by Stephen Orr
It’d taken me a while to call. I’d held the number in my hand, sweated it clean, wondered if there was any point, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Nick was gone. I’d phoned, my finger shaking in the holes. Awkward. Enough words to arrange a meeting close to where he’d got a new job as a designer in a print shop.
He called across the café. ‘Short black.’
Flat white seemed inadequate. I was drinking Lanark Avenue; him, Ellman Street. He wore an old T-shirt, holey, food-stained; I had a nice shirt Mum had ironed. He’d bearded up, but I’d shaved (the bit I needed to). He’d moved on; I’d stayed behind.
Soon things loosened, and he started telling me about it. ‘It was fuckin’ ridiculous …’
Fucking. I was right in the middle of it now. Relationship bust-ups, Nazis, prostitutes, teachers so bad they got sacked. I was living the life. What was that smell? Of course, weed. And by the look of Nick’s eyes, he’d been into it too.
‘I was called in and they slid this bit of paper over the desk. Mr Andrews, you haven’t responded to our suggestions. And I said, Cos they’re fuckin’ stupid.’
‘What suggestions?’
‘A form they give dodgy teachers. “Guidelines for Appropriate Conduct in the Classroom”. You know, be a mature role model … shit like that. I said, If I do what’s on there I won’t be much of a teacher. And White said, That’s just the point. You’re not their friend, you’re their teacher.’
He thought about it some more; maybe these were new thoughts.
‘That’s what I reckon, Clem. These people never succeeded in teaching, you know, at a personal level. They didn’t have those skills. So when they got to run things … See, that’s the world. Loada bullshit. But if you say that you’ll never have a quiet moment.’
This seemed fair. Only the Ron Glassons of the world had peace, and that was because they were always keeping their head down, refusing to engage.
‘I told White it was a load of old bollocks and she said, Fine, that means we have to move you on, and I said, What’s that mean? She said, How it sounds.’
‘Move you on?’
‘Apparently there were a few schools I could choose from. Most of them completely feral, or a thousand kilometres from anywhere. Places where, I guess, they figured I couldn’t do any damage.’
‘And you said?’
‘I said, Fuck yers. Take your job and stick it up yer arse.’
I smiled, imagining it. ‘How’d she respond to that?’
‘Well, Mr Andrews, that just proves what we’ve suspected all along.’
‘I can hear her saying that.’
‘You poor bastard. Stuck there.’
‘Only another few months. I wanted to drop out, but Mum wouldn’t let me. I still might.’
‘No, you won’t. Few more months. You’re a smart kid. You need to go to uni. You don’t wanna let them get in your way.’
The boyfriend got up and left. She lingered, looking out the window, but not at him. I guessed it was for the best and he’d find someone better, and she would too, and they’d get married and have kids and not even remember this day.
‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘we were all pissed off. We complained, and then started a petition.’
‘No fucking way.’
‘Whole class signed it, and Peter, next door, said don’t give it to the school cos they’ll just bin it. He said to send it to regional office, which we did, but …’
‘Nothing?’
‘Not yet.’
‘They’d be an even bigger bunch of pricks than White and her little cocksucker.’
Cocksucker. Good stuff. Lennon in his unmade bed.
‘And the fool we’ve got now.’
‘Like you said, coupla months, then you don’t have to listen to it. Then you become famous and paint them or write about them and for the rest of history people will remember what you said, not what they’ve done.’
This was a nice thought. ‘It was good with you. We all thought we could, you know, get to do what we really wanted.’
‘You can.’
‘I guess it’s only April.’
‘You’re what, seventeen? Look at me, thirty-three, working for nothing, drawing shit for brochures.’
‘Can’t you find something else?’
‘One thing about teaching. It paid okay. But the more you get paid the more you need to keep yer trap shut.’
Just what Lennon had said.
‘So I feel better,’ he said. ‘When I get up and slip on me pants I know I’m not gonna have to face White, or some other arse. That’s more important, eh, Clem?’
‘I reckon you’re right.’
‘That’s why you phoned, wasn’t it? Cos you wanted to know? I mean, you only go round once.’
