This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  He seemed surprised I didn’t realise. ‘Well, I’m his brother, eh?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Course I’m gonna …’

  The thought had crossed my mind. If he’d worked as a proper lawyer, earned a lot of money, he could’ve had a nice place and car and holidays, and when Val went, he’d be able to pop Davo in a home where he’d get looked after properly. But people in Lanark Avenue didn’t do that.

  ‘Might have to make some changes, inside,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, we’re applying for some money.’ And he indicated a letter on the table. ‘So we can redo the shower.’

  Something I’d often thought about. The impractical bath, the poky receptacle. ‘How does he …?’

  ‘Mum or me, we gotta use a flannel.’

  Enough said. I wanted to ask, but dared not. A mother, with a son that age. See, this is what I mean. What book tells you about that?

  Write an essay. To understand, they say. But that’s not understanding anything. And why couldn’t the topic be: How do mums clean their disabled sons?

  ‘So you’ll look after him?’ I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Such an obvious question, I suppose.

  ‘Here you say: The persuasive powers of Trotsky were enough to convince the Russian people … but not all of them, surely?’

  ‘Ernie.’

  ‘No doubt. He’s a good talker, but that’s about all.’ He circled the passage, and continued.

  David was ringing his bell. Val came into the kitchen, rubbed my head and said, ‘Keep at it, you two.’ Then she filled a glass with water and went out to him. I heard the door slam, and saw her placing the drink in Dave’s hand, help him lift it, wipe the water from his chin, talk to him, and kiss him on the head.

  ‘That’s what they don’t teach you,’ Peter whispered, as he worked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  But again, no reply. Val stood behind her son and looked at the things he was looking at. Ron and Hester’s closed gate. Les Champness’s shuttered house (a burst of late summer heat). A crow in the middle of the road, picking at something. But nothing, really. Just the possibility of a car driving past, or a skink crawling across the garden, or someone walking along the footpath. Even Ernie, who would acknowledge David because he wasn’t responsible for the cats.

  ‘I could help,’ I said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If I’m still here. You know, if you need help.’

  He almost laughed. ‘You’ve got Doug.’

  ‘Mum can handle him.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve been looking out for him since … the beginning.’

  I knew that. The pictures on the wall. The brothers in a pool their dad had rigged from canvas. Him, Val, watching on. A photo for every year: the boys in short then long pants—Year Four through Twelve, then sideburns and beards, university, graduation gowns. Dozens of photos in the long hallway David was wheeled down dozens of times a day.

  ‘He’s the only one who’ll listen to me,’ he said. ‘And I’m the only one who’ll listen to him. So it works out okay.’

  The endless Peter—David drone, heard from our own kitchen several times a day. Over the six pm news: the number of Russian warheads aimed at Australia. D: That’s because America didn’t deal with them after the war. P: Rubbish. This was always going to happen. Capitalism will eat itself, and it’ll take us with it.

  ‘It’s strange,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t look after my sister.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘She hates me.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean …’

  ‘But you’re different. Brothers, for a start.’

  ‘No different. You’d do it. You will, I guess, somehow.’

  Val had gone. David kept scanning the street: left-right-left …

  ‘Course she’s worried,’ Peter said. ‘Not that he won’t get looked after, but you’re leaving something unfinished, aren’t you?’

  I guessed he was right. A child had be fed, groomed, educated, and eventually launched into the world. Then he or she would drift away from the shore, and find a current. But David would remain moored, bobbing in the waves, waiting for a release that couldn’t come. He’d need to be cleaned and repaired, but couldn’t go. And if that were the case, no one would. That’s why Peter mowed his lawn with a scythe and allowed his beard to gather at his knees. Because there was no rush. Home was forever; you couldn’t leave.

  ‘Some of the phrasing,’ Peter said. ‘Subject, object … who’s been teaching you English all these years?’

  ‘The Brady Bunch.’

  ‘Apparently.’ He looked up. ‘Done.’

  I studied the essay, covered with red scrawl. ‘Needs some work?’

  ‘Write another version, taking in all my suggestions. Then bring it back and we’ll have another go.’

  ‘It’s that bad?’

