Gabriel destroyed that notion. ‘The wall’s got to go.’
‘It’s a work of art,’ protested Arnold. ‘We can’t sell it. Let it stay.’
‘Ella will hate it.’
Gabriel saw his father’s amused expression. ‘You think it’s funny, go take it up with her. You ought to see her yank people’s teeth out. Like she’s pulling nails out of planks. I’m telling you,’ he said, trying to scare his father, ‘that wall won’t stand a chance once she claps eyes on it.’
Arnold was, in a perverse way, intrigued by the ingenious lengths his son was prepared to go to keep his lie alive.
The wall was ploughed into the earth by a mini-bulldozer Arnold hired. It collapsed easily enough, it was half rotten. But as he buried the old telephone books Arnold thought of the painstaking work he had put into making it.
Bulldozing the wall made Arnold disgruntled. Though he had played his son off by pretending to believe in his story — and there was some satisfaction in the fact that Gabriel didn’t realise that the joke was on him — still Arnold felt anew the weight of betrayal and sadness. He’d give the world for a grandchild, however he would rather his son spoke the truth. He decided to give Gabriel one more chance to confess.
Gabriel was going through a number of old airline bags full of crusty fishing gear. Arnold’s silence unnerved him and, sensing what was about to come, he tried a diversion. ‘How come we never went fishing Dad?’ He was holding a large rusty hook which he examined thoughtfully as if it were of archaeological significance.
‘Where’s the girlfriend?’
‘Beat’s me. Drilling for teeth I guess.’ Gabriel tried to sound nonchalant.
‘When am I going to meet her?’
Gabriel played with the fishing hook, trying to figure out how to explain the turn of events to his father. He felt a stab of resentment that his father wouldn’t let up. Why would he think any woman would want to live here? Even with the junk disappearing, it was still a dump. He visualised a Real Estate ad: Character Home. Large Block, Renovator’s Dream. But even Gabriel didn’t want to live here for much longer. He had decided that once the junk was gone then so was he.
‘When can I see her?’ Arnold demanded.
‘I’ll ring her up and make an appointment. Hey?
‘Fine, make a time when I can meet her, if that’s what it takes.’
‘I was only joking about the appointment.’
‘It was a good joke. When?’
‘When? Err, I’ll ask her. Don’t have to sweat about it.’
Arnold peered into the bag of fishing tackle. He had run out of fire. Run out of fight. Not a difficult thing, considering how little was in him.
He bent to pick up a tangled line. The line bore an uncanny resemblance to his life, he thought pensively. His life was a tangle, not straight; he couldn’t catch or keep things, or even hook himself a bit of good luck. He’d had a nibble — a grandchild to bring life to his empty house. But it got away. Gently he put the tangled mess back into its bag.
*
Every night, tucked up in bed with Vivian, Ella studied her obstetrics book. She wanted to know the science of her pregnancy. She studied the book tirelessly, pausing every so often to show Vivian the medical illustrations, the progress of their baby.
Vivian would caress her cheek, warming up to ask her what had been on his mind for some time now. Finally he asked her, ‘How’re you going to manage with work and the baby?’
Ella looked at him with mild surprise. ‘Easy. I’ll do both. I’ll take maternity leave. Get a locum in. Okay?’
Vivian felt uneasy. Ella was an ambitious woman. Somehow he couldn’t picture her at home with a baby to look after.
*
The ventures and collections were disappearing rapidly. It was as if the house had been tipped on its side for the last remains to be drained out. To Gabriel’s astonishment he rediscovered rooms long forgotten. Extra bedrooms, an upstairs bathroom, a formal dining room and a sewing room! Two linen closets and a reading nook.
The ease with which he could move around surprised him. It was a large house, and not unattractive with its wooden floorboards and ornate plastered ceilings. With work it’d come up looking good.
He was standing in the centre of the enormous lounge room. He spun round with arms outstretched, feeling elated. There was only one fly in the ointment. He resolved to confess to Arnold when the time was right, soon.
