Honeybee

by Craig Silvey;

  I loaded Cat on a Hot Tin Roof into the DVD player and joined Peter on the couch.

  ‘Oh Brick, you beautiful blue-eyed bastard,’ Peter said. ‘Come on out of that closet, I’ll be your Big Daddy.’

  Then he burped loudly and we both laughed.

  The next day Diane wore tailored navy blue trousers and a sleeveless linen blouse with a cherry blossom pattern. She stopped me before I could turn into her office.

  ‘Let’s do something different,’ she said.

  I followed her down the hallway. She had art on the walls that were just colourful painted shapes in a frame. We went into her kitchen. It had a marble-topped island bench and an induction stove and a big oven. On the counter, she had set out flour and butter and milk and sugar and eggs.

  Diane sat on a high stool.

  ‘I thought about what you said, about how just a few ingredients offered a great deal of potential, and I thought we might run with that theme today and pay homage to Julia. What do you think? Would you cook something for me? You can teach me as you go. I put out a few things for you, but take anything you need from the fridge or pantry.’

  ‘I don’t know. What would you like me to cook?’

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Am I sure about somebody cooking for me? You bet!’

  I felt awkward searching through Diane’s cupboards and shelves, but as soon as I found an electric mixer, I knew what I was going to bake for her. I pulled out the mixer and the attachments.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to use one of these,’ I said.

  ‘Go for it! Please! It was a housewarming gift that I’m ashamed to say has never been used.’

  I preheated the oven, then I measured out all my ingredients from memory. I poured water into a saucepan and brought it to a simmer on the stove. I placed a metal bowl over the saucepan to make a bain-marie, then I added eggs and sugar and beat them lightly.

  ‘Okay Julia, so tell me what you’re cooking.’

  I held up the whisk and did my best impression.

  ‘I’ve always said a party without cake is just a meeting, so get ready to soak up some flavour as we make a delicious Génoise sponge, today … on The French Chef!’

  Diane laughed and clapped her hands together.

  I poured the combined eggs and sugar into the mixer bowl.

  ‘It’s only three ingredients,’ I said. ‘But it’s tricky because the only way you can get the cake to rise is by beating the eggs until they’re really fluffy.’

  After a few minutes, I carefully sifted the flour into the bowl and folded it into the mixture, then I poured the batter into a buttered cake tin and put it in the oven.

  While the cake was baking, I opened a tin of pineapple rings I had found in the pantry. I used the juice to make a thick curd. Diane made me explain every step. Then in a frying pan, I caramelised the pineapple wedges with butter and sugar and a pinch of salt and cinnamon.

  When the cake was done, I left it to cool on a rack. It didn’t rise as much as I hoped, but Diane said it smelled amazing.

  While I cleaned up, we talked about Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

  ‘I liked it,’ I said, ‘even though it was mostly just people talking. Maggie the Cat was my favourite.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘She’s so beautiful and kind, but I felt sorry for her too. She just wanted Brick to love her.’

  ‘I like her too. She’s cunning and she’s loyal and she’s also desperately lonely.’

  ‘Would you say her alignment was chaotic good?’

  Diane laughed.

  ‘I would! You’re so right.’

  ‘I didn’t like that Brick drank so much bourbon,’ I said. ‘And I cried at the part where Big Daddy said to Brick, I’ve got the guts to die, what I want to know is if you’ve got the guts to live.’

  Diane watched me closely as I sliced the sponge in half and carefully lifted off one layer. Then I spread the curd and laid the chunks of pineapple. I put the top back on and dusted it with icing sugar.

  ‘Bon appétit!’ I said.

  ‘Bravo!’ Diane clapped. ‘Look at that!’

  Diane made a pot of tea and we sat down at her dining table. I cut her a slice of cake. My hands were shaking so much that I almost missed her plate. I sat and waited for her to taste it. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘Sam, you are a marvel.’

  I blushed. Diane had another bite.

  ‘I mean it. This is incredible. I’m not just being kind. Aren’t you going to have some?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ I said.

  ‘Well I’m going to be rude and devour this in front of you.’

  ‘It’s not rude. I like that you like it,’ I said. ‘You have a really amazing kitchen. It’s the nicest one I’ve ever cooked in.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  I nodded. I watched Diane take another bite. It made me like her more. And it made me feel safe.

  ‘This one apartment we lived in, I opened the oven door and it came right off. There wasn’t anything behind it. We didn’t stay at that place very long anyway.’

  ‘Did you move around a lot?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘With your mum and your dad?’

  ‘Just my mum. I don’t really know who my dad is.’

  ‘That must have been hard.’

  ‘We never had any money. Or any food.’

  I paused for a moment. Then I took a risk.

  ‘We used to steal things pretty often.’

  I watched Diane carefully. I waited for her to judge me or ask me to leave. But she just took another bite of cake.

  ‘Tell me more about that,’ she said.

  I saw Diane every afternoon for the next three days, and each time she asked me to cook something. I made crêpe dentelles with an orange and maple syrup glaze, and the next day I made vanilla panna cotta with a raspberry coulis. Then I made a carrot cake, because Diane said it was her favourite.