  ‘It is. You want an A?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You can’t guess. You need to want one.’ He waited. ‘There’s a million kids out there writing the same essay.’

  I thought of giving some statement of personal beliefs. About the man, and the system, and one thing you can’t hide is when you’re crippled inside, and how I didn’t want to play the game, although looking back now, I had no idea what the game was. Me being a dickhead, probably. Disguising my laziness and lack of originality as attitude. The John Lennon of Lanark Avenue. Although Lanark Avenue didn’t need one. What it needed was an A, so the next generation didn’t have to live in fibro houses.

  ‘This is how it happened,’ Peter said.

  ‘How what happened?’

  ‘My dad. When I was a little fella I came home with a D for maths. And he sat where you are, and I sat here, and he said: We travelled all his way, went to all this trouble, and you bring home a D.’

  I waited.

  ‘I felt sort of bad, and said, I’ll get an A next term, and he said, I hope so, cos your mum’d be heartbroken if she thought …’ He stopped, remembering, I suppose. ‘So then he dropped dead, guessing I couldn’t do better than a D. At which point, Clem, I could’ve said one of two things: Well, what’s the point? He’ll never know now. Or: I promised you an A. I’ll get an A.’

  I waited. ‘So?’

  ‘But when the results were in the teacher said, Peter Donnellan, eighty-four, B, and I was gutted. I said: What do I gotta do to get an A? She said, Work harder. Then I told her about my dad and what I’d promised, and do you know what she said?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe next term.’ He smiled, and shook his head. ‘What a bitch!’

  ‘She wouldn’t—’

  ‘But I explained to Mum and she understood. After that I was a different boy. I did what it took, Clem.’ He waved my essay under my nose. ‘Gotta make the choice. You gonna do it again?’

  ‘Righto. Next week.’

  ‘By Thursday.’

  This is what Pop had told me about the Donnellan boys: mowing lawns until the mower broke, then cutting by hand. Delivering newspapers. Up and down the street, knock-knock, Can I wash yer car, Mr Rosie? Gathering bottles and taking them around to Don’s, hanging the washing, cleaning the toilets (until David started feeling stiff), whizzing their way through childhood in search of coins, cleanliness, and high marks. Pop would say, ‘They were stand-outs, Clem. You wanna be like them.’

  ‘It’s not like they’re that successful.’

  ‘Are you kidding? They made something of themselves, Clem. And do you know why?’

  ‘No, Pop.’

  ‘Cos they had to.’

  Peter said, ‘You do five subjects. I can help with more.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  He jiggled his hand through my hair and said, ‘Clemmy baby, who’s all grown up?’

  ‘Get off.’ As I pushed him away.

  ‘Don’t need Uncle Peter’s help no more?’

  ‘I’ll …’

  But he was up, and had me in a neck hold. ‘I
wiped yer bum, I may as well help with yer essays.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘Bullshit.’ He called, ‘Mum!’ Then he grabbed my arm and took me outside to Val, who was removing clothes from the line. He said, ‘Tell him. When Fay left him here, and you were busy, who wiped his arse?’

  Val wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Bottom.’

  ‘Who?’

  Val just smiled at me.

  ‘See,’ Peter said. ‘No secrets, old boy. Fixed that; I can fix your grammar.’

  And here, I thought, seeing where he was standing, the spot you helped me pitch a tent, in preparation for cub camp. Where we spread the canvas, put it up the wrong way and had to start again. Where David brought out Coke and chips and we three (having barred Jen) sat drinking, and you said dirty limericks and your mum came out and told you not to corrupt me, I was only nine, and you said, We’re only trying to help.

  He dragged me around the house, pulling my arm so it lengthened, Mr Fantastic-style. Standing me in front of the faded verandah, he said, ‘You, in a dress.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  And he went to his brother, and turned his wheelchair so he could join in. ‘Didn’t he, Davo? Clem in a dress, and this was his little stage. We all gathered out front and Jen raised the awning and he turned on the tape player. Dancing Queen, young and clean only seventeen …’

  ‘Never did.’

  ‘You can dance …’ Pointing at me accusingly.

  ‘I remember,’ David said.