Fighting Dementia. Nick noticed, read the title and said, ‘There you go. Keep teaching art at Gleneagles then you start forgetting where you left your keys, your car, your house. Quite fuckin’ pitiful, really.’
‘I guess.’
He smiled. ‘You always said that: guess, guess, guess. Who’s got dementia?’
‘Pop.’
He drank his coffee in one go. ‘Bit of a shit. What did he do for a living?’
‘Mechanic. He loved it … loves it.’
‘I hope he’s okay, Clem. But I reckon you’ll look after him.’
It was then I realised Nick wasn’t coming back to Gleneagles, and he wouldn’t teach me again. No instruction on media, and drawing line, perspective, or how to think about art, people, life. No more words, even. Nothing.
‘You gotta say hello to everyone,’ he said. ‘Especially Curtis. He’s a mad bastard.’
I studied the sheets: shapes to name, number sequences to complete, words to remember (noticeable circumlocution of synonym substitution). This need to define and describe always let you down. ‘So, I guess I’ll be seeing you.’
He waited. ‘Keep painting.’
I knew it was my time to get up, go out, walk away. I hope he watched me go, and I guess he would’ve checked the envelope I left on the table, with my stencil, Mr Bulljaw, and the note saying he could use it if he wanted.
Pop stormed around the house, lifting cushions, searching drawers, upturning the laundry basket and feeling pockets. ‘Mighta left it at the servo,’ he said to Mum.
‘You want me to ring them?’ she asked.
‘Hold on.’ Behind the old bar that’d never been stocked, the magazines on the coffee table, the pantry, even. ‘Enough to give you the shits.’
‘Stop and think,’ Mum said.
He tried, standing in the middle of the lounge room. ‘I always put it in the same spot.’
The telephone table, as you walked in: wallet, keys, hanky, smokes, lighter. The essentials, lined up ready for another day. Only now minus his wallet.
‘How much was in it?’ Mum asked.
‘How would I know?’
‘You don’t have to bite my head off.’
‘Twenty, thirty … Christ, I always put it there.’
Fighting Dementia. I tried to remember the bit about forget fulness: names, objects, places. I went into his room, checked his bedside table, in his underwear drawer: singlets, socks, the lot. Nothing. Out to the car, under the seats, in the boot. The shed: benches, a shadow sheet, on the ground, waiting for the next customer.
When I went in he said, ‘It’ll have to wait.’ He was pulling on his good pants, an old business shirt that had seen weddings, funerals and a few christenings. ‘Mighta been stolen.’
‘Who?’ Jen asked.
‘That’s what happens now. You leave your door open, someone comes in and helps themselves.’ He pulled on socks and his shoes, freshly polished.
Mum said, ‘Why you doin’ this?’
‘Gotta try.’
‘For him?’
He tucked in his shirt, tightened his belt, and Mum said it was John’s interview, not his. ‘Yer wasting yer time. Even if he gets it. Coupla weeks, you see.’
; ‘It’s not how you fix things, is it?’
She shook her head. ‘He hit Anne.’
‘I’ll leave off the jacket.’ He felt his pockets. ‘Feel naked without me wallet.’
‘If you’re gonna tell Harry he’s some sort of angel—’
A knock on the door. John came in, dressed in a pair of Gary’s shiny slacks, a too-thin tie and pointy boots that sent the wrong message. ‘How do I look?’
Mum just smiled. She was good at insincerity.
‘Is it a bit much?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Pop said. ‘He’ll appreciate that you’ve gone to the effort. You done your résumé?’
John showed him the few, stapled pages. I wasn’t sure why Pop was doing this. There were limits to how much you could help a neighbour’s kid, and it wasn’t like Anne or Gary were overly thankful.
‘Got a good feeling,’ John said.
‘That’s nice,’ Mum replied, still smiling, as if to say, Should we care?
‘I’d like to work a bit, then buy a car. A Valiant, eh, Doug?’
‘You bet.’
A Valiant. Like it meant so much to us; to see him coming good, and buying a Valiant.
‘I’ll take you for a ride, Mrs Whelan.’
‘That’d be nice, John.’
I noticed Jen’s face and knew what she was thinking. Careful what you say, John. Nothing about the place you tried to torch with your mates.