  Each time, I told her a little bit more about myself.

  On the third day, I told her how Vic saved me on the overpass.

  Diane swallowed hard and put her fork down.

  ‘What made you attempt to take your own life that night, Sam?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just wanted everything to be over.’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘I don’t like myself. I’m a mistake. It’s just better for everyone if I’m gone.’

  ‘Why do you describe yourself as a mistake?’

  ‘Because I shouldn’t be here. I was born wrong. And I do everything wrong.’

  Diane looked at me really closely.

  ‘Can you explain a bit further?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just wrong. And every day it’s worse. There isn’t any way out. There isn’t any answer. Because I can’t get better.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s already too late. I’ll never get to—’

  I stopped myself.

  ‘Never get to what, Sam?’

  I just shrugged and looked down. It was quiet for a while. Diane hadn’t eaten any more of her carrot cake, and for some reason it made me so upset that I started to cry.

  Diane gently pushed a box of tissues closer and waited. I covered my face with my hands because I was so embarrassed. It was a long time before I stopped.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t need to apologise.’

  I blew my nose and wiped my face.

  ‘Don’t you like the cake?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s delicious, Sam. But this is more important.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘How long have you felt this way?’ she asked.

  ‘A long time, I suppose.’

  ‘Was this your first attempt?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you still have thoughts about taking your life?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘How often?’


  Every day, all the time. That was the true answer. But I stayed quiet and squirmed in my chair. My skin felt itchy and hot. I didn’t know what would happen if I told her. She might have to refer me to a hospital or a facility. She might have to tell my mum, or the police.

  ‘Not very often,’ I said.

  Diane nodded slowly.

  ‘Okay. Sam, you’ve told me how you feel inside. I’d like to ask you about the outside. How do you feel about your body, your appearance?’

  ‘I don’t know. I hate it. It’s ugly and disgusting.’

  ‘Why do you say that? What don’t you like about your body?’ I squirmed again and blushed. Everything got noisy. I tried to answer, but my chest had seized up like I was being squeezed and I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes tight and I felt dizzy and I knew I had to leave. It was too much.

  ‘I don’t want to,’ I said. ‘I have to go. I’m sorry.’

  I stood up and bumped the table and spilled Diane’s tea and I ran down the hallway. Brick got up quickly and followed me. I got to the front door, but there were so many locks I couldn’t open it. I kept twisting and pulling. I could feel Brick’s wet nose on my calves.

  Diane was behind me.

  ‘I can’t breathe,’ I said.

  ‘It’s alright. It’s okay.’

  She opened the door and I stepped out. I felt really stupid.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. And I walked away.

  ‘Sam?’

  I turned around.

  ‘I want to thank you for being so brave and so honest with me. Will you come back and see me on Monday?’

  I didn’t feel brave or honest.

  ‘I don’t know why you want to keep seeing me.’

  ‘Because you’re worth it,’ she said.

  Brake

  The next day I was on my own. Peter was away for the whole weekend and the Meemedumas weren’t home.

  I wandered around the empty house. It didn’t feel like I owned it. I went outside into the garden and watered everything and I watched the honeybees collect pollen from the bottlebrush. The lawn was getting long and the patch of dirt where Misty was buried had grown over.

  I walked into the garage. It still smelled like oil and grease and dust. All the boxes were neatly packed and stacked and labelled. There was something pinned to the white sheet covering the Black Shadow. I walked over. It was a note from Vic.

  Sam

  Call this number. Ask for Len. He will know what to do. It has all been sorted.

  Vic

  I read the note over and over. He had never mentioned anybody called Len before. I sat there for a long time, then I called the number at the bottom of the page.

  ‘Yeah, hello?’

  ‘Um, is this Len?’

  ‘Speaking, yes. Who’s this?’

  He was loud and he sounded old.

  ‘My name is Sam. I’m calling because of Vic.’

  Len went quiet.

  ‘Are you there?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry. Christ. Poor bastard. When did he go?’

  ‘A few days ago.’

  I heard Len sigh.

  ‘He said he didn’t have much left in the tank, but I didn’t think it would be this soon, stubborn as he was.’

  ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘We bumped into each other over the years. Every time I’d ask him the same question, and every time he’d say, Over my dead body, Len. I didn’t realise he was making a promise.’

  ‘Vic left me a note. I don’t know what any of it means.’

  ‘You’re the kid. He said you’d be in touch.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About when I can come pick her up.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Who? The bike.’

  ‘What bike?’

  ‘The Black Shadow.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’m a collector. Len Oakes. Got a rare and vintage motorcycle museum up in the hills near Roleystone. It’s all been organised.’

  The line was silent. I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Len. ‘What are you up to this arvo?’

  Len arrived two hours later. He drove a big four-wheel drive with a trailer attached. He was really short and he walked duck-footed. When he shook my hand his skin felt cold and papery.

  I opened the garage door and led him over to the Black Shadow. He gently tugged at the white sheet, then stopped and turned to me.

