy on the make-up though. Bit overdone herself, if you know what I mean, not that I said that to her. At least she’s not like most of the kids who work there. Some of them are young enough to have been born this century, and they seem to equate age with infirmity. I may be a touch deaf and a bit slow but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost all my marbles.
I told her I wanted a present for a ten-year-old boy. She assumed it was my grandson and I didn’t disabuse her of the notion. She showed me books and board games and weapons, a lot of weapons. They had a whole arsenal of shotguns and pistols and water guns and missiles and darts. Guns with scopes and realistic sound effects. I decided against the weapons. Figured the kid gets enough of that at home. Eventually I settled on a computer gadget that he can attach to his bike to record distance and speed and such. Wasn’t too expensive and seems like something he might like. I hope so anyway.
I’m thinking I might invite him out somewhere on Christmas Day. I’m at a loose end myself, what with Pete gone, and the kid didn’t sound too excited at the prospect of a pub lunch with his mum and her latest squeeze – called Snake, if you can believe it. When I asked him why, first off he clammed up and wouldn’t say, and I thought it certainly doesn’t sound like a term of endearment now, does it. But then he mumbled something about the fellow having a tattoo of a snake. Can’t say I’ve noticed myself, but then my eyesight’s not the best. Grubby things, tatts. Seem like a good idea at the time, and then one day you wake up at sixty and realise you’ve got saggy skin covered with bad drawings of skulls and hearts and the names of ex-girlfriends.
Anyway, the guy’s been around a lot lately, so much so that the other day I asked the kid whether he was his father. I thought maybe he’d reappeared on the scene.
Who, that dickhead? he said.
Oi, watch your language.
Well he is; he’s a complete bastard. No way is he my dad. Why would you even think that?
All right, all right, don’t get on your high horse. I only wondered, that’s all.
He glared at me like he wanted to say something but couldn’t think of an adequate response.
I’m thinking I might take him to the beach. We could get a train to Welly Point or Cleveland, or maybe even a bus to Bribie Island. I haven’t been to the beach for ages. And when I asked the boy, he said the only time he’d ever been was when he was about four, and all he remembered was the burning sand on his feet and the ice-cream his mum bought him and how it dripped all down his arm.
Mind you, it’d be pretty hot, whichever beach we went to. I think I’ve got a big old umbrella in the shed; we could take that. And hats. We could get fish and chips, a cold beer for me and a soft drink for the kid. It’d be a real adventure. Yeah, I think that might be just the thing. Christmas Day at the beach. ’Course I don’t even know if the kid can swim. I’d have to be careful about that, ’cause Lord knows I’m in no condition to charge in and save him if he gets into trouble. But that’s what they have lifesavers for, isn’t it. If they work Christmas Day. I wonder if they work Christmas Day? Maybe the ones without little kids or much family volunteer for it. Wouldn’t be much chop, would it, spending Christmas Day scanning the horizon for drowning tourists, half of whom are probably drunk on Christmas cheer. But then I s’pose if you saved someone, that’d be a good feeling; that’d be a pretty good Christmas present, wouldn’t it. Now I’m rambling. Anyway, a day at the beach. That sounds like just the ticket.
40
The boy couldn’t believe it. The beach! He was going to the beach! He hadn’t been to the beach – any beach – since he was four years old. The old man had it all planned out. They would take a bus into the city, then the train to Caboolture, then another bus to Bribie. An island! Apparently there was a huge bridge linking the mainland to the island. Then they could decide to go to the calm side, with shallow water and a picnic area, or the surf side, with real waves. And they’d get fish and chips and sit right there on the sand and eat.
Now all he had to do was persuade his mother.
He waited until she was home from work. He had cooked up some two-minute noodles and thrown in some tins of tuna, corn and peas. When she arrived, he made her close her eyes and go straight to her bedroom and change. By the time she emerged, he had cleared the table of everything except cutlery, salt and pepper, and two clean glasses filled with iced tea. He had plated up the meal – it was colourful and appetising. He pulled out her chair like he’d seen them do on the movies, and placed a clean tea towel on her lap with a flourish.
Wow! This is amazing! Did you do all this yourself? It smells delicious. Thanks, love.
The boy sat too, and they ate in silence for several minutes.
Mum.
Yeah?
It’s nearly Christmas.
I know. How much school have you got left?
