by Stephen Orr
How he woke up one autumn morning in 1958, went out to pick the paper off the drive, leaned forward and dropped dead with a stroke. How they all ran out, but how he was already halfway cold.
And that’s where she’d stop talking about him. Because, by then, David would be crying. Fourteen-year-old David, running out with his brother, shaking his dad, refusing to concede that life would change because of this moment.
The tea was so strong you couldn’t drink it. But I had to. It stayed on the gums, under the tongue, so I soaked it up with more of Mum’s cake.
‘Your Pop’d do anything for anyone,’ Val said. ‘Compared to him …’
She cocked a thumb in the direction of Ernie Sharpe.
‘If we could move, we would, wouldn’t we, David?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothin’ against no one else … but him.’
Every conversation came back to Ernie and his hate of cats.
‘I was saying to David (wasn’t I, David?) that he won’t be happy till we’ve gone. Then he can see this place knocked down, and he’ll have a party, I suppose.’
‘What’s he been saying?’
She indicated a picture on the wall and told me it was Slapton, a beach her and Mr D’d go to before the boys came along. ‘Threatenin’ to call the council again. Only three are mine, I told him, but he says they’re all mine, and I never fixed none. But I did. Didn’t I, David?’
‘Yes.’
Tea and cake. I couldn’t afford to take sides.
‘But it’s not like they’re hurtin’ anyone, are they, Clem?’
‘No.’
‘I do put a bit of food out for them, but it’d be cruel not to. They’d starve.’
I tried. ‘What’s he want you to do?’
‘I dunno.’
‘What’s Ida say?’
‘She keeps out of it.’
The conversation slowed. Another picture of another beach, in Wales. ‘Maybe you could sell some,’ I said.
‘How would I go about that?’
‘Put an ad in the paper.’
She took a moment to think, then said, ‘I’ll give it some thought.’
‘Maybe Ernie’d help?’
‘No, not that man. He poisons them.’
‘Really?’
‘Not sure what he uses, but he buries them in his yard. I’ve seen.’
‘What?’
‘Little graves. I’ve seen them. I could call the police. I might.’
‘Give it a bit of thought, Mrs Donnellan. I could help. Trap them, perhaps.’
‘I will.’
And with that, the ceremony was over, the pot empty, until next time. I shook David’s hand and left them alone, together, to save the leaves that they could use again.
Escaping the house wasn’t always about avoiding the heat. Sometimes Jen and the Abba habit that had gone on too long; Mum and the Drearies; Pop listening to the races, Our Velocity two lengths in front; slammed doors; the toilet hissing for hours if you didn’t lift the lid and jiggle the stopcock.
Mum had planted a fern. It had spread out against the sun, so you could sit on the wobbly seat and imagine you weren’t in Gleneagles. Until the Ford mechanics started changing tyres, or put on their Motörhead radio. Always noise. As if there was some thought to be avoided.
Vagueness in conversation …
Volume thirteen. Memory loss: Alzheimer’s. I smoothed the page and studied the photo of an old man—big, scared eyes, mouth open to any possibility. More old people looking at him, as if to say, Are you Harry?
Forgetting people or places …
Lanark Avenue was Pop’s universe. He knew, had known, every planet by its name, its issue (small, delicate moons trapped in orbit), its day and year length. He’d say, No, Mrs Lifton, her daughter moved to Perth, but now he had no idea who Mrs Lifton was. He’d given up on Lanark I and III. Now, it was just us, and Val and Peter and David (on a good day); the Burrells and the Glassons, because he loved how Ron could cut a sheepskin to fit any car.
Life expectancy after diagnosis: eight to ten years …
It had been four years since Mum had first taken him to the specialist. So what happened next? Nappies, bed sores, a body in the lounge room; a lump that had to be fed, and turned and toileted? The thought was tiring, and by thinking it, nothing was solved. Instead, I heard the rustle of cigarette foil, mints in a box, sage on my tongue. I left the book, climbed through the fence into number 29 and looked around. No one. Across the yard and up the metal steps, into the cubby. I lifted the floorboard and retrieved the packet, the three tightly rolled reefers that promised an escape from everything.