  ‘May I?’

  I nodded.

  He delicately removed the sheet and stepped back. He looked at it for a while.

  ‘Bloody hell, she’s beautiful. To someone like me, this is like … like buried treasure. It’s the holy grail.’

  He crouched down and his knees cracked. He ran his fingers over the chassis and the engine.

  ‘Amazing. Not a spot of rust. It’s in better nick than he said.’

  ‘It still runs good too,’ I said. ‘I helped tune it.’

  ‘Is that right? Can I start her up?’

  ‘Sure.’

  It was strange that he kept asking my permission. I had to remind myself that Vic had left all his possessions to me.

  The bike started on the first kick. Len started to laugh and shake his head. He had big white false teeth.

  ‘Listen to that!’ he said.

  He gave it a few revs, and he inspected the bike closely while it was running. Then he switched it off and put his hands on his hips and shook his head again.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get a look at this bike for thirty years. First heard about it way back when Vic had the shop with Ray. He reconned some motors for a few boys in the bike club, and he happened to mention he had a fifty-three Black Shadow, but nobody ever saw him on it. He wasn’t much for the group rides or the community aspect, old Vic. Kept to himself. Just his nature, I suppose. Very humble. Made sense he kept it under a dust sheet all these years. But me? I reckon a machine like this should be on display. Celebrated. I gave up hope of ever getting it, though. Then he gave me a call a couple weeks ago, from his lawyer’s office. Told me he’d promised his old man that he would never get rid of the bike, not for love nor money, and he intended to honour that to the grave. But he said when his time was up, a young bloke would give me a call, and I should be the one to have it.’

  ‘It’s going to a museum?’

  ‘Fancy name for a big shed full of bikes, but that’s the gist of it. We get a few thousand coming through every year, from all over the world. As I say, for people who share the passion, it’s like a pilgrimage.’

  ‘You want to take it away now?’

  ‘Well, if it’s all the same to you. I’m a bit giddy, truth be told.’

  I hooked my finger around the brake lever. I wasn’t ready to let it go. It felt like losing Vic again.

  ‘Listen,’ said Len, ‘why don’t you come up and see the place? We’ll take the bike with us, but if you’re not happy to leave it with me, I’ll bring it back and we can arrange another time. I know he was your mate.’

  ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s only forty-odd minutes away in the hills. What do you reckon?’

  I helped Len push the Black Shadow onto his trailer. He was careful about strapping it down. I liked that he was gentle with the bike. It made me feel a bit better. But when I locked up the house and the garage door and saw the Black Shadow on the trailer, it felt like we were taking Vic away in an ambulance again. I turned around and pinched my arm hard so that I didn’t cry in front of Len.

  Len talked most of the way. He used to be a mining engineer until he retired about fifteen years ago. He hated the cold, so every winter he travelled to the northern hemisphere and went on motorcycle expeditions. He had been to Africa and America and Asia and across Russia. He said he had been robbed and beat up and arrested, but the hardest part was leaving his bike behind at the end of every trip.

  ‘Too expensive to freight them back, but it’s tough to let them go. You get an attachment to the
m. They’re more than machines. It’s like losing a mate,’ he said.

  I mostly looked out the window. Len had been all over the world, but this was the first time I had ever seen the countryside. I stared up at the trees in the forest. We drove past orchards and vineyards and huge paddocks with horses and cows and sheep.

  We turned off the highway after a while and went down some narrow roads. There were no other cars around. Finally we turned onto a long gravel driveway and parked outside a country house. There was a big shed to the side of it, with a painted sign that said VINTAGE MOTORCYCLE MUSEUM.

  I helped Len unhook the Black Shadow and we rolled it towards the shed. He put a key into a padlock and slid the door open. Then he stepped in and disabled an alarm before switching on the lights.

  There must have been a hundred old motorcycles in there, all clean and polished and standing in neat rows. It was impressive. I walked down the carpeted path. Each bike had a small sign with its make and model and year.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Len asked.

  ‘Where would the Black Shadow go?’

  ‘Dunno. Why don’t you pick a spot?’

  I walked around for a while. I chose a space near the far wall that was well lit.

  ‘Here,’ I said.

  Len wheeled the Black Shadow over. I told him about Vic’s dad, and how he bought the bike after betting on a horse called Raconteur. I told him how angry Vic’s mum was about it. I told him that Vic’s dad took him for rides and showed him how the engine worked, and that’s why Vic became a mechanic. Len liked the story so much that I had an idea.

  ‘Would I be allowed to make a display about Vic and the Black Shadow? I have a photo of him and his dad next to the bike on the day he bought it, and a photo of Vic and Edie on the bike together. I could make it about Vic and his life and Edie’s too. We could put it in a frame maybe and hang it up right here, so people can read about him when they visit.’

  ‘That’s a ripper idea. I’d be proud to.’

  ‘I could give you Vic and Edie’s helmets as well. Maybe we can put them next to the bike.’

  Len smiled at me and nodded.

  ‘Sure.’

  I smiled back.

  ‘Can I ask for one more thing?’