by Stephen Orr
He stopped for breath. ‘That was a good bita writing, eh, Clem?’
‘What is it?’
‘A speech I wrote when I was a delegate.’
‘It’s good.’
‘But I never gave it. I was scared of public speaking. More than six people, forget it. So, this is where it ended up—with the others.’
He took the paper-clipped soapbox speeches out and read the titles: ‘On the Rights of Electrical Workers’, ‘How the ACTU Has Let Us Down’. Then he tipped them out of the box, and another. After this, there was a small mountain of paper on the floor. He said, ‘Every Sunday I’d sit writin’ ’em, while other men actually got up and spoke, and took control.’
He had enough to make a decent fire. They smelled cat-pissy, but everything in his shed smelled cat-pissy. ‘Why didn’t you get someone to read them for you?’
‘Doesn’t work that way, but if I could get this lot published …’
And I thought, No, not really. ‘Communism isn’t so popular now. Not with all those missiles pointing at us.’
‘Taken.’
‘But you’re right, they make a lota stuff in China now, don’t they?’
‘If people hada listened we wouldn’t be losing our jobs. And my other speeches. Coupla hundred, I once counted, and a not a word was spoken. How’s that for a waste?’
‘Bit like Peter,’ I said.
‘How?’
‘Six years at university, and he mows his lawn with a scythe.’
‘You gotta be careful, Clem.’
‘How’s that?’
‘What you do, you make matter, or else you might as well settle in for the day at the Windsor.’
This seemed reasonable. If worst came to worst there was always a stool beside Ernie and a trip outside every hour to make sure Fi-Fi was still on her chain.
‘There they are!’ Ernie said. He stood, picked up a couple of fish nets and presented them to me. ‘Good luck. Make sure you get them all.’
‘You gonna help?’ I asked.
‘I’ll watch.’
Val and Peter stood on their porch. I approached with the nets and said, ‘All ready.’
Val saw Ernie, crossed her arms and stepped back into the shadows. He was content to stand in full sun, on his cracked concrete, watching.
I said, ‘I reckon this is the best way. They look after them real good.’
‘Go on then.’
I dropped the nets, returned home and found the keys to the 120Y. Came out, and drove into the Donnellans’ yard. Parked parallel to the house, got out and sounded the horn. ‘Curtis!’
He came down the street, followed by John, who again, stood watching. He said, ‘No way you can get all them.’
Peter fetched the Whiskas, and bowls, opened three cans, emptied them and tapped the sides with a spoon. The cats knew what it meant. They came out. Slowly at first, sniffing, looking at us and making sure.
‘Go on,’ John said.
‘Wait,’ I whispered.
They took their time, watching us, fighting for the best share.
Ernie almost laughed. ‘Problem is, they’re smarter than you.’
‘Go!’ I said.
I had my net over a tabby, and most of her kittens. Two got away but John chased them across the lawn and gathered them by the scruff. ‘We should just drown them.’
‘No,’ Val said, turning away from the spectacle.
Curtis had messed up. He’d got an old girl, but all of her kittens had scampered. Peter jumped to it—from the porch, across the yard, scooping them into a laundry basket.
Then to the 120Y. Ernie came over and held the back door open. I emptied mine, and they ran about on the seats and the parcel shelf, but Ernie shut them in. Curtis handballed his tabby, and Peter emptied them, one by one, into the Datsun.
Ten minutes of this and we had an empty yard. We all stood looking, but the final few had gone. The others were dancing around in the car, bouncing off the roof, jumping, fighting, and probably pissing. I said, ‘Now’s the bit where I drive them to the pound.’
Everyone waited: Ernie, grinning; John, shaking his head; Curtis, blank. Val turned and went in.
‘They’ll look after them,’ I called.
Peter, shrugging; even David, from his window.
Then Pop came out, down the drive, saw the car and the cats and said, ‘Whose idea was that?’
I wasn’t sure what to say. Fi-Fi wandered out, and started barking at the car. Ron Glasson’s head appeared above his fence.
‘Well?’ Pop asked.