Whistling. Anne Burrell came out, unpegged a singlet and went back inside. I heard her calling something to Gary, a slammed door, and Synchronicity, loud on Curtis’s radio.
‘Shut that fuckin’ thing up.’
Gary, again, coming out in his singlet, unpegging a shirt, and heading in.
The music quietened. Silence. I watched and waited.
31/vii/81 Curtis won’t admit it, but I think Gary’s been at it again. I stopped to get him on the way to school, and Anne ducked into her bedroom.
I jumped down the steps, three at a time, and ran towards the house. All the way around, then I stopped under his parents’ window, and listened.
‘You gonna iron this?’
‘Do it yerself.’
I crept around the side of the house, opened the gate and dragged it on the concrete. Closed it, stood under Curtis’s window and knocked. The music quietened, the window opened and he looked out. I said, ‘Should we have yer smokes?’
‘They’re having a session.’
‘Come on … I’ll wait in the Rosies’ yard.’ I jumped the fence and ran across the road to number 26. Down the drive, into the backyard. I sat on the step and waited for Curtis. Knee-high weeds, skeletal trees, the back door open, as it had been since the Rosies moved out in 1978. We’d often go through the place: the rooms full of flattened boxes, old magazines and rat droppings; leaves that had blown in the open doors and windows; a few of Vicky’s dolls. Mum reckoned everyone knew what had happened in the backyard, and who’d want to live in such a gruesome place?
I took out the first smoke and smelt it, considered it. There was no point waiting. A puff: the shed with the collapsed roof. Another: what must’ve been a veggie patch, although we’d pissed in it a hundred times since they’d gone.
Curtis appeared and sat beside me. ‘What y’ doing?’
‘Felt like one.’
‘They’re not yours.’
I offered him a go; he accepted, which was his way of forgiving me. ‘I’m gonna get my fuckin’ nuts crushed when John gets back.’
‘You said he wouldn’t miss them.’
‘I lied.’
It didn’t bother me. ‘I don’t think he’ll be in a position to say much.’
He took the next smoke, lit it and started. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘McNally’s.’
‘Do you know what goes on there?’
‘I could guess.’
The light was dropping, the sky streaking with illicit haze. Curtis said, ‘Where do you reckon?’
I stood, and motioned for him to follow. My bet was the old lemon tree. ‘He wouldn’ta needed much height. Just enough to keep his feet off the ground. That’s a common misconception—that you need a long drop. But people do it in wardrobes.’ I stood beneath a big bough. ‘See, and he was a clever man, so he’d know his knots.’
‘Why would he know his knots?’
I wasn’t about to discuss it. ‘I reckon he would’ve put it here.’ I ran my hand over the branch, feeling for the groove, a mark, any sign.
‘There’s nothing there.’
‘Seven years—the wood woulda grown back.’ I moved closer, inspected every inch. ‘See, a little mark, just here.’
He squinted. ‘Bullshit.’ Then he walked back to the steps and sat down.
I followed, pro
duced the third smoke and lit it. I could feel myself drifting, floating in the purple haze of another summer day survived.
‘How do you know he even done himself in?’
‘Common knowledge.’
‘Urban myth.’
‘Why else are they still trying to sell this place?’
‘Cos it’s a loada shit.’
Oswald, Tina and the holy daughter. Well, at least that’s how I remembered her: red cheeks and big blue eyes, a little grin, too-perfect teeth, sitting beside me as I tried to read about what Harry the dirty dog was up to, her saying, Shouldn’t you know some words by now?
I know some.
Grinning more. No, you don’t!
Do!
Because even then the small tortures were pleasurable.
It was almost dark. Some of the tall grass rustled. ‘Rabbits,’ Curtis said.
‘Rubbish.’
‘Les told me he used to have some. They got under the wire, and he never found them. Mum reckons they get under our house.’
‘My arse.’
He shook his head. ‘No rabbits … but he hung himself?’
‘Hanged.’
‘What?’
