by Stephen Orr
‘Shame, what happened,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oswald. Nice fella. But I wish they’d do something about this place. It’s a disgrace.’
‘Did he leave them?’ I asked.
She gave me that look, and thought better of it. ‘Yes, he left them.’
‘I heard he killed himself.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Just heard.’
‘Don’t know about that. Think he just left.’
I got the that’s-all-you-need-to-know look. She must’ve known I was a snoop; Les must have explained it all.
‘He was good to you, wasn’t he? Like a father, eh?’
‘Sort of.’
‘That’s what I’d say to Les. Pity Clem hasn’t got a dad, but at least he’s got Oswald.’
‘Yes.’
‘You were in there two or three times a day sometimes. Tina must have got tired of you, but Oswald never said nothin’, did he?’
‘No.’
‘Very patient man. Suppose that comes from being a teacher. Not like Les—he wouldn’t have the patience for kiddies. But Oswald. I can still remember you on his back, piggying you up and down the drive, and you pretending to whip him, and him goin’ like a horse … Can you remember that?’
‘No.’
‘And Vicky, I think she was a bit jealous.’
It was the way she said these words that made me think.
‘He could see you had a brain and he didn’t want it to go to waste. You were lucky to have him.’
I could feel my heart racing. Lucky? Of course.
‘Not that Doug’s never done his best, but he’s old, eh? And a boy needs a dad.’
Oswald. But maybe someone else, earlier. Someone carrying me. I said, ‘Do you remember when I was born?’
‘Long time ago.’
‘And Dad bringing me over, for you to have a look?’
She took a moment. ‘I reckon he mighta.’
‘Was he happy?’
‘Well, you would be, wouldn’t yer? I reckon he was over the moon. I reckon he couldn’t wait to tell us all, to show yer. I reckon it was the day after you came home from hospital.’
That was enough. I turned, ran home and flew through the front door, into the kitchen. The mixer was still going. ‘Mrs Champness reckons he showed me around.’
Mum stopped the mixer. ‘What?’
‘Wendy reckons Dad showed me to everyone. Said he was over the moon.’
‘Guess he was.’
‘So why would he leave?’
She switched it back on, studied the mixture.
‘Why?’ I switched it off. ‘He didn’t want to go.’
‘Don’t talk about what you don’t know.’
Jen appeared from her room. ‘Why you upsetting everyone?’
I ignored her. ‘He was showing me around the whole street. He’d painted my room, he’d done everything to get ready. Why would he go?’
She switched the mixer on.
Jen said, ‘You’re such an arse.’
Pop came in from the shed. ‘What is it?’
I turned to him. ‘I just asked about Dad.’
Four people in a kitchen, waiting.
‘You made him go!’ I said to Mum.
‘I didn’t!’
Jen took my arm and tried to pull me from the kitchen. I shook free. ‘I just want to know!’
‘Enough!’ Pop shouted.
Silence, again, apart from the mixer. Mum started crying, turned, and ran from the kitchen, the house.
Jen said, ‘You’re such a selfish shit!’
Pop was always the practical one. He turned off the mixer and glared at me. ‘Certainly wasn’t the way to go about it, was it?’
‘What way is there?’
‘Wait.’
‘How long?’
‘As long as it takes.’ And he went back to the shed.
The murals had weathered. Mud-splattered, with chutney smears from an unloved sandwich, Mr Champness’s other finger inserted up his nose. Someone had scraped the legs and arms off a koala. It was always going to happen. We’d warned Nick. So, he’d come out with repair pots, to fix things, and said, ‘If you keep at it they’ll stop.’
Curtis had disagreed. ‘You oughta see what’s in the boys’ change rooms.’
The school that time forgot. Society, anyway. Tweed-jacketed nose pickers fondling igneous rocks as boilers hissed sweet nothings to puberty blue Leeanes in search of homemaking skills. Some schools put their slow learners into remedial classes, and at least tried. At Gleneagles they were placed in an opportunity class. Followed the groundsman around all day, pulling weeds, fixing fences. A message to the rest of us (or according to Curtis, trying to impress the canteen sluts): ‘Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.’
