Out of Time

by Steve Hawke

  ‘Am I making any sense?’

  ‘More than you realise,’ is Eric’s reply.

  She places her palms on the kitchen’s granite benchtop, fingers splayed. Leans in, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She is trying to understand where that came from, trying to retrieve the thrill of that flutter in her chest.

  Another breath. A lurch. A shift within. In her mind’s eye there is a flash of the graven grouse, its head turned toward her, cocked like a pigeon’s.

  A warm shiver as she eases away from the bench.

  A soft smile of acknowledgement and thanks.

  She will hold this close while she absorbs and reflects.

  She gets the wine from the pantry and goes to join the fellers.

  THIRD SUNDAY

  Over the next bottle, out on the back verandah, Eric asks Joe if he’s heard anything back from the cops yet, then to Anne, ‘I presume you’ve heard the story?’

  ‘Yeah, poor bugger,’ she says softly, putting a hand on Joe’s forearm.

  ‘Nah,’ Joe answers. ‘I can see a Kafka maze looming mate. The death industry. Between coppers and coroners and undertakers, I reckon there’s a fair chance James’ll get christened before poor old Betty gets cremated.’

  He expounds his narrative of the wise, courageous and thoughtful death, and they both concur quietly, keeping their reservations to themselves.

  ‘I’m going out to see George tomorrow,’ he tells Eric. ‘Betty told me I didn’t need to, but … you know. I’m his guardian now, and I don’t want the Wanslea crew to start thinking there’s noone gives a toss about him. Looks like my second Saturday with the Prof is going to morph into third Sunday with George.’

  He laughs bleakly as he tops up their glasses.

  ‘It makes the Prof’s dying look good.’ The vehemence in his words surprises himself almost as much as Anne and Eric. ‘And how long is it going to take?! A man with no memory, no self-awareness, no connection to those who love him. What the hell is he but a shell? I know, absolutely and deep in my guts, that that is not for me.’

  No-one has much left to say after that. Eric’s eyes are drooping after no sleep last night and tonight’s marathon, and he gratefully accepts Anne’s offer of a bed for the night. Last glasses are drained. Joe sits brooding whilst Anne organises Eric’s bed in Claire’s old room.

  ‘Poor bloody Eric,’ she murmurs when they are in bed.

  ‘Indeed. The dangers of internet dating hey.’

  ‘Did I freak you out with that rave about going bush?’

  ‘Little bit.’

  ‘You freaked me out with that rant about George, so we’re square.’

  ‘Square.’

  They lean into each other.

  ‘We’re lucky,’ she whispers. ‘You and me.’

  She runs a finger gently down his chest, circles his belly button.

  July 2004

  POP GOES THE WEASEL

  ‘Half a pound of tuppenny rice

  Half a pound of treacle

  That’s the way the money goes

  Pop goes the weasel’

  Joe murmurs the verse a second time, mesmerised by the featherish rise and fall of James’ tiny chest in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

  It is the first time he’s been alone with his grandson, and it requires all his willpower to stop himself from scooping up the babe to cradle close.

  A memory of this same feeling with Claire. Anne would fall into bed after finally nursing her off to sleep, and he would come and gaze upon her perfect beauty. But there is no tinge of guilt now for his own inadequacies as a parent, just a delirious wonder at this little creature who is his own creation one step removed.

  He bends and reaches, thinking to stroke that lock of blond hair back off James’ forehead, but pauses, and lets his hand hover, feeling the babe’s warmth and inhaling that infant smell. Decides to leave the lock alone. ‘Sleep well young feller.’

  He floats down the stairs, emerging into the living room with a dreamy smile on his face, still humming ‘Pop Goes The Weasel’, which draws cackles of laughter from Anne and Claire.

  ‘That’s enough you two! A man’s allowed to sing isn’t he?’

  ‘Nursery rhymes, Grandad?’ Anne asks with a lift of an eyebrow and a hand thump on the sofa commanding him to join her. He plonks himself down. ‘I seem to remember a certain little girl being rather fond of my repertoire. “Sing it again Daddy,”’ he pipes in a mock child voice.