He walked outside. It was a fine evening, warm and still. The light was fading but he could still see — and what he saw he couldn’t believe. There were patches of mown green grass interspersed with raked brown earth where once-ruined white goods had stood. When the white goods were removed they had revealed large brown sores in the overgrown grass. Arnold had immediately set about establishing a lawn.
Already in the brown dirt were tiny green shoots of grass. They formed a funny pattern, but comforting. His father had obviously tended it recently.
Gabriel lifted up his head. The first stars were there, dazzling in a bluish mauve firmament, while tiny crimson tinted clouds migrated slowly at the sky’s edge. He remained there for some time seeking out the brightest star; his older brother, Leif.
When he thought he’d found the right star he gazed at it and admired it, begged it to come down and take a look at the old house that had had a rebirth. He stayed for some time. This was a time for celebration, a communion between two brothers — one in the galaxy, the other on the ground — though the distance between them was negligible.
26
Once Penny appeared to be fully restored, Helen made gentle enquiries about her past. Penny’s replies were a source of great frustration: she resorted to signs; a shrug of the shoulders, a twisting of hair, grimaces, the folding and unfolding of arms and legs, a scratch here or there. The girl had a pronounced stutter; everything she uttered came out sounding like rattling cutlery.
Helen tried to be patient, but became despondent. Vivian, by way of comforting her said, ‘Give her time Mum.’
Helen gave her biros, pencils, a sharpener, an eraser and a stack of exercise books. ‘How about writing something?’ she suggested eagerly from across the kitchen table.
Vivian, who had stood by the doorway watching his mother, was mortified. ‘Mum!’ The game had gone too far.
Helen darted a look of annoyance at him.
‘Wwww … should … I … wr … wr … i … ite?’ Penny stuttered, her hands under the table, not daring to touch the writing equipment placed before her.
‘A book. You can write a book. You’re the writer.’
Helen’s certainty was disturbing. Penny looked unsure, but took a biro and one of the exercise books, and wrote a few words, much to Helen’s delight.
Vivian turned and started stomping down the stairs, as if trying to pound out a message for his deranged mother who ignored him while studying Penny’s message.
But Helen’s delight was short-lived. Penny had written: What shall I write about?
Helen was perplexed, having assumed that writers, unable to contain their ideas, spoke voluminously; great torrents of words tumbling over one another, carrying the listener away, drowning them in a sea of images and metaphors. That’s why they wrote — they had so much to say. She also considered them to be mysterious, troubled and misunderstood souls.
She stared intently at Penny, trying to identify a trait to tag her as a writer. There was nothing. What she had was a stutterer whose name was Penny. It all seemed too plain and mediocre and it irritated her. And what kind of parent would name a daughter Penny, she wondered. An accountant?
But Penny it was, and her stutter was here to stay, for now. Helen decided to make the best of it. ‘Oh, you writers are all the same.’
‘W … w … w …’ said Penny, and then with a great burst, out sprang, ‘We are?’
‘Definitely.’
Penny sat silently, not daring to speak. She loathed how words backed up in her mouth, and then escaped in
a shower of broken chips that sounded like a cold engine spluttering into life. Silence was better.
‘Now, I want you to sit there and think about the book you’d like to write. It’ll come to you and before you know it, you’ll be running those biros ragged.’
‘I … I … w … will?’
‘You will. Just make it up. Fiction. As long as it’s not romance or crime, or horror, or about cricket. Absolutely no cricket.’ Helen crossed her hands, ruling it out. ‘I like to think we have standards here at the Book Maze. Downstairs we have to sell rubbish. Upstairs we can be decent — no trash.’
Penny’s face was blank, a blackboard wiped clean, as though Helen had thoroughly scrubbed away any ideas the emergent writer might have had.
‘I know you’ve got a story to tell. It’s all up in that head of yours, and it’s waiting for you let it out, here on these pages.’ Helen pressed two fingers on the exercise books, as if feeling for a pulse.