‘I thought we could drive them to the RSPCA.’
‘Bugger me.’ He opened the door, and the cats jumped out.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ Ernie said.
‘Thought so,’ John said, smiling.
Pop turned to Ernie. ‘How about we use your car?’ He put his head in and smelled it. Retreated. Turned to me. ‘You can clean it, right?’ Then went back in.
I studied the picture of Dad. His arms, which might’ve been short, his hands, building our house, my room. I noticed the cornice, and wondered if he’d stuck it on; the window frame, if he’d cut it to size; the paint, even, which he might’ve applied. The house might’ve smelled of him; the cuts, the sanding, the joining were his. But if there was any pride, it had gone. When these mates (who were they? Ex-crims, slicked-hair and barbed wire tattoos?) sat around our dining room table, and said things like, You don’t need to worry about money, that’s easily taken care of.
I opened my wardrobe, lifted the jumble of shoes and deposited him in the mess of shoelaces and Fantale wrappers. He could wait there, in the same way I’d had to. He could think about what he’d put me through, and feel bad. He could come to realise that he should’ve replied: No, fellas, I got too much at stake. I’ll get a job, soon.
Pop, outside, setting the sprinkler on the lawn, turning it on, stopping it, moving it, trying again.
24/iii/84. The lawn isn’t so important. It’s the idea of lawn. Related to sport, in the suburbs. Running, sweating, recording scores, winner, loser, the team as tribe. One man as part of many, so that any failure (or insecurity) belongs to all, not one. Therefore, the possibility of bliss, each week …
Pop sat on the fence and watched the fountain. There were gaps, but if you watered enough it’d all get wet, surely. He liked watering. It didn’t make the grass any greener, because you couldn’t make summer any cooler, the sun any kinder.
When I checked again he was talking. Les and Wendy Champness, in their church clothes, clutching Bibles. I sat back, but peered from behind the blinds. Wendy said, ‘A big year, I suppose?’
‘Long as he doesn’t screw it up,’ Pop said. ‘Got a good head, make a good engineer, long as he doesn’t get any ideas.’
‘Like what?’
‘That guitar … writes his own songs. Thinks he’s John Lennon. Then there’s that mate of his. We wanna keep them apart.’
‘You can’t,’ Les said.
‘Clem reckons he’s made a list of everyone he hates.’
‘We on it?’ Wendy asked.
‘Then there’s the brother …’
They all bowed heads. Les said, ‘I just make sure we lock the place when we go out.’
‘Yes,’ Wendy said.
‘Off to church?’ Pop asked.
‘Yes,’ Les replied. ‘See if he’ll forgive us this week.’
‘For what?’
‘Nothing in particular, Doug. Them birds too noisy?’
‘Na, they’re okay.’
‘Take care of yourself.’ And they continued, hand in hand.
Raised voices from number 29. Anne versus John, by the sound of it. Pop stood, took a few steps, then waited.
‘Wasn’t me.’
‘Carn, tell me.’
A vase or something like it smashing.
Pop walked from our yard, along the fifty or so metres of footpath, and down the Burrells’ drive. I ran out of the house, across the yard (the grass soggy under
my feet) and jumped the fence, then hid under the windows. Inside, the voices continued. John said, ‘You’ve got no bloody idea.’
‘It wasn’t me.’
I heard Pop knocking and say, ‘Anyone home?’ and for a moment the voices stopped.
‘Come in,’ Anne said, and I heard the screen door open and close.
Pop said, ‘I haven’t been in to say hello since you got back.’
Silence. I moved around and sat on the verandah. I could imagine the choreography, the three figures in awkward counterpoint.
‘Settled in?’ Pop asked.
A long pause.
‘John?’ Anne said.
‘I heard!’
‘I wanted to give you a while, get back on your feet. You don’t want some old bastard like me …’
‘John?’
‘I heard him!’
‘You okay?’ Pop said.
‘The discussion, Doug, was about … why don’t you tell him, Mum?’
Nothing.