  ‘If you say so,’ Claire grins.

  ‘Tell me daughter, what do I have to do if I agree to come to this baptism?’

  ‘Behave yourself. And dress half decently … Any chance I can talk you into wearing a tie?’

  ‘You sound like your mum before the Prof’s funeral. I’ve got my principles you know.’

  The elbow in his ribs from Anne has a bit of force to it.

  ‘He’s stirring, Claire. Don’t indulge him.’

  For five blissful days they have Claire and James in the house, until she has to move over to the in-laws when Geoffrey flies down from Karratha at the end of the week. Unfortunately Joe can afford only the one day off, so it is mostly these evening cradlings and croonings. But even watching his grandson sleep is deeply satisfying.

  Joe is feeling on top of things. It has been frantic since JKH was awarded the tender. Frantic but good. There is a deadline looming for completion of the earthworks and the laying of the foundation stone that has everyone jumping. But they are hitting all the benchmarks, and the buzz around Perth’s small architectural community is growing.

  He is starting to describe the lost car affair to himself as a misunderstanding rather than a lie now. Besides, there haven’t been any more incidents or episodes. That debacle with the builder on the last reno was just a miscommunication, not a blank spot, he tells himself. Mind you, he’s glad that job’s finished and he won’t have to deal with the guy again; he was furious.

  Confirmation of arrangements for this visit and the christening had provided another justification for putting off talking to Anne, and another couple of months’ grace. It would spoil everything if Claire and Anne were fussing and worrying and analysing his state of health and state of mind, he’d told himself; he just wanted to enjoy the week with James. And once again, he’d immediately felt lighter and less troubled with the decision made.

  ‘Good call Joe,’ he murmurs, as he stands there by the cot on James’ last night in the house.

  SRI LANKA CALLING

  The moment he is through the front door Joe loosens his tie and throws it over the back of his recliner, quickly followed by his jacket. Anne and Eric follow him in, and the three of them stand there, all with eyebrows raised. None of them has been to a ceremony quite like it before, with the religion so fervent and full on.

  ‘I thought young James Geoffrey Paterson looked rather splendid in that gown.’ Eric chuckles. ‘What was the story? It was the same one as Geoffrey and his father both had?’

  Anne’s got the giggles too. ‘I thought he looked a bit girly. Does that sound terrible?’

  Joe harrumphs. ‘He looked unnatural, that’s what. Dressing babies up like dolls! Drinks?’

  Eric demurs. ‘I’ve got to get to the airport.’

  ‘You’re not going anywhere are you?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Meeting someone.’

  They both look at him, waiting for more. Eric realises he is going to have to explain now. He seems reluctant, almost embarrassed.

  ‘He’s an architect. Lives in Melbourne. He’s on his way home from Sri Lanka, and he’s agreed to break his flight here to brief me.’

  ‘Brief? What’s this about?’ Joe sounds offended that he doesn’t know what’s going on.

  ‘He’s been working on an aid project there, rebuilding from the tsunami.’

  ‘And what’s this got to do with you?’

  ‘Shut up Joe. Let him talk.’

  ‘He’s got a family crisis back in Melbourne. He has to pull out, and fr
om what I gather, the whole project’s at make or break point. Housing for hundreds of homeless families.’ Now his excitement is starting to show through, despite himself. ‘It’s like fate. I only contacted International Volunteers a couple of weeks ago, just sounding them out, you know. And then this happened.

  ‘They haven’t got any other architects on their books. If this meeting goes well they want me over there within a week. They’re fast-tracking all the usual screening and induction stuff. It feels like it’s meant to be.’

  ‘More like half-baked by the sound of it,’ is Joe’s response.

  ‘Bullshit Joe. IV are solid as a rock. Rigorous project criteria. Host government backing. Host community backing. All that.’

  ‘I know who they are. Why the bloody secrecy though?’