2/vi/76 Spent an hour with Mr Rosie. He teaches at Gleneagles High. Showed me all his books, and said I could borrow some.
‘I liked him,’ I said.
‘Who?’
‘Oswald. But he was pretty highly strung. Smart, though. You oughta seen how many books he had. Pop still reckons that’s why he did it: too many books.’
‘So you’re better off stupid?’
‘Apparently.’
More rustling.
‘Les said he had six, and they all got out. Four females. I mean, they woulda found somewhere, wouldn’t they? Rabbits can adapt to anything.’
It was worth a try. I stood, mostly stoned, and ran through the tall grass. Round and round in circles, stomping on the ground. ‘Come on, bunnies. Let’s have yers.’ I waited. ‘Any come out?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bunnies?’
‘Big one. Green and pink.’
‘You’re hallucinating.’ I returned to my step, and although I trod lightly, and happily, I realised I was covered in burrs. I sat down and started picking them off.
Curtis said, ‘These smokes are probably not good for you.’
I smiled. ‘Says you.’
He leaned against the Rosies’ fibro, cupped his hand to trap escaping smoke, and said, ‘Pain relief … for people with cancer.’
‘Mum reckons Ossie mighta had depression. And if that was the case, nothing was gonna help him. But he was a decent fella. I remember: I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end, but I do not talk of the beginning and the end …’
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Walt Whitman. I do not talk of the beginning and the end …’
‘Of what?’
‘Whatever you want. Life. This smoke, which has nearly gone.’
‘Savour it.’
I tried to be serious. ‘… the talkers were talking …’
It was pitch black, but there were a few puffs yet.
‘Monday, eh?’ Curtis said.
‘I tried to convince Mum …’ But I just melted onto the concrete step, into a big glub of laughter. ‘… to let me quit … school, my darling …’
‘School …’ We embraced, and continued melting.
‘But she wouldn’t let me. Said … fuck, I don’t know what she said.’
We fell about, sucking the stubs.
‘Like, you must go back to school, you naughty little boy.’
‘No luck?’
‘Naughty, naughty … fuck, look, there’s yer rabbit.’
We were off after it, down the Rosies’ drive, the road, stopping in front of number 35. I watched the cooling house. ‘You know what Mrs Donnellan reckons?’
‘What?’
‘Ernie’s been killin’ her cats.’
We tried to stand still, but failed, but supported each other.
‘She reckons he’s been …’ But there was no point standing in the middle of Lanark Avenue. The Sharpes’ lights were out. Ernie would be at the Windsor. Ida was probably at someone’s place, making up for a lost husband. ‘Come on, if we don’t do it now.’
We ran down the Sharpes’ drive, into their backyard. I whispered: ‘Mrs Donnellan reckons he’s buried them somewhere hereabouts.’
Then we stumbled, and ended up on the parched buffalo. Rolled in some of Fi-Fi’s dried shit.
‘If we can see, I can tell her. She can call the cops.’
So we crawled, inch by inch, around the Sharpes’ fence line, feeling for lumps, fresh soil.
‘Who was that poet?’ Curtis asked.
‘Whitman … the beginning and the end …’
Then we sat up. My god, it was wearing off. Curtis said, ‘I don’t reckon he’d kill her cats, would he?’
A mound of soil. The size of six or seven cats. And fresh earth. We examined it, felt it and worked the loose soil. ‘What do you reckon?’ I asked.
He put his nose to it and smelt it. ‘Doesn’t smell … pussy.’
I checked. ‘No, but he could have them deep.’
‘Shall we look?’ We started digging and removed a bucket load before a light came on in the house.
‘Ssh!’
We dared not move. What if she stepped outside?
I said, ‘Into the bushes.’ And we dragged ourselves, inch by inch, into the cover of a woody diosma.
We heard the shower, and guessed Ernie was home.
‘Run!’
Down the drive, the road, into our respective homes.
‘What’s that smell?’ Mum asked, and I told her it was something Curtis’s dad was smoking.
Mum was at my door. ‘I’ve laid out your uniform.’
