by Stephen Orr
Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …
Even I could remember the song, scratchy, like it was being played with a knitting needle. Me and Jen, with our bowl-cut hair and sticky fingers, saying, Carn, Pop, let’s go on that one! The carousel. Fifteen horses with peeling bridles and fading paint jobs. Going around and around. Daisy, Daisy …
Pop smiled. ‘Now I remember.’
‘What?’ Mum asked.
‘Why I wanted to come.’
Pop leading us, putting us on our horses and standing between us in case we fell. Round and round. Daisy, Daisy … Singing along, climbing on a horse and riding side-saddle. And when the ride ended, too soon, he said, Carn, fella, give the kids a bit longer, which he did, because even back then no one was waiting.
Pop stood, shuffled towards the carousel, and we followed. He didn’t buy a ticket, or say a word. Just climbed on a horse and sat waiting.
The man saw what was happening and started the ride. Faster and faster. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …
He waved, and Mum turned to us and said, ‘See, it’s happening.’
Pop stared out, beyond the sideshows, to the sea. It was big. A mystery. But only he understood it.
I’d torn the star chart from the paper, waited for dark and headed outside. Then set up the TK25 in the middle of the front lawn and started searching.
Orion. That was easy enough. Topped and tailed by Betelgeuse and Rigel. Then Ernie walked past, on the way home. He pulled Fi-Fi down the drive, and I told him where to look, but he just stumbled and nearly knocked the whole thing over.
Close by, Taurus, galloping across the sky. Leo. Broken back. Diamondhead. Ron Glasson came down his drive with his bin, parked it on the footpath and saw me. ‘Any luck?’
‘Some.’
He seemed intrigued. Unusual, as nothing in Lanark II ever interested him. He studied the sky and said, ‘Too much high cloud.’
It didn’t bother me. It was misty, and you could see through it. ‘I got Orion.’
‘That’s easy. What about Gemini? Castor? Pollux?’
I checked the chart. ‘Where are they?’
He crossed the road with a little limp and came down our drive. I handed him the chart and he said, ‘This is out of date.’
‘It was in today’s paper.’
‘No doubt, but they put any crap in. Not like anyone’s gonna notice.’
I waited as he took out a hanky, spat on it, polished the lens and looked. ‘It’s very weak.’
‘I haven’t used it a lot for …’
He almost shook his head, but smiled. ‘There, that’s something.’
I checked. A couple of big ones, pulsing: one yellow, one white.
‘Virgo. Spica. Second magnitude.’
‘Virgo?’
‘Right on the Milky Way. More interesting than watching Les scratch his arse, eh?’
‘I guess.’ I couldn’t remember ever seeing him up close: his broad nose, white whiskers, little eyes and brows so thin they looked like they’d been shaved. ‘You seem to know ’em.’
‘I should.’
‘Why?’
While he spoke he kept searching: ‘Physics degree. Master’s. Then the start of a PhD in astrophysics. Taurus. Look, while the sky’s clear.’
I could see the bull in full flight, and asked, ‘What happened to your PhD?’
‘Lots of things.’
Hester came out, saw us talking and waved. Ron said, ‘Be in soon.’
‘No rush. How are yer, Clem?’
‘Good, ta, Mrs Glasson.’ And she was gone.
‘Like what?’ I said.
He seemed surprised I cared. ‘Dad got sick, and we needed someone to take over the business. Make more from car seats than astrophysics.’
‘You coulda been a professor, made a tonne of money.’
‘Coulda, shoulda, but none of that matters. Mum was sick, my sister wasn’t interested, so I got to …’ He’d had enough. The past was so long ago none of it mattered. All of the adults in Lanark II thought like this. I guessed you had to. You worked, put food on the table, watched The Two Ronnies, slept, and everything was good.
He said, ‘All these years you been lookin’?’
‘Only cos I’s interested. I wanted to see how people worked. Now I know enough, I’m writing a book about it all.’
‘And what did you learn, from all these observations?’
‘I dunno. People are hard to understand.’
‘Hard? And what about me and Hester?’