  ‘Geez mate, back off. The meeting only got confirmed this morning. It’s all happening at a rate of knots. They’ve just got an emergency on their hands, and serendipity intervened. I think it’s going to be perfect for me.’

  ‘Well I reckon it sounds fantastic,’ Anne offers. ‘But what brought the whole thing on? Going to IV?’

  ‘You, Anne. That rave of yours about passion and making your time count got under my skin. And after all, what’s to hold me here?’

  Joe almost says ‘your mates’, but manages to bite his tongue.

  ‘When do you have to decide by?’ Anne wants to know.

  ‘They want an answer tomorrow.’

  Joe can’t help himself. ‘Bugger me dead.’

  Eric ignores him. ‘I’ve already put in for long service leave. Did it today before I came round to pick you up. And if they say no, well fuck ’em, I might just pull the pin.’

  ‘I thought you were acting a bit weird at the church. Sitting on secrets making you jumpy hey.’

  ‘Joe!’ Anne is getting cranky at him. ‘Eric, if there’s anything we can do, anything at all, let us know.’

  ‘Thanks Anne. I’ll give you a bell. See you.’ He gives Joe a headshake as he leaves, clearly disappointed in his friend’s reaction.

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ She turns on him when they are on their own. ‘It’s fantastic. I haven’t heard Eric sound so positive about anything since Lil left.’

  ‘I have. After the first date with Carol. And look how that ended. Running off to save the third world. Bah!’

  ‘You are unbelievable! Don’t you remember when we came back from Sydney with our tails between our legs. You were talking about exactly the same thing.’

  ‘I thought about it, looked into it, and made a rational decision not to. I didn’t race off on the spur of the moment like this, did I?’

  She laughs disbelievingly. ‘You were just as gung-ho then as your mate is now. It was me that had to bring you back down to earth with a few facts. As in I did have a job, and our daughter was starting school.’

  He can feel the hole he’s dug for himself getting larger by the moment, and says defensively, ‘It wasn’t quite like that.’

  But she’s not listening to that tripe. ‘Eric’s got none of those ties to hold him here.’

  ‘It’s so bloody sudden though. And he didn’t even talk to us about it.’

  ‘Probably just as well, given the way you’re carrying on. Maybe he saw it coming.’ She gives him a sharp look. ‘This isn’t because you’re worried about losing your drinking buddy is it?’

  ‘That would be one consequence.’

  ‘Oh, my, god! Listen to me Joe. If Eric runs with this, you’re going to back him all the way. Ok? Otherwise, I’m going to be really, really unimpressed.’

  She manoeuvres to catch his reluctant eye, holding it, until he makes a face, and manages a rueful smile.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. You’re hard bloody work sometimes Joe Warton. Like today. All that harrumphing and keeping Claire on tenterhooks, and you behaved like an angel.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I enjoyed it.’

  ‘Good god. If Eric does take off on us, I’m going to be stuck with you more than ever.’

  ‘Don’t think you’ll pass muster as a drinking buddy though.’

  That gets a laugh. They are out the other side again.

  She gives him the friendly finger as she heads for the kitchen. ‘Fuck you too.’

  Joe is not proud of himself in the light of the new day. And is rather at a loss when he tries to explain himself to himself. He thinks he might be getting less adept at handling surprises, the twists and turns of life. But did he really have to be such a curmudgeon to his best mate? Maybe Anne’s analysis was close to the mark: he intuited the looming loss before he realised and assimilated it, and lashed out.

  He apologises to Eric, and their farewell embrace at the airport is heartfelt, and just a little tearful on both sides.

  He cannot get used to the empty chair at the crib table.

  May 2005

  THE QUEASE

  ‘Are you sure you’re up for this?’ Anne asks.

  ‘It feels right.’

  She does that thing. The feather kiss in the hollow between neck and collarbone. A fingertip down the centreline of his face. But there is a question lurking behind the smile she puts in her eyes. A doubt?