Penny glanced doubtfully at the exercise books and then put a hand to her head, as if to see if there actually was a story up there. Her face brightened. She picked up the biro and wrote: I know what to write about.
Helen gave a yelp of delight. Penny quickly wrote again: It’s not a happy story.
Helen put her hand on Penny’s and, held hostage by her own romantic notions, said earnestly, ‘All great stories in English literature are sad and dark.’
Penny wrote: That’s interesting, just like life. Except my story isn’t great.
‘You’re not to judge. Let the reader decide.’
*
Losing had become Astrid’s holding pattern, with hardly a win to balance the books a little. The casino, her sanctuary, had turned sour. Even now as she sat at the blackjack table she felt like an alien.
The dealer dealt an ace, which on top of his ten, made twenty-one. The house had won. Again. Astrid’s chips were fast disappearing. And the harder she tried to win, the more she lost. She became reckless, betting on cards that two years ago she would have snubbed.
The dealer quickly slid a card across the green baize to her. It was a six. Not a good first card. Astrid knew she should pass but she bet with her second last five-dollar chip. Her next card was a ten. Sixteen. She could sit. Damn. No. She nodded her head for another card; it was an eight. Bust.
Astrid tried to smile. Smile away her misfortune. She left the casino to face the quiet back home.
*
Helen sat in the shade of the jacaranda at the cafe across the road from the bookshop, sipping her lemon squash. People sauntered in the midday heat. She looked up and down the street, admiring the bright green foliage of the jacarandas; the moving pattern of shade on the pavement awash with lilac-blue clusters of trumpet-shaped blossoms. She admired the cathedral-like effect the jacaranda trees gave the street.
Helen tried to feel peaceful, to believe that all her worries were at a safe distance across the street. But really she’d brought her troubles with her; they were highly portable. And now she fretted over each and every one of them.
She was concerned about Vivian and Ella. Admittedly, she’d never seen him happier, but Gabriel’s description of Ella as odd and mixed up nagged at her. As for Gabriel, it bothered her that apart from helping his father, he had no job, no girlfriend, and no plans for the future.
Her thoughts turned to Penny, and she ruminated over the wisdom of becoming her unofficial guardian, and of assembling her into a writer. But decided she’d done the right thing, despite Vivian’s protestations.
The real worry was Jim’s condemnation of her ethics. This charge worried her because it was true. The business deal had been unethical. Helen examined the bottom of her glass. If only she could rearrange the past. If only she had settled for less, gone for a stall in a market. She looked around her. If only her worries were as light and breezy as the streetscape before her.
27
To Gabriel’s way of thinking Vivian had been seeing Ella far too long without making any real progress. What was his brother farting around for? It was time to have it out with his younger brother. Something was going on.
Vivian was in the bathroom brushing his teeth when Gabriel walked in and gave him a not quite friendly shove. ‘Where you been hiding?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Vivian through a mouthful of froth.
‘Why’s your mobile always switched off, then?’
‘Cheaper to run.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Well, you’ve got me now,’ replied Vivian as he rinsed his mouth and wiped away the last of the toothpaste from his lips.
‘And how come you’re brushing your teeth in the middle of the day?’
‘Keeps me occupied,’ said Vivian as he grinned at the bathroom mirror.
Gabriel frowned; there was something about Vivian’s manner that had changed considerably.
‘Fill me in. What’s the score? I know Ella’s a pain, but are things moving along? The old man’s breathing down my neck.’
Vivian picked up a book he was reading from the top of the vanity unit. ‘Things are going well.’
‘Well?’ Gabriel shook his head in disbelief. ‘When you say well, what do you really mean?’
Vivian walked out of the bathroom. ‘Well,’ he shot back, heading towards the kitchen.
‘Well, what?’ cried Gabriel following him. Losing his patience, he grabbed the book Vivian was holding. Vivian made a lunge for it but his brother held it high, demanding an explanation. ‘How well when you say well?’
‘I’d say we’re getting along very well.’
‘You and Ella? Very well? Sure you got the right bird?’