I felt he was using his scientific skills to examine me. ‘You like to stick to yerselves.’
‘Why?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Watchin’ us wasn’t gonna tell you that. Askin’ us might’ve.’ He smiled at me.
‘So, why do you keep to yerselves?’
‘Mind your own business.’ He found more stars, and showed me, then the cloud moved over and we waited, and he found more, but by then I’d lost interest in astronomy. There were other questions needed answering. ‘There must be a reason.’
‘All these years of looking, and you still don’t know. You must be using the wrong method.’ He moved the telescope. ‘There, Jupiter, just above the bull’s head.’
I checked. ‘Never woulda noticed.’
‘You gotta know what you’re looking for.’
His face was flat and his lips were thin.
‘D’you ever think of finishing your study?’
‘Yep, but I haven’t. Won’t. I got it pretty good now. If you spend yer time thinkin’ you can do better—’
‘But you could do better. Gleneagles is a dump.’
‘You haven’t had much to compare it to.’ He reached out and messed my hair, like I was still seven, like he’d been waiting all these years to do it. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I better get going.’
‘And yer not goin’ to tell me?’
‘No.’
I watched him go. If he’d always wanted to talk, and kid me, and mess my hair, he could’ve a million times. But he hadn’t. Quite the opposite. And there was that look of his, like he thought me and Curtis were planning something.
‘Clem?’
A talking bush. I studied the shadows on the diosma.
‘Is it clear?’
‘Yeah.’
John sat forward, and I noticed his face, cut, smeared with oil or mud or whatever it was.
‘Don’t look … you fucking idiot.’
I pretended to look at the stars. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Is Doug in?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I wanna see him.’
‘Out here?’
‘No.’
‘Wanna wait in the shed?’
We ran across the yard, down the drive, into the shed. When we were there he said, ‘Tell him I’m here.’
He wore overalls, and a blue jacket. There was a backpack, with clothes falling out. His hair was shaved, with fresh scars underneath.
‘Stop fuckin’ staring and go get him.’
I really hated John. I always had, always would. I’d always thought it was okay to fuck up, but when people offered help? ‘Do you want something to drink, eat?’
‘Yeah, whatever you got.’
I went in, found Pop on the lounge and said, ‘Somethin’ needs doin’ in the shed, Pop.’
‘What?’
I couldn’t think. ‘I’ll have to show you. But I need you now.’
He glared at me, then relented. As we went I grabbed a bottle of Coke from the fridge. He said, ‘Can’t it wait?’
We went in and John was sitting on a pile of tyres. Pop said, ‘Jesus.’
John stood, took the Coke, opened it and drank. ‘I got out.’
‘Got out?’ Pop asked.
‘Got away.’
‘You bloody idiot.’
‘They were moving me from the remand centre, and one of them left the van unlocked.’ He didn’t seem concerned. Just finished the Coke, and force
d the bottle into my hands. ‘I had to, Doug.’
Pop moved, and claimed the tyre throne. ‘Now they’re gonna think—’
John approached Pop and knelt. ‘It doesn’t matter. Alan said I was in it with him, but I was at home. I didn’t steal no grog. I didn’t steal anything. I was waiting to start my new job.’
‘If you didn’t, everything’ll be fine. We’ll go back and tell them—’
‘I’m not going back.’
‘What else you gonna do?’
‘If I could get some money—get a bus, go interstate.’
Pop took a moment to think. ‘Harry’s given the job to someone else.’
John sat on the crumbling concrete. ‘I guessed he would’ve.’
‘But don’t worry about that, there’re plenty of jobs. Plenty of places want good people. We’ll get this sorted then I’ll talk to a few other fellas.’
‘It doesn’t matter, Doug. They’ve decided.’
Pop leaned forward so his head was close to John’s. ‘You didn’t nick nothin’?’
‘No.’
‘Then there’s no proof.’ He stood and pulled a swag out from its hiding place. ‘Here, roll this out. Clem and I’ll get you some food.’
‘No.’
We waited.