  He feels the Judas quease as he strokes her cheek. ‘Enjoy the conference.’

  She gives him a mock growl as she gets into her car. She’s been trying to get off the organising committee for the annual English Teachers Association conference for five years now, but they won’t let her. Normal school today, then the conference all weekend.

  ‘Be kind to yourself my man.’

  She blows a kiss. Her parting words are almost lost as the window closes and she starts the engine.

  ‘You go getting maudlin and I’ll tell Eric.’

  BOTTOMS UP #2

  Joe throttles the outboard down and puts the dinghy into a tight, slow circle. The alignment is imprinted like an ancestral memory, but he double-checks. Red rock beneath the low point of the saddle in the dunes one way. The pink shed coming into line with the third power pole the other. He drops anchor. Uncle George’s best whiting spot.

  He hits play and turns the volume to full. Even so, the vastness of the sea off the Dongara coast and the offshore breeze combine to swallow Sinatra singing ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’. Joe adds his voice to Frank’s as he fumbles with the pair of casks, preparing to scatter their contents.

  The frisson that went through the chapel when George joined in on the second line of the song! By the end of the verse his baritone had found its range and was matching Sinatra phrase for phrase.

  Joe squeezed Anne’s hand. They’d argued about bringing him. Joe couldn’t see the point. Didn’t want George exposed, embarrassed. What would he get out of it anyway? Anne had simply said, ‘How can you imagine burying Betty without him there?’

  Joe put his other hand on George’s knee as the old man belted out the next verse of the song.

  Someone somewhere pressed a button. George and Frankie sung Betty away with a flourish as her coffin sank down into the floor. There was a moment of silence as the loudspeakers cut out, a beat, then off George went again, a capella. But he stopped suddenly, halfway through a line, threw Joe’s hand off, and started picking at the blanket covering his legs, and loudly sucking his gums.

  The casks are just too large to hold each comfortably in a hand. It’s an awkward juggle. An unexpected wavelet almost causes Joe to drop George into the ocean, but as he’d hoped the two sets of ashes mingle in the breeze before they settle on the water’s surface then dissolve into the ocean.

  He baits up. They’d be cranky if he didn’t.

  There is a memory of Uncle George whistling ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ as the two of them fished this very spot, many moons ago. But he can’t be sure whether or not it’s real.

  The whiting seems to be jumping onto the line, but even as he gives thanks for the bounty, the quease nibbles and gnaws at his conscience. He pushes it aside momentarily, with an effort of will and
a swinging of arms as he raises the anchor. He opens the throttle to full. The motor screams as he roars towards Africa, the nose of the dinghy bucking wildly. The empty casks bounce around at his feet as the wind tears at his hair, winding it into salty knots, and his cheeks billow in the wind. But he can’t blow away the shards of the day. The quease. The Judas quease lurks.

  Later. Later. I’ll get to you, he pleads. Just give me these moments.

  The lowering sun registers. He eases the throttle down, swings the dinghy round, and is momentarily panicked when he realises how far off shore he is. He has to peer into the murk of the dimming eastern light to find the line of sight to the shack.

  His shack now. But he’ll never think of it that way.

  Three plates of whiting fillets and salad. He twists the Emu longneck with a waiter’s flourish as he empties it into the third glass and places one by each plate. He seats himself at the verandah table, pauses for a few moments to register the pulse of the waves beyond the dunes and the scent of the peppermint trees, then raises his glass in a wordless toast. He has made no mention to Anne of this ritual he has planned; he classes this as a private fancy rather than another deception.

  But what am I toasting?

  Relief?

  After Betty’s funeral he tried taking Claire’s old boom box on his Wanslea visits, and playing Sinatra CDs. It got a couple of the old girls on the ward interested; one of them insisted he dance with her. But George didn’t sing again.

  It was barely three months after the funeral that ‘the old man’s friend’ came calling at Wanslea. Pneumonia took George and two others at the home in the space of a month. His passing was mercifully brief; Joe’s vigil did not last the whole night.