Nick had sealed the murals and we’d signed them, and the rest of the school had called them gay, and piss-weak, but, inspired by our Great Leader, we’d ignored them. ‘The life of the artist in a cultural urinal,’ he’d explained. Going on to say how the place was all sport because dull people liked dull pastimes. ‘Artists have always been victimised. Anyway, you really want to end up like …?’ But had stopped, realising he had a few footballers in the class.
So, we’d moved on to portraiture. A girl called Tracey had volunteered, and sat at the front. Nick had gathered us around, shown us how to draw axes, tilt the head, get the dimensions right, add a nose and mouth. Then he’d given us paper and charcoal and said, ‘See what you can come up with.’
These were the best lessons. Gathered in our uncoolable hut, serenaded by Split Enz, talking. I had a head, decorated with a pig snout and a chin that stuck out like Clutch Cargo. Curtis had bloodshot eyes, gaunt cheeks and canine teeth protruding from her mouth. ‘Like a wolf,’ I said.
He howled, and everyone laughed.
It was about now Nick would begin his sermon. Not that he’d mean to, or probably care, but he couldn’t help but tell the truth. ‘They reckon they might boycott LA.’
We waited. Who? Why?
‘The Olympics,’ he said, no doubt realising we were all dolts, dragged up in a suburban soup of meat, Chryslers and the Ted Mulry Gang.
‘The Reds?’ Curtis managed.
‘Iran, China, the lot.’ He stood behind Curtis. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Her.’ He pointed, accusingly, like it was Tracey’s fault.
‘Maybe more on the cheeks … and her teeth don’t look like that.’ He sat down and turned up the radio. ‘I reckon Big Brother wins.’
‘Who?’
‘You haven’t read Nineteen Eighty-Four?’
‘No.’ Although I remembered it on Ossie’s bookshelf.
‘A dictatorship. Big Brother tells everyone what to think. Watches what you’re up to in your home.’
One of the girls pulled a face. ‘I wouldn’t let ’em.’
I thought of my TK25 and wondered if I was some sort of Big Brother, or maybe just a pervert.
‘They control the newspapers, telly. Twenty-four hour Blankety Blanks.’
I could hear Ernie Sharpe.
The girl said, ‘Plenty of good articles in the paper.’
‘Like?’
‘AIDS. They reckon that’s gonna kill half the globe.’
‘Bullshit,’ Nick said. ‘That’s the other thing they do. Make you scared so you stay in your job, and house, and buy stuff.’ He slowed, realising the sermon was dragging. ‘And plenty of sport. Like we’re all part of some big team, and we just gotta win and we’ll be happy.’
The biggest of the footballers was named Barry, and he said, ‘What a loada shit.’
Nick sat forward. ‘How’s yer sketch, Bazz?’
He showed him.
‘Anyway, Winston Smith thinks dangerous thoughts.’ He paused, sharing them, anticipating the reward. ‘And he pays for it in room 101.’
‘What happens?’ I asked.
Nick must have known I’d be the one to ask. �
��He questioned the leaders.’
‘About what?’
‘Newspeak. The Prole sector. Why it wasn’t different … better.’
This revelation didn’t seem to interest anyone. But for me, it was about the most important thing I’d ever heard. ‘So the book reckons we’re told what to think?’
‘Exactly.’
‘By newspapers?’
‘And schools, politicians, organisers of Olympic Games. The guy on the telly flogging refrigerators.’
Tracey said, ‘That’s crap. This is 1984, and no one’s watching me take a shower.’
Barry smiled, but thought better of it.