Then Jen. ‘Get outa bed.’
‘Fuck off.’
Then Pop. ‘It’s gettin’ late.’
‘I’m coming.’ When I went out for breakfast they were gathered like some grand inquisition. Jen said, ‘You can’t be doing this every morning.’
I didn’t reply. What was she, a shopgirl, a hairdresser’s apprentice? I studied the badge: ‘Feres Trabilsie Hair Saloon’. I said, ‘It’s salon.’
‘What?’
‘A hair salon, not a saloon.’
She read her badge. ‘What would you know?’
Mum delivered my scrambled eggs. ‘Eat up. It’s a big day.’
‘You should think yourself lucky,’ Jen said. ‘I didn’t get to do matric.’
Like she’d had to go work in a mine. But that wasn’t the case at all. ‘Cos you failed Year Eleven.’
‘Smug little prick.’
‘Mum, she called me—’
‘Cut it out!’ Pop said, arranging his paper on the table. ‘Eat yer bloody breakfast.’
I found a fork, and a reserve of energy, and said to my sister, ‘How’s Feres?’
She wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
‘You do perms yet?’
Mum walked in, sat down and knew straightaway. ‘Got all yer books?’
‘Yes.’
‘All covered?’
‘Yes.’
Pop and I had sat, the previous day, laying out contact, covering books, flattening them, popping the air bubbles.
‘Try and look a bit enthusiastic.’
‘I am.’
Pop peered over the top of his paper. ‘If you make up your mind you’ll do well. We could be sittin’ here toasting your health. Cheers to Doctor Whelan. But you gotta have the right attitude.’
‘Not a bad one,’ Jen said.
‘You don’t wanna be fixin’ cars forever. Medicine … engineer, that’d suit you.’
‘I guess you’re right, Pop.’
‘Just thinka what Nan woulda said …’ He trailed off, trying to remember. ‘Thinka Nan … Colin.’
Colin? No one said a word. Mum sipped he
r tea; Jen fixed her hair, again. Who was Colin? An old mate? ‘I reckon you’re right, Pop. And if I became an engineer, what sort do you think?’
His face lit up. ‘I love the way they build suspension bridges. Start with the pylons, then the cables … supports.’ But even bridges seemed to elude him.
‘What about a chemical engineer?’
‘That’s what you wanna do, Clem. Stick to the books.’
Limited use, I guessed. Manuals could only tell you so much, but you had to know how things went back together. Newspapers, too. They told you what was happening in Lebanon—but you had to know where Lebanon was, and what all the fuss was about. I noticed the back of the paper. ‘Boy George … what a fag.’
And Jen: ‘He’s got great hair.’
Pop studied the photo. ‘What’s that, a boy or a girl?’
‘Gets his hair done at Feres Trabilsie’s,’ I said. ‘Jen can do it like that, can’t you, Jen?’
‘Get stuffed.’
I was trying, but it didn’t matter. Mum was still watching him, her eyes darting from egg to paper to face; to our rich green Berber; the television whispering in the corner. Pop bit into toast and his falsies clunked. ‘Dad,’ she groaned.
‘Not my bloody fault.’
‘We need to get you new ones.’
‘They’ll last another coupla years. What’s the point?’
‘You can’t eat properly.’ She stood, gathered the plates and went into the kitchen. ‘Clem, get your uniform on—I gotta drop your sister too.’
Pop took out his bottom plate, inspected it, licked it and put it back in.
‘That’s disgusting,’ Jen said.
He spat out both plates, pulled back his lips and did his best white pointer.
‘Pop!’
He laughed, then put them back in. ‘Happen to you one day.’
‘I brush my teeth.’
‘So did I. None of this was my fault, was it, Fay?’ Then he leaned forward, for the familiar story. Usually we’d tell him we’d heard it, but not today. ‘When I was nineteen this fella told my mum I had gum disease, and all me teeth’d have to come out. Mum said, all of them? Yes, missus. Sooner the better. I can do the lot for ten quid, but I gotta do ’em today. Today? Yep. They get infected, could turn septic.’
