The Origin of Me

by Bernard Gallate

  The mere use of the word ‘camphorous’ had me dry-retching with memories of Pop Locke displayed in his coffin, Nigel Lethbridge’s jacket and the hedges of The Labyrinth. I felt a sympathetic burning on my tail, just like the time I applied too much Dencorub Extra Strength Heat Gel® to my glutes and accidentally hit the spot in the middle. Any thought of ever returning to see Dr Finster completely evaporated.

  On Thursday afternoon, our final day of school before the Easter break, my free period was commandeered by Mr Jespersen for garbage patrol induction. He issued me with a high-vis vest emblazoned with the word TRASH, just in case any other students were wondering who I was, along with a yellow plastic sack and a pincer-pole so I didn’t have to bend over or handle the garbage – beneficial for both posture and hygiene. I pincered 192 items, including thirty-three cigarette butts and twelve dried-up turds, despite the fact dogs aren’t allowed to smoke on school grounds.

  As I was finishing up, >PLINK!< a text arrived.

  Isa:

  Hey Bin Boy! Nice vest. You missed a Twisties packet.

  Me:

  How do you know?

  Isa:

  I can see you from the drama studio. Turn around.

  I turned and saw Isa waving from a third-floor window of New Block.

  Isa:

  Meet me at International Velvet at 4. I’ve got an idea.

  As soon as we sat down with our coffees, Isa grilled me on the goons’ persecution of Bert and the extent of Barnsdale’s involvement.

  ‘Whatever part he played, it’s not right,’ she said. ‘I believe in the process of justice, and they should all be made accountable.’

  ‘It’s too late. They’ve won.’

  ‘Maybe so. But there’s still a way we can help Bert out. You know how Terri’s an antiques and vintage dealer? She might be interested in helping sell his stuff if he has things worth selling. He has to live somewhere, and it’ll be more bearable if he has a bit of money. Why don’t you take me down to meet him?’

  We walked down to Bert’s lane and I showed her the Paradigm sign.

  ‘I can’t believe they’re knocking down these beautiful old homes to build that monstrosity,’ Isa said.

  ‘See that schmuck with the hair? That’s what Starkey will look like in thirty years. It’s his Uncle Kenny.’

  I noticed that Bert had ramped up his security, with a chunky padlock and two more warning signs. Beneath BEWARE VICIOUS DOG were

  DANGER

  ELECTRIC FENCE

  KEEP OFF – KEEP AWAY

  and

  DANGER

  HAZARDOUS MATERIAL STORAGE AREA

  ‘This is probably not such a great idea after all,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re his friend. Hellooo!’ she called out. ‘Anybody home?’

  The door scraped open and Bert appeared with a scowl that evaporated the second he laid his good eye on Isa.

  ‘Hello there, lovely lady,’ Bert said, removing the padlock.

  ‘Hello, Bert. I’m Lincoln’s friend Isa.’

  ‘Isa, Isa, why’s a tidy lass like yourself knocking around with this chancer?’

  ‘He has some good points,’ she said, patting my shoulder.

  ‘I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and you can tell me what they are.’

  We followed Bert down the hall, Isa marvelling at the columns of newspapers and magazines stacked just shy of the ceiling, me at his unusual demonstration of hospitality. Sitting on the kitchen table was half a chocolate sponge roll being dismantled by a two-way line of ants. Bert flicked them off and plugged in the green kettle.

  ‘Thanks, Bert, but we’ve just had afternoon tea,’ Isa said. ‘Is that a Russian samovar up there?’

  ‘Gold-plated. Comes with six cups.’

  ‘You have some amazing pieces here. My housemate Terri is an antiques dealer, so I know a little bit about old things.’

  ‘Would you like a free tour then?’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  ‘I’ll take you somewhere this one’s never been,’ he said with a nod towards me, ‘the Carnival Room.’

  Abandoning tea service, Bert led us upstairs and knocked on a red-and-yellow door then turned its brass knob. Inside was a mad circus of bug-eyed creatures made of papier-mâché and fibreglass. A giraffe, pelican and Betty Boop knock-off were among them, all looking delighted to meet us. And suffocating in dusty plastic bags hanging from a rail near the ceiling were five giant Kewpie dolls, beneath them a row of old amusement machines.