‘How someone must’ve said something for the cops to know. And you’d think, wouldn’t you, Doug, someone who’s got it in for you. But you wouldn’t think your own mother.’
‘Well,’ Pop said, ‘there’s no use—’
Rustling, like Pop might’ve come between them, like he was holding John back.
‘Nothing of the sort,’ Anne defended.
‘I was about to tell Mum what happens at McNally’s. I’ve told her about the meals and the way they make you play basketball and how you can only watch telly for an hour a day, but I haven’t—’
‘Come on,’ Pop said. ‘I got somethin’ to show yer.’ And a long, slippery silence where I guessed Pop was holding John, walking him towards the door.
I stood and hid around the corner. They came out, and Pop was leading him by the arm, down the drive, towards number 31. I followed at a distance. They went into the shed and I stood outside, listening.
‘There,’ Pop said. ‘Nice mess, eh?’
A minute where, I guessed, John walked around the car, studied the problem and said, ‘You gonna leave it like that?’
‘Yep. That’s the end of my efforts, mechanic-wise.’
‘But he’s gonna want it fixed, isn’t he?’
‘I’d say. You wanna have a go?’
It seemed strange that he’d ask John, but not me.
‘First up, you’re gonna have to lift it again.’
I listened as John gathered the chains, attached them, then started pulling them through the gears.
‘Easy enough, but it’s done a bit of damage.’
And I imagined Pop checking.
‘Yes, that’ll need fixing. Clem said he’ll have a go.’
Clatter, tools, then the clicking of a wrench. ‘All this will have to come off first, Doug.’
It continued. I imagined Pop watching. ‘Seems hard to believe your mum’d dob you in.’
‘Well, she did.’
‘You’ve had some pretty wild days, John. Old bastard like me, might guess how it’d end.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve seen it.’
‘So what?’
‘Things can get away from you. Then, it’s all fucked up, for good.’
Pop knew that John was good with a spanner. But Dad had been good with a saw, so you had to fix the big things before the little ones. No point building a house you couldn’t live in, or having a car you couldn’t drive.
‘Clem’s dad,’ Pop said. ‘You know what happened to him.’
‘Dad told me.’
How come he knew, before me? Had everyone in Lanark II discussed it?
‘Stick to the manual,’ Pop said. ‘Transmission there, see. You could get it going, eh?’
‘What about the panel?’
‘Have to think about that. Your mum mighta said something.’
‘You know?’
‘No, I don’t. But listen, boyo, if I thought it’d help you I’d call the coppers. What d’you think about that?’
No reply.
‘And if she did, good on her.’
‘You don’t know what goes on …’
‘At yer little prison? I could guess, but you knew, didn’t you?’
A silent minute. Pop said, ‘You could just about hammer out those panels, then undercoat it, spray it yerself.’
‘He’d tell.’
‘Not if it was done properly.’
Pop was nothing if not practical. Some things needed fixing, some weren’t worth the effort. Some things you could throw out, some things you couldn’t. ‘Don’t bother with it, John. I’ll tell him I buggered up. I’ll tell him he can take it to Golding’s, and I’ll pay to have it fixed.’
‘It’s not that big a job.’
‘You’re busy with other things.’
‘What about Clem?’
‘He’s busy with study.’
‘I got a bit of time spare, if you want.’
I could see Pop’s face. ‘Well, if you reckon. If you think we could do it?’
‘Easy.’
‘I could give you half the money.’
‘I don’t want it.’
‘You need it. Fixin’ things, that’s the best way to pay the bills, isn’t it?’
‘I guess.’
Again, silence, as the hoist creaked under the weight of the engine.
Curtis’s theory was that if they kept making rules at this rate there’d be nothing we could do. This, in response to the announcement that the canteen was being converted to healthy eating. And we all knew what that meant: no more pies and hot dogs, Coke, chocolate milk and chips. This would impact our ability to make Twistie rolls, the staple of our school diet.
‘No one beyond the first oval,’ Curtis said. ‘No groups of more than three. But how are they gonna stop that?’
‘Quietly!’ Miss White said, from behind her telly-screen glasses.