This is the last week.
Huh. So how long ’til Christmas then?
About two weeks.
She lifted her glass and peered at him over the rim. Yeah, well don’t be expecting too much this year. I’m still paying off that bloody bike.
No, I’m not! I mean, the bike was a great present.
I don’t need more presents.
Good. Well, so long as you’re not expecting anything. Haven’t had much work this month, you know. Still, we’ll have a good time down at the pub, hey? Slap-up lunch they do. Remember last year? Turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas pud for dessert.
The boy remembered the pudding. He remembered his mum had tipped half a glass of brandy over it and the man who was with them had set it aflame with his cigarette lighter and the smoke alarms had gone off. He remembered her getting pissed in the bar afterwards and the security guard manhandling her out at closing time, threatening to call the police if she didn’t leave quietly. He remembered the long walk home, the boyfriend swearing blue murder as he tried to half-carry the boy’s mum, while she kept stopping along the way, twice to vomit into somebody’s flowerbed, and several more times to collapse, crying, into the dirt, mumbling words that the boy didn’t understand and that the boyfriend clearly didn’t care to hear.
Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.
He placed his fork beside his plate and spoke steadily.
I was wondering if you’d mind if I didn’t come with you this time, to the pub I mean.
His mum continued to shovel noodles into her mouth, waving her fork around as she spoke.
What do you mean? You love that Christmas lunch! We do it every year! What are you gonna do, sit at home by yourself? No, no way. You’re coming. The three of us are going together. It’ll be fun. A real family outing.
The boy picked up his fork and they ate in silence again.
Then he had an idea.
It’s just that, I thought you two might want to go out together, you know, just the two of you. For something special. For Christmas.
Oh, love. His mum reached across the table and stroked his hand. That is so sweet. Really thoughtful. But I couldn’t leave you alone at Christmas. What sort of a mother would that make me, hey? No, we’ll all go together. We don’t do enough things together. And besides, he’s always saying he wants to do more stuff with you. He likes you, you know.
Well actually, Mum, I wasn’t thinking I’d be alone. I was thinking I might do something. With someone else.
His mother’s smile faded from the bottom up – first her mouth turned down at the corners and then her eyes grew hard. She dabbed her mouth with the tea towel.
Someone else? What would you do with someone else?
Um … maybe … go to the beach?
She emitted a short, sharp laugh. Go to the beach? On Christmas Day? Sit in the hot sun, sand everywhere. She shuddered. Who on earth would want to take you to the beach on Christmas Day?
The man next door. He’s already asked me. He says we can get a bus to Bribie and eat fish and chips and go for a swim. He said he’ll take really good care of me and you don’t need to worry. I don’t even need to bring any money. He said he’ll pay and everything.
His mother continued to stare at him in silence.
The man next door? she said finally. You want to spend Christmas Day with the old guy next door. It was more of a statement than a question. You’d rather spend Christmas Day with a complete stranger than with your own mother? Her voice was escalating now, getting louder with each word. You selfish little shit. And here’s me thinking you wanted me and Snake to have a romantic day and all the time you want to go off with some old pervert.
He’s not a pervert, the boy murmured.
What?
I said he’s not a pervert. He’s nice. He just … he’s all alone, and he hasn’t been to the beach for years, and neither have I … and he thought it might be nice if …
His mother continued to stare coldly at him.
Well, I want you to come to the pub. With us. Her voice was deliberate and she enunciated each word with care. With Snake and me.
The boy hesitated, staring into his noodles. He looked up and met his mother’s steely gaze.
I don’t want to go. I want to go to the beach.
You’re coming with us, to the pub.
No, I don’t want to. I’m going to the beach. And you can’t stop me, he added.
His mother was so still. Only her nostrils quivered. Suddenly she pushed her chair back and overturned the remainder of her meal. The dish clattered to the floor. Bits of corn and straggly noodles stuck to the cupboard doors. The boy sat fixed to his chair. His mother gripped his chin in her hand so hard that he could feel the inside of his cheeks cutting against his teeth. He closed his eyes against the pain but didn’t try to pull away. Her face was close enough that he could smell tuna on her breath. Drops of spittle flew onto his nose as she shouted.
You’re an ungrateful little shit! I do everything for you. I work my fingers to the bone for you, so you’ve got somewhere nice to live and food to eat and a fucking bike to ride around on. And what do I get in return? Nothing. No fucking respect. Snake treats you like his own son and what does he get? Nothing.
