by Stephen Orr
‘Yep. He kept on towards Kalgoorlie, but got lost, and a camel driver helped him. Took him to this camp, and a surveyor named Harding. Lasseter told Harding about the gold, and he believed him, so they back-tracked, looking for it. Anyway, their watches weren’t good enough and they couldn’t get a proper fix, but they got close enough and Lasseter wrote it down.’
They both gazed at it.
‘Then they returned and tried to get people interested, but folks were making good money on the goldfields. Lasseter spent thirty years trying to convince people to fund an expedition. So this friend of mine, he came across it …’
John touched the map, but Pop kept possession.
‘You know, I reckon I saw a documentary of this,’ John said. ‘And they said it was all in his head.’
‘Not at all,’ Pop growled. ‘Me and Clem, we reckon it’s true, don’t we, Clem?’
‘We do, Pop.’
‘Eleven hundred kilometres west of Alice. Of course, I can tell you this, can’t I, John?’ He was emerging from his funk, folding the map once, twice, and putting it in his pocket.
‘Course you can,’ John said. ‘It’s not like I’m gonna go look, eh? I got this apprenticeship to start.’
I heard voices in the driveway: deep, monotonous.
Pop stood, handed John his prize and said, ‘These’ll get you started.’
The voices grew louder. The yard gate opened, and there were footsteps. Mum explaining something. ‘He’s always out here.’
Three figures in the doorway: Mum, a man in a suit, and a copper, a constable. Pop said to them, ‘Funny time for a visit?’
No one responded. John placed the bag on the bench.
‘I’ll leave you, shall I?’ Mum asked.
And she was gone.
The man in the suit looked like a detective. Division 4. Decent pair of burns, and a suit with arms up past his wrists. He said, ‘How are yer, John?’
‘Alright, Mr Craig.’
Mr Craig said, ‘We did check, and it looks like it was his.’
‘So? None of my business.’
‘It is.’
‘You talked to Alan?’
‘He’s next. What say we go for a drive? You tell us your side, we write it down again. Again.’
‘Righto.’ He turned to Pop. ‘Can I leave these here?’
Pop seemed confused, but not Alzheimer’s confused. More, what-have-you-done? Just when I got you a job, and gave you a bag of tools.
They left and Pop sat down and Mum came in to sniff about, then Jen, with her bleached fingertips. Mum said, ‘I told you, Dad.’
‘I showed him the map.’
No one spoke.
‘Mighta been nothin’ at all. Them mates of his, eh?’
‘Yeah, nothin’ at all,’ Mum said, going in, followed by Jen.
Pop repacked his toolbox, complete with map. As he worked he said, ‘Take this over to Anne, will yer?’ He handed me the bag.
‘Shouldn’t you hold onto them?’
‘Na. Once you give something, it’s given.’
The world could be made and unmade. The jungle was real, if you wanted it to be. The bricks could make yurts, or yachts, or the house you lived in. You signed a contract with yourself, to build, to nest. And years later when you found it under your bed, it was still waiting for the Idea. So I made a shed; a box for holding E-Type Jags, tools, old men and their dreams. It was made from all the bricks in the world, but none of them. It held everything, but nothing. Because it was the act of making that mattered. Like the mythical Wilf, raising high the roof beams, clicking his own blocks together on some long-forgotten Saturday morning.
Still a Saturday morning, and still kept inside by the weather. Vertical rain on our gasping roof. A gale working on the corners, lifting iron, as we waited for the crash. I stopped, studied Legoland and listened to the storm. Les ran out and covered his aviary with its tarp, strapped it down, and spoke to his birds. It’s passing, girls! As Wendy waited at the door and said, Come inside, it’s dangerous.
‘There she goes!’ Pop called.
He’d been pacing the house: around the lounge room, the dining room, the kitchen, following the borders, placing one foot in front of the other, and counting. He’d get to the end and say, ‘Sixty-two,’ and we’d just look at him. Then he’d say, ‘That doesn’t sound right,’ and start again, one foot at a time, estimating when something (the old bar, say) stuck out from the wall.