‘I’m very grateful,’ he said to Pop. ‘Like … all of yers.’
Mum and Jen just stood back, their heads tilted at strange angles. He said to me, ‘If I get in I’ll see if they got somethin’ for you, Clem.’
Fuck off, dickhead. Any other time you wouldn’t piss on me. But, strangely, I hoped he’d get the job, to keep him out of everyone’s hair.
‘What sorta money do you reckon he’d pay?’ he asked Pop.
‘Don’t worry about that till you get the job, right?’
There was a knock on the door, and the home interview began. Harry Johnson, still in his overalls, came in and slapped Pop on the shoulder. We all said hello, then Mum disappeared to the laundry, Jen to the kitchen and me to the dining room table, and a page of protein synthesis.
‘How are yer, old man?’ Harry asked Pop.
‘I’m alright. You still in business?’
‘Trying … this John?’
He nodded.
‘Nice to meet you, son.’
Pop sat the pair in the living room, offered beer, tea, then coffee. Harry wasn’t interested. ‘You stayin’, Doug?’
‘Can’t hurt, can it?’
Harry asked if he could smoke. ‘You want one, Doug?’
‘No, thanks.’
Then he turned to John. ‘So, John, Doug tells me yer good with yer hands.’
‘He can dismantle a four-cylinder engine,’ Pop said. ‘A Gemini, in an hour.’ He slowed, stopped, responding to Harry’s raised eyebrows. They both waited for John.
‘I don’t have any problems with that, Mr Johnson.’
‘Good … and John, you reckon those skills will transfer to panel beating?’
‘I reckon. I’ve done a bit … anyway, if you take the job nice and slow.’ He turned to Pop for approval, who said, ‘He’s methodical, Harry.’
Harry said, ‘You should let John tell me, Doug.’
Pop sat silent.
‘Like he said, Mr Johnson, I take me time, study the manual, ask other’s people’s opinion.’
Bullshit, I thought.
‘That’s very important,’ Harry said, ‘We gotta lotta good people, and they’ll help you learn if you ask, but if you think you know everything—’
‘He’s not like that,’ Pop said.
‘Doug.’
Jen came into the room and handed Pop his wallet. ‘Found this in the fridge.’
‘What was it doing there?’
‘You left it there.’
‘Why would I leave it in the fridge?’
But she just returned to the kitchen.
John: ‘I reckon I’m happy to listen and learn, Mr Johnson. That’s what I been doin’ with Doug.’ He handed Harry his résumé, and he checked it. ‘Didn’t finish school?’
‘Year Ten, nearly.’
‘Pity, good to have a bita maths and English to write quotes.’
‘He can write,’ Pop said. ‘And he’s good with numbers … right. Sorry.’
John said, ‘School wasn’t for me.’
‘You didn’t fit in?’
He took his time, as Pop had recommended. ‘No, just about King Richard and … I like to get on with things.’
‘But what if you get bored with sanding panels?’
‘No, I don’t reckon.’
‘From what I’ve heard …’
Pop said, ‘All that business, I only mentioned it …’
Harry stared at John.
‘Yes, I have been a bit of an idiot, but there’s one thing I’m good at, Mr Johnson. And I wanna have a go. So I guess you’d have to take a risk, wouldn’t you?’
‘You stole stuff?’
‘Yeah. I’s a fuckin’ … sorry, I’s an idiot.’
‘And you’re no longer an idiot?’
‘No … I’m not sayin’ …’
‘How long you been outa McNally’s, John?’
‘Not long.’ And his shoulders slumped.
‘Don’t lock you in there for stealin’ lollies, do they?’
‘No, sir. No, Mr Johnson.’ Looking down at the carpet.
‘And I wanna feel safe. My business …’
John looked up long enough to accuse Pop with his eyes. I wondered, again, why Pop was falling for this shit.
‘John?’
‘Yes, Mr Johnson?’
‘You tell me why I shouldn’t find someone with a clean slate. Someone’s at least finished Year Ten?’
‘I don’t know.’
Harry sucked his smoke and examined the boy forensically. ‘I did six months in prison before I started. Bet Doug didn’t tell you that?’