She pushed his head, hard, against the back of the chair.
Fine then. Fine. Go to the beach. Go and spend Christmas with some old pervert who you don’t even know, instead of with your own mother who loves you and cares for you and does everything for you. See if I care.
She marched off towards her room.
But don’t come crying to me when Christmas is finished and all you’ve got to show for it is sunburn and sand up your bum crack.
She paused at the doorway. And clean up that mess! I don’t even like fucking noodles.
She slammed the door so hard that a picture fell off the wall.
41
Only a week to go ’til Christmas. Only a week ’til our big beach adventure. I don’t know who’s more excited, me or the boy. I haven’t looked forward to an outing this much in ages. I’ve got the route all planned out, and what we’ll take and what we’ll eat and where we’ll sit and swim and maybe even walk a little, as long as these old legs hold out.
I told the boy I’d like to go over and speak to his mum, make sure it was all square with her, but he said she was fine about him going and I wasn’t to worry. When I tried to insist, he got all angry and practically forbid me to go anywhere near his mother. Well, of course I told him that only made me more worried that he hadn’t asked her permission at all, hadn’t even spoken to her about it. And how would that seem then? Me taking off with the kid and her not knowing where we’d gone? He changed his tune then, went from angry to sad and quiet-like. He told me that his mum hadn’t wanted him to go although she’d agreed in the end, but she wasn’t happy about it. I said, Maybe we shouldn’t go then, and you should’ve seen the kid’s face. He was about ready to burst into tears. He said he’d never wanted anything as much as this trip to the beach, and his mum was only pissed off ’cause he wouldn’t traipse along with her and Boy Wonder to their shitty boring lunch (Oi, I said, watch your language), and she didn’t even care about him and so what if he missed their stupid lunch, there would be dozens more stupid lunches but only one trip to the beach, this one, and he really wanted to go and if I liked him at all I would just shut up about his mother and take him to the beach. Well. I was so surprised by that outburst that I didn’t even say oi, watch your language again. That kid hardly strings two words together, let alone a monologue like that. But I’ll say this for him: when he feels strongly about something, he says so. In any event, I figured he truly wants this trip. His speech had that whole frustrated tone to it – I remember feeling that way myself at his age, like no-one would listen to me. And I decided, maybe it’s time someone did. Start listening, that is. So it’s off to the beach we go.
42
The middle of each day was a strange time, still and hot. The chickens too hot to squawk, the dogs spread out in the dust. Mothers with babies sprawled under ceiling fans for sticky afternoon naps. Children sat indoors playing board games or watching TV, sniping at each other and eating chocolate that melted in their hands. The
turgid air captured sounds and held them a moment too long. As the afternoon wore on, the adults pressed themselves to move, to get up and do something before the day was gone, to bring in the washing or at least pack the tools away. It was too hot to cook; salads and cold meat would do. The crickets would start up at the first sign of the cooling air; the cats’ whiskers quivered with every suggestion of a breeze, and they stretched and licked their paws and found the energy to purr. The birds found their voices – the kookaburras cackled at the foolishness of the heat, of the passing of another day. As the heat dissipated, the smells returned: the sweetness of cut grass, smoke drifting from a burn-off over the hills, sausages spitting on somebody’s barbecue.
The boy passed these days of early summer in a drowsy funk of inactivity. The chickens were fed, though – he threw handfuls of grain on the ground and the hens strolled over and pecked desultorily before retreating to the shade – and the garden was watered. Only in the late afternoon, cautioned the old man, or the very early morning, or else the water would burn the leaves, and seep into the soil without leaving a trace. So, late in the afternoons the boy would hose the garden and himself in equal measure, occasionally directing a cold spray towards the old man, who complained and laughed and batted the water away with his hat. He weeded too, with the evening encroaching and the soil moist and pliable.
Better get onto those weeds, the old man said. They’re growing like weeds in there. He chuckled at his own joke.
It was true. They sprang up overnight: wispy fronds of asparagus fern, curling vines sprouting from invisible seeds, dainty leaves on stalks decorated with miniature flowers.
Mind the beans, son, don’t pull them out. And the coriander, don’t you step on those coriander seedlings. They’re popping up everywhere.
The Promise Seed Page 18