  Val had come around, without her washing. ‘You did,’ she agreed.

  ‘You can dance …’

  ‘Why would I put on a dress?’

  David was giggling, but he kept turning to check the street. Peter jumped onto the verandah. ‘And we all applauded. Me and Davo, Mum, Mr Champness, Doug, everyone.’

  ‘Never happened.’

  Art changed. Radio off. Lead on cartridge paper, as we all worked. Me, Mr Bulljaw: part-man, part-bull, with horns twice the size of his head. Big nostrils with clag-grey mucus; demonic eyes venting steam into a Lanark afternoon full of unsolved crime. Bulljaw could talk — ‘Yield, Champness. Unhand her!’—as he bleated and farted, rising into the sky, the stars, the outer reaches of the universe.

  Nick had said, Think back to when you were a kid. You picked up a pencil, you wanted to leave a mark. What was it?

  I’d had to think, but then remembered Mr Bulljaw. I was six or seven, the owner of my first Fantastic Four. I’d traced the figures against a window, coloured them and stuck them up around my room. Peter Donnellan had seen my Human Torch and said, Not bad, but …

  What?

  What about you?

  Me?

  Your own superhero. Someone who lives in the crawlspace and comes out when there are problems. I’d said, Give me a few days, and a few days later there I was at the door to number 33, showing Val, David, and my mentor. Saying, Mr Bulljaw.

  Val: He’s a nice lookin’ superhero. What’s he do?

  I’d explained. How he’d charge crims, gore them on his horn, fling them across the universe. I’d explained the source of my inspiration (B—C, pp. 34—35, Beef Cattle) and waited for praise.

  I’d like a copy, if I may, Val had said, and it’s still there, in a frame on her wall.

  I nudged Curtis and said, ‘What do you reckon?’

  He just shrugged and drew an Uncle Scrooge with dollar-sign-eyes. There were fairies and footballers and Jodi Lodge (the girl who never spoke) attempting a dog, although it looked like a sausage with eyes.

  ‘You can still see the murals,’ I said.

  Nick wasn’t happy. ‘He’s gonna do another coat, just to make sure.’

  ‘That’s bullshit, eh?’

  He just turned the page of his book and kept reading. I said, ‘My neighbour’s a lawyer and he reckons they’ve got no right.’

  ‘Clem, it’s not about … what sort of lawyer?’

  ‘He doesn’t work anymore.’

  ‘He never worked,’ Curtis said.

  ‘He did. Told me he wasn’t cut out for it.’

  Nick didn’t want to buy into it. He switched on the radio. Classical, quiet.

  ‘He used to be good. We’ve got this neighbour who used to hit his wife …’

  Curtis poked me.

  ‘And she asked Peter … our neighbour, if she’d help him.’

  ‘When was this?’ Curtis asked.

  ‘He told me.’ I could remember Wendy scampering across the road, Les coming out, asking, You seen Wendy, Clem?

  No, Mr Champness.

  As he walked up and down the road, stopping in front of the Donnellans’. Wendy?

  Looking at me slyly, though I wouldn’t say.

  You in there?

  Picking up a handful of gravel and throwing it on Val’s roof.

  I saw yer. You want a fight, I’ll give you one.

  Then Peter had come out and said, Go in, Clem, and I’d gone in, but stood at the door watching. It’d started calmly, but the voices had loudened and I’d heard respect her wishes and court order and it’s not acceptable. Then Mum and Pop and Jen were behind me and Mum’d said, Come away, it’s none of our business. Pop had said, Les is gonna do him, and Jen had pushed to see, and Mum had pulled us back in and closed the door. I’d gone to my room and looked out and saw Les pushing Peter, and Peter stepping back, then turning and walking in, then Wendy emerging from the front door, approaching her husband, taking his hand and leading him home.

  ‘Problem was,’ I told Nick, ‘he didn’t like conflict. Always wanted people to get along.’

  ‘Painting over murals? What law’s that?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘He should stick to … what’s he do?’

  ‘Preserves apricots,’ Curtis said.

  Nick laid down the book. ‘Despite what I mighta told you, Clem …’ He stopped again. ‘They listened to Lennon cos he had money and wrote songs. But for you and me …’

  I studied Mr Bulljaw. ‘Peter said you should’ve stood up to them.’