  ‘It’s just like Coney Island,’ Isa said.

  ‘Well spotted, missy. Half of it came from there.’

  ‘Look at that one,’ she said, pointing at an upright machine with two metal handles. Its vertical glass panel was decorated with two columns of love hearts beneath the word PASH-O-METER.

  ‘Measures the electrical flow between lovebirds,’ Bert said. ‘Why don’t we give it a burl, eh? I’ll go around the back and plug it in. You two hold the handles.’

  ‘I’ll give it a miss.’

  ‘Don’t be a spoilsport,’ Isa said.

  ‘You heard the lady – nobody likes a wet blanket.’ Bert plugged in the machine. ‘Now grab the handle and hold tightly.’

  ‘Just to keep you both quiet.’ I took hold of the handle and the hearts on my side glowed dimly, pulsated a few times then died. ‘Wow, that was impressive,’ I said.

  ‘You’re supposed to be holding hands, Casanova. Don’t be afraid, she won’t bite.’

  ‘I’m not afraid,’ I said, my overly defensive tone betraying the fact that I was petrified. I took Isa’s hand. We’d never actually held hands before, and doing it in front of Bert was awkward and my sweaty palm failed to increase conductivity. ‘Still nothing happening.’

  ‘Stop your jabbering and give her a chance to warm up.’ A couple of seconds later both of our bottom hearts lit up at COLD FISH. ‘Hold tighter,’ Bert said. I squeezed Isa’s hand and her heart ascended.

  COLD FISH > ALL TALK > HARMLESS > MILD > LOVEABLE >

  It hovered there for a while, then continued to NAUGHTY and stopped on PASSIONATE! Mine remained on COLD FISH the whole time.

  ‘Dodgy machine,’ I said, and let go.

  ‘It’s not finished yet. You have to wait for the card.’

  ‘Really?’ I said frowning. I took Isa’s hand again and my heart started rising.

  COLD FISH > ALL TALK > HARMLESS > MILD > LOVEABLE > NAUGHTY > PASSIONATE! > HOT STUFF!! > ANIMAL!!!

  The top heart flashed, and the machine buzzed and rattled. I burnt with shame, imagining for a moment that the machine had exposed my secret, but Isa and Bert were laughing. A small pink card appeared from a slot at the bottom. Isa pulled it out.

  ‘Ninety-seven per cent compatible,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I keep it?’

  ‘All yours,’ I said.

  ‘Real regular Romeo.’ Bert cuffed my head. ‘The Love Tester never tells a lie. Your father better keep an eye out for this one, missy.’

  Isa ignored the comment and walked away to explore the room.

  ‘She’s cute as a bug’s ear with a dash of the sauce,’ Bert whispered. ‘Nothing to be scared of, though. I’ve got something over here you might be interested in.’ He opened a cupboard and pulled out a moulded metal hen on a nest. She was all black except for her red wattle and comb.

  ‘Does she do anything?’

  ‘Used to lay an egg with a surprise inside for the youngsters. Lolly or handkerchief. Pemberton’s famous mechanical hen – Ethel. She’s over a hundred and twenty-five years old.’

  Isa returned and patted the chicken. ‘She’s stopped working. It makes me sad.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘I have to get to work.’

  ‘You wait downstairs for the little lady,’ Bert said. ‘I’ve got a small present to give her.’ I hesitated because I didn’t fully trust him and saw no reason to be excluded, but Isa nodded her assent.

  ‘Scoot!’ Bert said. ‘We won’t be
a minute.’

  Whatever he gave her must have been small because she came down empty-handed. We said goodbye to Bert and walked towards the station. Instead of giving her the satisfaction of me trying to find out what her present was, I asked her why the chicken had saddened her.

  ‘She reminded me of my father. Mum told me that he died when he was just a boy, really. Only two years older than you.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, wondering if a real chicken was somehow involved. But not wanting to sound insensitive by asking, I said, ‘I’m missing the connection.’

  ‘The hen reminded me of him because she held a novelty inside. The only physical evidence of my father’s existence, besides me, is a novelty that came in a plastic capsule from a vending machine.’

  ‘I should mind my own business. You don’t have to tell me any more.’

  ‘I want to.’ Isa took a deep breath and told me the story of her origin.