‘Clem!’
I ran out, and realised the real world was calling. Pop pointed out the back window and said, ‘We’re gonna have to fix it.’
The back fence had lost two of its sheets of iron, revealing wooden posts, and Frontline Ford.
‘Come on.’
I followed him out. He was still in his shorts, singlet and slippers. Mum called after us: ‘Dad, come and get something on,’ but he just waved her away.
He picked up the first sheet of iron and tried to hold it in place. The wind was too strong, and blew him back. He fought it. I helped, but the gale ripped the iron from our hands. ‘Hammer, and three-inch nails,’ he called.
I ran to the shed. Mum and Jen were standing on the back porch, watching. Mum said, ‘Tell him to come in. It’ll wait.’
I just shrugged. Pop never listened to me.
‘Dad!’ she called, but he didn’t reply.
Pop had sorted the nails into different-sized jars. Three inch. Then I searched for the hammer.
‘Clem!’ The voice above the howl, above the voice: Mum. I went out and she pointed to the fence. The two sheets of iron were sitting on the ground, but Pop had gone. She said, ‘Jen’s gone after him.’
‘Where?’
‘Through the fence.’
I ran, jumped through the hole, down the lane, past Don’s little toilet with its banging door. ‘Pop?’ To the main road. And there he was, wearing a single slipper, wandering the asphalt. Jen stood calling as cars approached, slowed, drove around him. No one stopped or seemed to care. Soon the traffic had banked up, and one man wound down his window and said, ‘Go home, you silly old fool.’
I ran towards Jen, and noticed Don standing beside her, calling, ‘Please, come in!’
I joined them. ‘Pop, you’re gonna get hit.’
But he wasn’t listening. He was trying to determine the dimensions of the main road. Pacing the distances across a single lane, two, the lengths of gutter, how far from pole to pole. I could see his lips moving, and the numbers coming.
Mum ran up behind us. ‘Dad!’
The cars had banked up a hundred metres. A young man got out. ‘You gonna get him, or what?’
We figured it safe, and walked onto the road. The wind had picked up and it was hard to stay upright. Dirt, bits of wiper blades, even an old hub cap. ‘Dad!’ Mum tried again, but nothing.
Don, still in his greasy apron, stood in front of the cars and lifted his hand. We approached Pop and I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘We gotta go in,’ I said, but he pulled away and continued pacing.
Mum tried, but he did the same, this time pushing her away.
Motorists were sounding horns, and the sky cracked and opened and the rain started again. Light at first, but within seconds, crashing down.
Jen was determined. She took his arm, but he turned, glared at her and said, ‘You can’t have it.’
She waited, unsure.
‘You can’t. It’s mine. I was given it. Forty-two paces, from lane to lane.’
She went around behind him and tried to push him onto the footpath. He lifted his hand, struck her across the face and she fell onto the road. He stared at his granddaughter and saw what he’d done. She spat, and it was blood. Don, the drivers, even the lady from the homebrew shop; they all saw it. Pop ran to the footpath, past the dealership, heading north along the main road. Jen, still holding her face, moved to safety. None of the motorists cared enough to pull over.
‘I’ll go,’ I said.
‘I’ll come,’ Mum in
sisted.
‘No, go get the car. Pick us up.’
I ran through rain, dust, leaves. I knew where he’d be. Through blue metal, whipping up across the basketball stadium car park. I sprinted, and noticed him in the distance. ‘Pop!’
He heard me above the storm, stopped and turned back, but continued shuffling.
In the primary school gate, of course.
I caught up, went into the milk shed and saw him panting, searching the ground for road and direction. ‘That was a bit rough,’ I said.
No response.
‘You cold?’
I realised Mum and Jen wouldn’t know where to look. But I couldn’t leave him alone, contemplating lost reefs.
‘We need to fix that fence,’ I said.
‘It’ll wait.’ But he still didn’t look at me.
I was shivering, but he didn’t look cold. White, bluey flesh and veins and bone that you could see through tissue.
‘They got rid of my map,’ he said.
‘They always get rid of it. That’s why you have to keep drawing it, Pop.’