‘Yes,’ answered Vivian, eyeing his book nervously.
Gabriel took a quick look at the book and stood perplexed. ‘You’re reading a book called Raising Babies. What gives?’
‘Join the dots. I told you, Ella and I are getting along very well.’
‘The Ella I know and the words “very well” don’t go together.’
Vivian wrapped his arms around his torso as he thought how best to break it to Gabriel. He deliberately crafted his words with enough laconic smugness to drive Gabriel into frenzy. ‘All she needed was the … right man to bring out the “very well” in her.’
Gabriel’s irritation rocketed. Keep calm, he told himself as he glared at his brother. ‘So, you’ve talked her round? Great. Took you long enough.’ He handed the book back. ‘As long as it makes the old man happy eh? Although it’s me making the big sacrifice here — lamb to the slaughter. Good job the army brainwashed me for this sort of stuff.’
‘Don’t give me your war-hero shit.’
‘I saw combat.’
‘Right. When you knocked some guy out in a bar one night.’
‘Are you jealous of me, or something, little brother?
‘I’ll go for the … or something, big brother. You really can just crap on.’
The brothers looked at each other for signs. Signs they weren’t quite sure of. They laughed nervously.
The next move was Gabriel’s. ‘Okay, what really is the score with Ella? Apart from things going very well?’
‘She’s pregnant.’ Vivian’s tone held a degree of self-pride.
‘Great,’ Gabriel chortled. ‘Bloody marvel—’ He stopped. ‘Pregnant! How?’
‘I believe you’re looking at the father.’
‘Hang on, hang on, you’ve gone too far. I know we wanted a baby, but that was my job. Not yours!’
‘Well then, I’ve saved you the hassle. You’ve been trumped, big brother.’
Gabriel should have felt relieved and happy, but he didn’t. He felt outsmarted and humiliated. Vivian had won Ella. Something Gabriel had never managed. Now he understood the tooth brushing, the book, all the changes in Vivian. He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe this. You’ve only known her … how long?’
‘Three months.’
‘This is weird.’
‘You’re the architect.’
‘Well,
why couldn’t you stick to the plan? Does Mum know? Dad?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘How the hell did it happen?’ Gabriel spat.
‘We made love.’
‘You don’t make love with Ella.’
‘I did.’
‘How far gone is she?’
‘Ten weeks.’
Gabriel was too annoyed to speak.
‘We’re getting married.’
‘You fucking bastard,’ Gabriel shouted with a spray of spittle.
Vivian smiled. ‘I guess that’s one way of putting it.’
‘You won’t be able to handle her. You don’t know what she’s like. She’ll eat you alive.’
Vivian was grinning. ‘I was hoping you’d be best man at the wedding.’
Gabriel swung his fist at his brother and missed. Vivian, having anticipated just such a response, had ducked. Infuriated, Gabriel swung again, but Vivian grabbed his brother around the waist, and danced him around the flat, banging into furniture, falling against the walls, rolling on the floor until, exhausted, they collapsed, nursing their injuries and swapping obscenities.
Later, back at his father’s house alone and tending his minor injuries, Gabriel focused his thoughts on the turn of events. Yes, he reflected, he was the architect. But deep down, when he’d first hatched the plan, he’d never imagined it would work; never dreamed of the transformation in his father and certainly never considered Vivian going along with his silly proposal. Or Ella falling for Vivian. His plan had backfired horribly. He’d inadvertently brought Ella and Vivian together. Vivian, ‘the silent number’, had won her. He had bad-mouthed Ella, and now he remembered how unbearable the pain of losing her had been.
28
Jim reeled into to the bookshop, his words booming through the building. ‘Gotta recommendation for a broken heart?’
Customers in the maze stopped scratching their way through books and stood bolt upright like meerkats and listened, wide-eyed and attentive. Those outside the maze turned their heads briefly to catch a glimpse of the performance, and then turning back they kept up the pretence of looking at the books in their hands while listening intently.
The Bookshop on Jacaranda Street Page 17