‘You couldn’t lend us some money, could you, Doug?’
He stood with his hands on his hips. ‘Why?’
‘Got a few people I know.’
‘What sorta people?’
‘They’ll help me get sorted. There’s no use staying here.’
Pop thought about this. ‘I got a few dollars, but I’m not sure what yer gonna use them for.’
‘Don’t worry, Doug. These fellas are okay.’
Pop went in. I waited, silently. John just stared at the floor. I said, ‘I could drive you where you need to go.’
He bit a fingernail, spat the residue. ‘I can walk. Just don’t say nothin’.’
Pop returned with a handful of money. He made John stand, then counted out three hundred dollars. ‘That keep you going?’
‘Thanks, Doug. You’re a lifesaver.’ He picked up his backpack.
Mum was at the back door. ‘You two coming in?’
‘Just let us know what’s going on,’ Pop said. ‘Phone us, right?’
‘Done.’
Three hundred dollars. I’d assumed his Lasseter money was quarantined. There were plenty of things he could’ve spent it on, but didn’t. Mum hated the 120Y. She’d left the 180B brochures around the house, but Pop had just put them in the bin.
John opened the shed door, checked it was clear, and was gone.
I said, ‘Reckon you’ve done your dough, Pop.’
He didn’t argue. ‘Sometimes these things are decided for you.’
The skipping woman, again. Around the block, back, never slowing. No singing, no smile, no emotion. I could set my clock by her appearance. This tall, African miracle of locomotion. Mum came in and said, ‘Anything?’
‘I’ll let you know.’
My job: to say when Les went out, so she could head over with the esky and return with the dirty dishes and washing. This routine three times a day, as we kept saying to Wendy, ‘So, what should we do?’ And she kept repeating: ‘He’ll be ready soon.’
I didn’t mind so much. Kraftwerk kept me happy, the electro-disco rhythm filling my room with Euro-vibe. Flat tyre on the paving stones … I stood, jiggled about, let my head roll and my shoulders sway. Jen came in and said, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Kraftwerk.’
‘So gay.’
The bike is repaired quickly …
Mum, in the doorway, ‘Are you watching?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not. You’re dancing. What is that rubbish?’
The skipping woman, again, but I barely noticed, rewinding. The hell of the north: Paris-Roubaix …
Pop walked down the street in a sort of counter-orbit to the skipping woman. ‘Pop,’ I called, but he didn’t hear me, just passed down the street, around the corner, shuffling like some sort of prototype robot.
I checked the scope for Les, but there was no sign of movement. Then a face, popping up from beneath my window frame.
Hey, Clem.
Hey, Arnold.
What cher doin’?’
Waitin’ for Mr Lawrence to go out.
Why?
You know. Why do I gotta tell you?
You don’t.
Arnie’s face was dirty, food, gravy, something. He showed me his arm and said, Look.
Nice. A deep graze starting at his wrist and finishing at his elbow. I said, How d’you do that?
I was riding along and saw Cicely and that Rattle girl. I thought I’d be smart and rode up to them at a million miles an hour and jammed on the brakes (thinking, you know, a Dukes of Hazzard skid). But it was blue metal and the bike went from under me and I kept going, on my arm, and …
Pretty dumb thing to do.
You can talk.
Pop, again. ‘Pop.’
He glanced back, but didn’t stop.
‘Pop?’
Past the skipping woman, who seemed to be bouncing even higher.
Written any more? Arnold asked.
A bit.
All that sorta stuff, it’s personal … you shoulda asked me.
D’you mind?
Na. Just nothin’ about the brown bags.
I’ll change yer name.
Promise?
I promised, but I lied. The same brown bags they put your groceries in at Woolies. ’Cept it was your pissy pants and you had to carry them home every afternoon and other kids would ride past and say, Pissy pants! and you’d scrunch the bag and try to hide it but they knew cos they’d been in the room, or their sister had, or someone. Then you’d get home and Mum’d give you that look, but take the bag and put the pants in the wash and say, Take those off, too, we’ll have to send them back tomorrow.