If you’re going to form a world view you’ve probably done it by the time you’re seventeen. Taken in the facts, made the connections, read the books (between the lines), listened to the dissenters, suspected the rich, famous and beautiful, the ball-kickers, the guys with the longest sideburns and shiniest suits. Found yourself hating the kids getting all the trophies (knowing they’re quite ordinary, but will always be praised). Felt yourself being pushed to the margins of some world you’ve barely entered. Known you don’t belong, like no one can see you, or cares about you or what you think. And when you say all this, you feel there’s someone about to put you back in your box, or room, staring through the glass for more clues, watching the wheels go round and round, not cos you want to control anyone or anything, but you want to know the truth. ‘So what you’re saying,’ I asked Nick, ‘is that we go to school to learn not to think?’
‘Thinking takes effort, and people are lazy.’
Gavin Davies came in late. He threw his bag on a desk and said, ‘I’s at the dentist.’
Nick indicated the pile of paper, the charcoal sticks, and Tracey.
‘Hey, Mr Andrews, you’re not gonna like this.’
‘What’s that, Gav?’
‘They’re painting over our murals.’
Nick ran for the door, shouting, ‘Hold on … you fuckin’ cunts.’
We dropped everything and followed him outside. The groundsman had already painted over Les Champness. Beige, although you could still see the outline. He had a couple of the opportunity kids with him, and they were stirring more paint. Nick approached him, pulled the brush from his hand and said, ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’
He just stood back. ‘Miss White told me to.’
Tracey said, ‘Nice work, dickhead.’
Curtis walked over, picked up a lid and tried to put it on a can. One of the kids pushed him away but he said, ‘Watch yerself!’
The groundsman wasn’t interested. ‘If you got a problem take it up with her. I do what I’m told.’
Nick stormed across the asphalt to the office. We followed. He looked back, saw us, but said nothing. Maybe he realised we should see what came next. As he always said, it was an artist’s job to question.
Curtis caught up with me. ‘They got Les first.’
‘We can repaint him.’
We followed Nick into the foyer. He burst into White’s office, stormed out a moment later and approached the desk. ‘Where’s Joy?’
The girl told him she was teaching.
‘What room?’
She checked. ‘Seventeen.’
He was off again—up the stairs, along the corridor, past posters showing how to factorise quadratic equations. He walked into room seventeen. We stood back. He wasn’t dangerous, but she was. We heard him say, ‘Did you agree to have them painted over?’
I imagined the old girl standing with arms crossed, her mouth half-open, like a cleft anticipating a fine, rounded specimen.
And softly: ‘You never asked Mr Meadows.’
‘So what?’
‘You can’t go painting school buildings without permission from—’
‘So what?’
Silence.
A whisper. ‘Can I see you outside, Mr Andrews?’
We ran to the end of the hall, turned and stood listening. The girls giggled but Curtis hushed them.
We heard Joy White say, ‘Where’s your class?’
‘Waiting in the room. The girls are crying cos their work’s been painted over.’
Curtis said, ‘Shut up!’
‘Well, if you really want to know, I, and Mr Meadows, thought several of those images were inappropriate.’
‘How?’
‘People’s bottoms.’
Curtis nudged me. ‘Nice work, Clementine.’
‘And the one with the girl giving the finger.’
‘You want them to paint flowers?’
‘Don’t put words in my mouth. Giving the finger to someone who looked like the Pope. Was it the Pope?’
‘It was a statement about birth control.’
‘And you think that’s appropriate for a high school?’
‘They’re Year Twelves.’
‘That image was seen by younger children. One told his mother.’
‘Listen, Joy, these kids can think for themselves—’
‘And she rang regional office and complained. And they rang me.’
As Nick had explained, the truth was a slippery eel.
‘The point is, you coulda talked to me before you started painting over it.’
‘You had no right discussing Mr Moore with them.’
Silence.
‘It makes me wonder what else you talk about. You’re not one of them, Nicholas. You’re a teacher, apparently.’
One of them. The distinction that mattered.
‘I heard what you said,’ she continued.
‘If they ask …’
‘No, they’re children.’
She was wearing him down with facts.
‘You’re gonna paint over all of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re not all offensive.’
‘You should’ve asked. They’ll attract graffiti. They already have.’