‘I haven’t got any chalk.’
‘We can come back tomorrow, and you can do it.’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t reckon.’
‘Why?’
No reply. But it was obvious. ‘What’d I do, Clem?’
‘Happened quick, eh?’
‘What’d I do?’
‘You got confused, Pop.’
He searched the ground. ‘I was counting it, Clem. Seemed like if you could work out how big … seventy-two, three, four steps, and yer right.’ He looked at me. ‘I didn’t break anything, did I?’
‘No.’
‘She’ll be angry.’
‘She’ll understand.’
‘Seventy-three, seventy-four … you gotta keep usin’ it, Clem. Gotta have a goal.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
He seemed to settle with the thought. ‘If we could find it, even if it was smaller than they say, it’d set you and Jen up for life.’
‘The reef?’
‘I been checking, and the price of gold just keeps goin’ up and up. You’d have enough for your grandkids, and theirs. Imagine that.’
‘Be good, Pop.’
‘I know it’s not seven miles long. Maybe it’s seven feet, or inches, but what’s it matter? It’d be enough to make you rich.’
I realised that Pop had to find this thing before the counting and pacing and confusion claimed his ability to reason.
‘Don’t know what I’m gonna say to her,’ he said.
He was shivering. I could see his legs. Two long bones, strapped together, with the suspension shot, but functioning, in the same way Datsuns just kept going, no matter how much you punished them.
‘Righto,’ I said, deciding. ‘We gotta stop talking and get organised.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re the one sayin’ you left it too long. How you can’t listen to your wife, or you’ll never do nothin’.’
‘You can’t, Clem. Women just wanna hold you back. You’re a pay cheque to them, that’s all. They don’t care about gold. They can’t see the big picture.’
‘Exactly. So, we need to decide.’
‘Too right.’ He sat up.
‘We need to work out when.’
As he thought about this, the rain stopped. And as he thought some more, the wind died down. And finally, before he could pass judgement, the sun popped out from behind a cloud. ‘What do you reckon, Clem?’
‘I’ve just gone back to school. That gives me twelve, thirteen weeks before the next holidays. That’d be enough time to get ready, eh?’
‘I reckon.’
I studied the concrete for clues. ‘We got some stuff, haven’t we?’
‘Ground covers, that old tent, but I guess by then—when’s that?’
‘September.’
‘We could sleep under the stars. But we might need swags, maps, cooking pots, grills … heapa stuff. But I gotta bit of cash, Clem. You know, rainy day.’
‘Good.’
But it didn’t feel so good. What if I’d started something I couldn’t finish?
‘We can get all that. We can go, Clem. I’ll even get the Datsun ready.’
‘The Datsun? Would it go that far?’
‘Of course. Ends of the earth. Main thing is, if we say it, we gotta do it, don’t we, Clem?’
‘Of course. September.’
‘September.’ He was upright, animated, the warmth of his blood had coloured his face and body, and he was jumping about, happy (I guess) to be out of his counting cage. ‘But one thing …’
‘What’s that?’
‘We gotta keep it secret.’
‘I agree.’
‘Your mother would find some way to stop it. And imagine, even if it’s just a chunk this big …’ He held out a flat palm. ‘I could end me days sailing the Whitsundays. I seen that in the Post. Beaches as white as … bloody white beaches. And these big mountains. Where they filmed South Pacific, cos it looked better than that.’
I saw how he glowed. That’d be worth the petrol, surely, I thought.
We shook on it and spent the next ten minutes discussing logistics. It was a three-week break. That was more than enough. And three, four hundred dollars, we’d be set to go. As long as we didn’t tell Mum or Jen, which was sort of the same thing.
When we got home, Mum said, ‘We gave up looking.’
Jen was talking funny, because Pop’s fist had split the meaty bit on the inside of her mouth. But that was all. It’d heal, and as he came in, she said, ‘Jesus, Pop, I’m gonna have to look out for you.’
He stood waiting, and she went to him, and he put his arm around her, and she stayed there, like she’d do in her pre-Feres days, when she thought ponytails were an okay hairdo, and Leif Garrett ruled the world.