I gotta put it in, I said to Arnold. I want this to be honest.
Don’t.
It was years ago. It’s funny now.
It’s not.
The skipping woman hadn’t returned. Maybe she’d gone home? And stranger still—no Pop.
Anyway, Arnold said. I gotta go.
Where?
Colin’s place. His dad’s building a cubby. It’s gonna have a pole. So you can slide down, like a fireman.
And he was gone. I was left looking at my arms. One white, the other scab-rashy brown. It’d healed nicely, but they didn’t look the same. Never would, the doctor reckoned. Pop approached and I called, ‘You coming in?’
He said, ‘Which way’s the shop?’ and continued shuffling.
‘Mum?’
She was in the doorway.
‘Pop’s looking for the shop again.’
She was out the front door, down the road, after him.
No Les. I let my head fall about, looked up, and Curtis was crossing the yard. ‘What yer doin’?’
He came in, sat beside me and switched off Kraftwerk. Some thing was wrong. ‘Why you always spying on people?’ he said.
‘I’m watchin’ for Les.’
‘She still in there?’
‘Yeah.’
Mum appeared with Pop, led him down the drive, inside, into the kitchen.
Then, as some sort of good omen, the skipping woman (although she wasn’t much more than a girl). Curtis said, ‘She’s so fuckin’ hot.’
‘Something wrong with her,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Who skips around the block all day?’
Curtis didn’t care; he was studying her extra-long legs, broad shoulders, long neck. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he said.
I knew he didn’t mean the skipping girl. ‘No fuckin’ way.’
‘You watchin’?’ Mum called.
‘Yeah.’
He rested his arms on his knees, dropped his head.
‘When … what?’
‘I dunno. She just
told me.’
‘She might be makin’ it up.’
‘Na, I don’t reckon. We’ve been doin’ it a lot.’
‘Like?’
‘Her mum starts work at six, so I’ve been goin’ over before school, then at lunch, in the toilets, afterwards … lots.’
I checked for Les. Nothing. ‘What you gonna do?’
‘Get rid of it. She says, I need a few days to think about it, and I say, What’s to think about? And she says, It’s my body and my decision, and I say, You reckon?’
‘She wants to have it?’
No more skipping woman. The afternoon had settled. The same as always: trees, dog, bird on power line. But to Curtis, everything had changed.
‘If you need help, money …’
‘I’m not havin’ a kid.’
‘Just tell her: an abortion, or you deal with it. It’s your kid, too.’
‘Fuck, don’t say that. There’s not actually a kid yet.’
‘Well, after a few weeks it’s got arms and legs.’
‘Shut up!’
So I did. But then said, ‘Your mum’d freak out.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And what about yer dad?’
He decided. ‘It’s simple, eh? It’s gotta go. None of this few days to think about it, eh?’
‘Exactly.’
‘We’re goin’ to the doctor.’ And he thought. ‘Gotta find one Mum and Dad don’t use.’
‘There’s a clinic in the city. Bailey told us about it, remember?’
‘Of course.’ His face glowed with possibility. ‘I’ll go see her now.’
‘Don’t let her talk you round.’
Mum stood behind us. ‘Clem!’
I checked the street. Les had emerged, and stood watering his petunias. A few feet away, Wendy, and her shopping, hiding behind a camellia.
‘I ask you to do one thing.’
‘I’ve been watching all morning. It’s not my job.’
‘Ssh!’ She leaned forward, waved, as though Wendy might see. ‘Wait a minute,’ she whispered.
‘She’s not gonna hear you,’ I said.
‘Well, what do you suggest?’
‘I got an idea,’ Curtis said. He took Mum by the arm, led her out to the lounge, and told her what to do. I stayed in my spot, watching. Then Curtis ran across to Les. A muffle of words. Les switched off the hose and they walked towards Lanark I. Mum darted across the road, basket in hand, gathered Wendy from her plant and whisked her inside.
Curtis saw it was clear and returned Les to his hose, still leaking on the lawn. I heard him say, ‘So that’s a magpie, eh?’