  Dee had been a young nurse working in the intensive care unit of the Royal Adelaide Hospital. There, she cared for a young patient called Paul who’d previously had part of a brain tumour removed. The surgeon had gone back in for a look and discovered it had grown much larger and was inoperable. Paul was only eighteen. One night he confessed to Dee that he’d never done anything more than kiss a girl, and was going to die without knowing what it was like to make love. Dee didn’t have a boyfriend at the time and figured there was one thing she could do to bring him some happiness. They made love right there in the hospital bed.

  Paul died at his home just one week later. Dee realised she was pregnant and sought her parents’ advice. Her father was a strict Catholic and gave her two options: leave the city for nine months then have the child adopted, or leave permanently if she wanted to keep it. Paul’s family were Adelaide establishment so she never told them. She moved to Sydney with Terri, who was nursing with her, and eight months later Isa was born.

  ‘It must be strange having no connection with your father’s side of the family,’ I said. ‘Not being able to see photos of him and stuff like that.’

  ‘This is the only thing we have.’ She pulled out a ring attached to a chain around her neck. ‘My father bought it from a vending machine at the hospital kiosk and slipped it on Mum’s finger. It’s a mood ring but doesn’t change colour anymore. It stays blue.’

  We’d reached Kings Cross Station. Isa was waiting for some kind of response from me, but the story was so hefty I didn’t know what to say without sounding stupid or trite. She broke the silence by asking if I’d made any progress on finding a date for the dance.

  ‘I’m still thinking about it. What about you?’

  ‘I’m going with Pericles.’

  My heart was torpedoed. Struggling to maintain composure as it sank, I said, ‘What about Phoenix?’

  ‘She’s going with a Year 11 guy, Kirk Shepard. I was wondering if you wanted to come in the stretch Hummer with us. The more the merrier.’

  ‘And the cheaper it works out for you.’ The words broke into our conversation with an unrestrained petulance.

  ‘I just thought it might be fun all going together. Tibor and his cousin Ziska are coming.’

  ‘I can arrange my own transport, thanks.’ This time I sounded snarky, and Isa looked hurt, which was understandable considering she’d just opened up about her father and I was acting like a tool.

  ‘Well, thanks for taking me to meet Bert. His stuff was amazing and I really liked him. He wasn’t half as mad as you made him out to be.’

  ‘You know me. Always exaggerating.’ Third strike of misjudged responses.

  Isa glanced at the departure screen and said goodbye.

  Working with Pericles this afternoon was tricky because neither of us brought up the dance. He hadn’t cut my grass, because from his point of view I wasn’t cultivating the lawn. He’d asked me point blank if I liked Isa and I’d denied it. He’d encouraged me to invite her and I’d declared zero interest. Why was I so jealous of them both? Later, I lay in bed fantasising about exacting some form of spiteful revenge on my friends for an imagined wrong. It wasn’t helping me get to sleep, so I returned to my book.

  One stormy night in May, I lay awake counting the intervals between lightning and thunder. Focusing on the task was sending me back to sleep until a cold drop fell on my face, then another. I went downstairs to get a pail and found my mother warming milk. In our five years at Pyrmont she’d met every obstacle with a defiant optimism, but when I told her about the hole she broke down and wept.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ I said. ‘I’ll fix it tomorrow.’

  ‘If only my predicament could be fixed so easily,’ she said, and recomposed herself. ‘My work for Pemberton is coming to an end. The hybrid creatures have lost their appeal and he plans to replace them with live acts.’

  ‘A circus?’

  ‘An exhibition of human performers burdened with extreme proportions, alongside a few animals.’

  ‘A freak show?’

  ‘He used the term “prodigies”. Do you remember Whitby the chimpanzee? He’s been training him and the other apes to mimic human behaviour. He plans to have them perform in miniature domestic settings dressed in children’s clothing, purportedly to demonstrate their similarity to humans. Like Darwin, he believes them to be our ancestors.’

  ‘Don’t you agree with him?’ I asked.