‘I’m just a silly old man,’ he said.
And then I could see that she was crying. But she wouldn’t lift her head, cos she didn’t want us to see. I guess she was scared of losing him, too.
‘Nothing broken?’ he asked.
A hall with a Country Women’s smell and an urn bubbling in the corner. A raised platform and a spot for the mayor and his deputy (I guessed) and someone taking notes. And in front of this, two long tables, a selection of councillors lined up like they mattered. There was a cricket-Gary, with burns and a wide tie, and a Head of English-Sue, with her hair up, studying her notes; a few middle-aged accountants and a strangely out-of-place Kiernan with ponytail hair and a tie-dye shirt.
We sat along a wall, waiting. Peter said, ‘We’re number two.’
Peter: in a suit he’d salvaged from the back of his wardrobe, yellowing shirt like some nineteenth-century frontispiece, and a woollen tie with a knot like a tumour. His pants were up to his ankles, revealing Menzies socks with crying diamonds and, although he’d polished his old leather shoes, they looked like something he’d worn to school during the Blitz. He smelt like mothballs. He’d combed his hair and beard but it was still Catweazle. He didn’t make a convincing lawyer.
‘What you gonna say?’ I asked.
But he just smiled, like he was withholding a crucial piece of evidence.
There was a portrait of the Queen, and we were made to stand while someone read an oath. Then a sort of town crier said, All ye who have business here, make yeself known, and Peter smiled again, and I said, ‘Is this for real?’
Proceedings began. A man named Moore claimed his neighbour had built a fence six inches onto his land, but the neighbour disagreed. Peter said, ‘I hate this sort of shit.’
‘Weren’t you a lawyer?’ Six years down the drain, I guessed. But if your heart wasn’t in it. ‘Did you have many cases?’
‘A couple, but I lost them all.’
‘You coulda made good money.’
‘Les, that was what done it. I shouldn’t say …’
‘Go on.’
‘One night, there’s Wend
y at the door, and she comes in and says, I’ve decided.’
I waited while he decided. He couldn’t tell me, of course, but guessed (I guessed) a boy needed to know.
‘She says, He hit me again, and Mum puts her arm around her, and I ask her, You want to go to the police? She says yes. So off we go, and they throw Les out and the whole street sees and he screams and …’
A woman looked around and hushed us. Some sort of official (in a pantomime police suit) looked up and said, ‘Quiet, please.’
Then, the fence saga went to mediation.
‘So?’ I asked.
‘He was charged with assault.’
‘She did that?’
‘After some persuading … my persuading, which I never felt good about. But you can’t be faint-tickered if yer gonna be a lawyer.’
It was a revelation. But one the street had chosen to forget.
‘It’d have to go to court,’ Peter said. ‘So the day arrived and I went with her. We got out of the car, crossed the car park and she stopped. She holds my arm and says, I can’t do it. I tell her they’re waiting but she just turns and walks off. And that was it.’
‘What was?’
‘A week later he moved back in, and that was the last we ever heard of it. The last I ever practised.’
Peter’s teeth were yellow. Too many smokes, as he sat listening to scratchy Chopin. It was like he’d perfected imperfection. Come to believe in the crustiness and mothball smell of all people. And having accepted this, set about living with it. There was no point changing yourself, your loved ones, your neighbours. People were, and always would be. You just had to get on with it, make the best of the worst, mow your lawn mechanically, encourage others, spread love like burley on polluted waters, seek the middle path (every day), plan for a future of simple, caring acts (including wiping your brother’s arse).
‘You never had no more problems with Les?’ I asked.
He thought about this. ‘He never mentioned it, Wendy never mentioned it and in time it was like it’d never happened.’
The fence saga was adjourned and the clerk summoned Mr Peter Donnellan, of number 33 Lanark Avenue, Gleneagles. He stood, said, ‘Wish me luck,’ and approached the stand. His singlet stuck out under his jacket. Val had told him to shave, but he’d refused. That’d be like accepting their authority. After all, who’d given these people the right to decide about cats?