‘No, sir … Mr Johnson.’
‘Needed that to wake me up.’
Silence. Just the sound of the washer.
‘So I don’t mind a few rough edges. What do you think, Doug?’
‘I think.’
Harry extended his hand, and John shook it.
‘Six months’ trial. I’ll give you Friday afternoons in exchange for Saturday mornings. Hundred and eighty a week. First time you argue … out you go.’
John tried to disguise his smile. For Pop, it was a tongue-round-the-lips, self-satisfied grin. ‘I reckon you won’t regret it, Harry.’
‘I wouldn’t have said if I’d thought that, Doug.’ He returned to John. ‘Six thirty start?’
‘Yeah, I’m just next door. Open at six if you like?’
‘Half six’ll do. You wanna pace yerself, son. Could be a long sixty years, eh, Doug?’
‘Too bloody long, mate.’
After Harry left Pop went next door with John to tell his parents the good news, and I guess Anne would’ve hugged them, and Gary would’ve offered them a beer, and Curtis, sitting with the bionic woman, would’ve said (something like), ‘Nice one, John.’
Warm, with a butterfish breeze. Me, lost in the car yard beside Don’s. Half an hour pricing my first Datsun, if I ever got my licence. I headed home, past the mysterious number 27, a house that’s never entered this story because we never knew its occupants. Some little man, and his wife, who only ever darted between car and front door, and had someone in to mow their lawn. A mystery couple. Maybe the police were after them? Which would’ve been a problem, considering there was a retired copper across the road at number 24 (next to the Rosies’ old place). You’d see him sometimes, on the weekends before he retired, parking his patrol car in the drive, going in for an hour or two. He had a brick house. The only one in Lanark Avenue. Of course, his walls were cracking. You couldn’t build brick on Bay of Biscay, but some people couldn’t be told.
>
It was one of those perfect Lanark mornings: a couple of crows in a tree waiting for something to get run over; the smell of someone’s mock orange and the sound of a toilet flushing, the lid dropping; lemon, even, from someone’s washing; and the buzz from the substation. I walked past the nine-foot fence. The sign (DANGER 60,000 VOLTS) that’d scared the shit out of me as a kid. I’d said to Jen, ‘Careful, don’t touch it.’
‘Why?’
‘Do you know how many volts that is?’
‘You’re such an idiot. Not in the fence. In there, going through the power lines. Why would they have sixty thousand volts going through a fence? Go on, touch it.’
‘You.’
She took my hand, and forced it against the fence, and I said, ‘You bitch!’
‘Sixty thousand volts! You dick.’
Around the corner, past the doctors’ surgery (the smell of menthol drifting across the road) and Kentucky Fried Chicken, the colonel smiling. Down the drive, the Peter—David drone, the bell, in the front door and straight to my room, and my desk. The place Pop’d helped me make models when I was a kid: propeller-less Spitfires abandoned on a melamine apron. I took out the ream of paper and flattened it. This Excellent Machine. Stolen, of course, from someone’s poem. Turned to the first page, and a description of a thinly disguised 31 Lanark Avenue, Gleneagles. The protagonist was a down-market Holden Caulfield. This teenager (Arnold Ruge, courtesy of Ernie’s Marx) was rebuilding a motorbike in his shed. Talking to his grandfather (Barry Ruge). Arnold was trying to convince his pop he didn’t want to return to school. His pop was having none of it.
You, young Arnie, have got a heap of potential …
But, Pop, I hate the place. I want to get out, see what life’s all about.
It didn’t sound like me. Maybe that was the problem? Maybe I wasn’t interesting enough to fill a whole novel? But I’d been told by my English teacher, Mrs Masharin, to write about what I knew. When I thought about it, I didn’t know much. Hadn’t been far. Really, was probably quite dull.
I skipped a few pages, and there I was, little Arnie, helping my grandfather assemble a Yamaha. Of course, I hadn’t done any research about motorbikes, so most of the terminology was Datsun-speak.
Look at that, Pop. Good as new. You’re a deft hand at assembling motorcycles.
I picked up my pen, turned to Chapter Three, and continued writing.