‘No talking,’ Curtis whispered.
‘Curtis!’
This was the result of stencilling. We’d arrived for Monday art, waited outside the room (with its little white patches where Bulljaw had been painted over) then, Miss White walking towards us.
‘Fuck, no,’ Curtis, and a few others had said. ‘She’s relieving.’
That was bad enough, but I sensed things were worse. Remembered Nick waving his letter, with the suggestion he’d given up caring. Remembered the look on his face, like he’d decided. The tone of his voice, defiant. And I knew: he’d gone (or had been made to go). His comment about the small, smoky-smelling dictatorships that ran the world, and how you could beat them for a while, but not forever, because most people didn’t care enough. The Queen proved this. Religion, too. Most people enjoyed being led, even by bad leaders. It saved thinking and acting for yourself. Ernie had explained this, too. Stalin was no different from White.
He’d gone. Resigned, probably, but maybe they’d tapped him on the shoulder.
When she’d arrived I’d said, ‘Where’s Mr Andrews?’ and she’d replied, ‘He’s away.’
‘Sick?’
‘I believe so.’
But I’d known. I believe so. That was code. Mr Andrews had been dealt with. Mr Andrews was given a chance, but had refused to change. Then she’d said, ‘I’m moving our lesson. Room seven, please.’
‘Not in the art room?’ I’d asked.
‘No.’
Another bad sign. Dictators always controlled their environment, curtailed the possibility of escape, mentally, and otherwise.
We’d gone to room seven. Sixties curtains and fifties wood panelling. Lino: as brutal as the day it was laid. High windows you opened with a pole, just to make sure no one felt the breeze. A blackboard with dried spit-bombs, and a 1982 date.
Curtis glared at White and said, ‘She’s on top of my list.’ He raised his hand. ‘Miss White?’
She looked up from her marking.
‘What’s happening with the canteen?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Ar
e they getting rid of the Twisties?’
Everyone laughed.
‘Yes,’ she said, returning to her work.
‘Why?’
‘So you eat healthy.’
‘But what about our Twistie rolls?’
She laid her pen on the table. ‘I don’t care about rolls. There’ll be salads, stir fries …’
And you could hear the groan, although you couldn’t.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘what’s that got to do with art?’
‘Nothing, but not everyone—’
‘On with your work, please.’
Work: a sheet with printed axes. We were meant to sketch a dog from Art Appreciation for Australian Schools (1963): the arch of the back, the bend of the legs, the droop of the head. It was meant to take fifty minutes and if we finished we should read, because that’s what teachers said if they couldn’t think what to do. Mine was coming along nicely, although it wasn’t much of a dog. Curtis was drawing a combination dragon—Hitler. He’d started with the head and mo and claws and was filling in the rest. ‘No borrowing books at lunch,’ he whispered.
‘Why?’
Then loudly. ‘Miss White, why can’t we borrow books at lunch?’
‘Miss Gillian needs a break. Is this relevant?’
‘Sometimes you need to borrow a book, and if she’s not around …’
‘She has to eat.’
‘If we can’t borrow we can’t work. I had this essay about the Enlightenment …’
‘Curtis!’ She stamped her orthotic on the lino. ‘Are you finished?’
‘Can’t draw dogs.’
‘Well, draw something else.’
‘When’s Mr Andrews coming back?’ I asked.
‘I told you, I’m not sure.’
‘Is he crook?’
‘Clement, isn’t it?’
‘Clem.’
‘If I knew, I’d tell you.’
Lying bitch, I thought. Who was it? You? So, I thought I’d try a Peter Donnellan tactic. ‘Someone reckons he was sacked.’
She didn’t respond. The clock tried to tick, but didn’t. None of our clocks ticked. There was a rule against time, apparently.
‘Miss White?’
She took a deep breath and said, ‘There might be a new teacher.’
Everyone said their little bit. One of the girls said, ‘Cos of what he did?’
She raised her voice. ‘Thank you.’ And waited for quiet. ‘I’ll be honest. He’s had enough; he said he wanted to move on.’