‘But I …’ Like he realised there was no point. Maybe it had come from a life believing in the redeeming power of art. Like Curtis said: abandon all hope.
Saturday morning. Curtis had worked out that hot women (his words) liked to have funky cars (his words). Personalised plates, Playboy stickers and car seats. Therefore, my room was the place to be. As they arrived, parked, went in to see Ron Glasson, re-emerged, waited for him to measure up. Curtis was there, focusing, describing, saying, ‘D’you reckon she’s got a boyfriend?’
‘Look at her … probably. Anyway, what are you gonna do? Go out and tell her you’ve been perving on her?’
‘That’s not how it’s done.’
‘Do tell.’
‘Stroll out and say something like, Some sheep died for you. Then stop …’ But he realised there was no way. ‘Just watch I s’pose. Look how short she wears that—’
Mum. A quick knock and she came in, handed me a pile of freshly ironed shirts and said, ‘What are you two up to?’
Curtis said, ‘Clem’s showing me how his telescope works.’
Mum glanced out the window. ‘That’s a bit unsavoury, isn’t it, Curtis?’
‘What?’
‘You know …’ There was no point continuing. ‘How’s John settled in?’
Curtis pushed the telescope towards me. ‘He worked with Dad for a few days, but chucked it in.’
‘Why?’
‘Cos he’s John.’
‘What’s he gonna do now?’
Curtis stared at the shag pile, as if this was a question he shouldn’t, couldn’t answer. ‘You know … Mum’s a bit worried.’
Mum must’ve thought, fresh clothes, new day, no time for dragging your tail. ‘I’m sure it’ll work out. Some people need a while to find their way, don’t they, Clem?’
‘Why you asking me?’
She didn’t reply; smiled; lifted an eyebrow. ‘He keeps a book, don’t you, Clem? Where is it?’
I’d hidden it.
‘Writes down all his thoughts … don’t you?’
I refused to reply.
/> ‘Like Anne Frank. And he’s made little notes about everyone. I’m sure you’re in it too, Curtis.’
‘He can write what he likes, Mrs Whelan. Doesn’t bother me.’
Mum realised it wasn’t going to work. ‘Says a bit about Mr Glasson, don’t you, Clem? Reckons he’s—’
‘Mum, thanks for the shirts.’
‘—got a dozen children lined up behind sewing machines, making the car seats. Apparently Ron had some sort of sect, and multiple wives …’
I stood and helped her from the room, but she was giggling.
‘… and now …’
I closed the door and reclaimed the eyepiece. ‘Sorry.’ Mr Glasson had gone, but the girl was standing, fanning herself with one of his brochures. ‘She’s getting hot.’
Curtis grabbed it. ‘They’re fuckin’ enormous.’
‘Why’d he quit his job?’
‘Sacked. Told some guy to fuck off. He’ll end up back at McNally’s.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Those dicks he went to school with, round the block. I saw him with them … There’s an older brother, and he’s been to prison.’
‘So what can your parents do?’
He looked up. ‘We should take some photos.’
‘Isn’t that against the law?’
We waited. Mr Glasson returned with car seats and started fitting them.
‘They’re doin’ break-ins again?’
‘Probably.’
‘Shouldn’t you tell someone?’
‘Why? It’s not my problem. It’s better when he’s gone.’
Curtis just didn’t get it. Or did, but didn’t care. John was like some stranger who sometimes stayed in their house. It’d started with shoplifting: chips, drinks from Don’s, a few titty mags, then (not realising he was on CCTV) a session with his mates snapping antennas off Fords in the car yard. Police visit number one. Then, they’d broken into Gleneagles Primary, stolen radios, cassette recorders, petty cash and an overhead projector they’d later smashed in a creek (covered with their fingerprints). Visit number two. This time they’d arrested him, taken pictures and dragged Anne and Gary to the station to see what their future would look like. Court date, good behaviour bond, but then they were back at it. Shops, till, money. More visits. Court. Three months at McNally’s. Released. One of them had distracted the girl at the BP and John had cleaned out another till. Another visit. Another three months.