  ‘His primary goal is profit, not enlightening the masses. The poor creatures will be terrified by the bright lights and howls of laughter. Anybody who believes in Darwin’s theory should be treating animals with greater dignity, not less.’ My mother let out a deep sigh. ‘I compromised my belief in the integrity of nature by creating those deceptive hybrid animals. Compromise is sometimes necessary for survival. But I told Mr Pemberton I couldn’t abide the inhumanity of his new venture, and so he’s looking for somebody who’s free from such scruples.’

  ‘I’ll press old Sampson for more hours.’

  ‘Collecting sawdust is no job for someone like you. Your mind is being wasted at the mills.’

  ‘Then tomorrow I’ll begin searching for other work.’

  Six months later, Pemberton’s Theatre of Scientific Wonders opened to a packed house. The well-received ape-and-monkey show was followed by a succession of human acts from all over the colonies and abroad, among them Leona the Lion Lady, Otto Zeep the Armless Violinist from Austria, Lottie the Largest Woman in the World and her twin sister, Lena the Living Skeleton.

  Advertising was key to the venture’s success – Pemberton had employed a small army of lads, including me, to plaster every square inch of the city with eye-catching and sometimes bawdy posters promoting upcoming acts.

  My mother was in two minds over my involvement. The income certainly helped, but she wasn’t thrilled about my promoting Pemberton’s circus. His latest and most outlandish publicity stunt had all of Sydney abuzz with excitement:

  GEORGE PEMBERTON, ESQUIRE ISSUES A CHALLENGE TO THE WORLD! TO PRODUCE INCONTROVERTIBLE AND LIVING EVIDENCE OF DARWIN’S MISSING LINK IF THE CREATURE WILL REMAIN ON PUBLIC DISPLAY FOR THE TERM OF ONE FULL MONTH ITS DISCOVERER WILL BE REWARDED WITH THE SUM OF

  £100

  NOTE! IF, HOWEVER, THE LIVING SPECIMEN IS PROVEN TO BE FALSE

  BY ANY MEMBER OF THE GENERAL PUBLIC £100 WILL BE GIVEN TO ANY NOMINATED CHARITABLE ORGANISATION

  I googled how much the reward was worth now: $15,000. I figured that was going to be the ‘redeeming’ part of Edwin’s ‘one redeeming affliction’.

  ‘Edwin Stroud is going to show off his arse on stage for fifteen grand,’ Homunculus said. ‘You could do the same and call yourself Missing Lincoln.’

  ‘They started selling these ten days after Christmas this year,’ Dad said, between mouthfuls of hot cross bun. ‘Pop would’ve blown a gasket. He only ever sold them on the Thursday. Never opened on Good Friday.’

  I thought about all the Easter long weekends our family had spent with the Partridges over on Mackerel Beach. Kids in the water, obliviou
s to summer ending; adults boozing on the decks, oblivious to the kids. On Good Fridays, Pop Locke would expound on the true meaning of Easter, hoping a moment of reverence would save us from total hedonistic abandon. On Sunday, locals and blow-ins alike would get together and organise a massive chocolate egg hunt where all that mattered was filling your basket with the most eggs.

  This morning, the memory of those days dissolved my contempt towards Dad. Things weren’t exactly humming with the rest of my life and I needed some equilibrium. I forgave him for all the shitty things he’d done last year and then asked his forgiveness for saying Pop Locke would’ve been ashamed of him. ‘Pop Locke often told me how proud he was of your success. He just couldn’t find the way to tell you himself.’

  ‘Come here,’ Dad said, and hugged me for the first time this year.

  On Saturday morning, rolling along on the B1 past Collaroy’s apartment blocks, takeaway joints and surf shops, I calculated that in two weeks I’d have saved enough money to buy my new board. I just had to mooch eighty bucks off Mum to cover the tickets for the dance. So later, when she asked me to prepare the barbecue for dinner, I went straight out the back, wiped the grill down with newspaper, fired it up and returned for the prawns, behaving like the perfect son.

  ‘You can relax now,’ she said. ‘I’ll cook them.’

  ‘Barbecuing’s a man’s job.’ I picked up the bowl but she pulled it away, spilling the skewered crusties onto the kitchen floor.

  ‘Shit!’ she said, and bent down to pick them up. ‘Thanks for helping, darling. But go and say hello to your sister or something.’

  I went up to Venn’s bedroom and found her studying plant diagrams. ‘Why’s Mum so crabby?’ I said.