  He returned to his book. ‘They give you a letter first.’

  We all waited.

  ‘So it looks like they’ve followed some procedure. But it’s already decided. You’ve gotta go, it’s just a matter of how.’

  ‘They did that cos of the murals?’ one of the girls asked.

  ‘Because I was discussing other teachers.’

  Curtis bit into his lip. ‘That was my fault.’

  ‘No, you asked. Then there’s a second letter.’ He held up a piece of paper. ‘That’s how it’s done, Clem. You think you want a revolution?’

  We continued working. I said, ‘I can get Peter to look at those letters.’

  He closed his book, picked up a Stanley knife and piece of plastic and said, ‘Who’s done?’

  I held up Mr Bulljaw.

  ‘Let’s have you, Clem.’

  The class gathered and he laid the plastic on a cork mat, and on top of this, my bull-hero. He used a pencil to trace over it then started cutting lines to make the shape. ‘Like this,’ he said. ‘Major lines thicker, the hair, here, thin for effect.’

  I could see it. I returned to my spot and continued. We all did.

  Nick sat at his desk, folded his arms and said, ‘That White woman has a face like a car accident.’

  One of the girls explained how she’d never been married, and how it was always the way with that sort.

  ‘Which poses the question: is it morally acceptable to hate someone?’

  ‘Of course,’ Curtis replied.

  ‘You’d know,’ I said. ‘We’re probably all on his list.’

  Nick seemed intrigued. ‘You’ve made a list?’

  ‘No point wasting time with dead ends,’ Curtis explained, then I told everyone about Curtis’s premature adulthood, his first cigarette, vodka from Gary’s cabinet.

  ‘Am I on the list?’ Nick asked, and everyone asked, although Curtis explained he didn’t make a point of discussing his list and h
ow, when he died, it’d be published, with full comments, so people could know their shortcomings.

  ‘What about White?’ one of the girls asked.

  He was enjoying it. ‘Late forties, single, sexually frustrated. There were, no doubt, ambitions, but she failed to realise them and set about making the world pay.’

  We all laughed. Even Nick, who said, ‘Your first mark.’

  And we waited again.

  ‘The most important.’ He stood, approached me and looked at Mr Bulljaw. ‘All done?’

  I nodded.

  He picked up the stencil, approached a cupboard, found a can of black paint and said, ‘Come on, you lot, bring yer stencils.’

  We followed him outside. He shook the can, laid Mr Bulljaw against the wall and sprayed. A few minutes later there seven bull-men. Then he said, ‘Get all the cans. Let’s see what we can do.’

  You’re so small you can’t see above the clothes rack, so you wander, run, hide in women’s skirts, parkas, shirts. Someone’s looking for you, but you feel safe: your legs are poles, feet, wheels, and it’s only a matter of time. So you run again, stopping to check yourself in the mirror, back into the bushes, deep into the darkness. Clem! It’s safe. So you emerge, walking in circles, dipping into discount boxes.

  I sat up, looked out and saw people waiting for covers, and Mr Glasson drifting from car to car. In, out, making small talk, measuring seats.

  ‘Come, let’s drink it while we have breath, for there’s no drinking after death …’

  Ernie making his way along Lanark II. Stopping to rest on fences, cough, fart, wander in and out of his own jungle.

  ‘Down among the dead men …’

  Resting on our tube steel, lighting up, pulling on Fi-Fi’s lead so she wouldn’t get any ideas. ‘He makes a nice cover, missus. You’ll be happy.’

  And the missus just smiled at him.

  ‘He did mine a coupla years back, eh, Ron?’

  He just continued measuring.

  ‘Specially on a hot day,’ Ernie said. ‘Y’ don’t want to burn yer legs. Wool allows your skin to breathe, eh, Ron?’

  He’d had enough. ‘Ernie, Miss Stephens doesn’t want that smoke in her car.’

  ‘Sorry, missus.’ And he stubbed it on the fence. ‘Wash ’em every coupla years, they’ll last. Good quality, eh, Ron? Where do they come from?’