by Stephen Orr
‘I guess.’
‘You’ll have to be careful. That’s what happened to Dad.’
‘Dementia?’
‘Just wandered off most days, and of course, Mum let him. Then one day he didn’t come back, and she called the coppers, and they found him. See, you wait long enough, problems take care of themselves.’
I hoped this was true.
He lifted the dregs of his beer. ‘Finished the old man, and probably finish me.’
It was finishing me. Nearly to the bottom of my second bottle.
He said, ‘We’d wake up, and the net would be full.’
This seemed like a nice idea.
Wendy came walking up the drive, bag packed, slippers, petticoat showing under her dress. ‘You coulda told me,’ she said.
‘Break’s as good as a holiday,’ he replied.
And she went in, saying, ‘Clem, tell Mum I’ll fix her up.’
It was a sunny afternoon. Pop decided to open the shed door. He’d stolen another one of Mum’s bedsheets, spread it on the floor and drawn outlines for the items on his Lasseter list: dehydrated curry, roadmaps, the map, coolant, oil, shovels. Then he’d sat with the list, checking them for the tenth time. ‘Guy ropes?’
‘Here.’
‘Grate?’
He kept insisting, saying, preparation’s the key to success. I’d suggested success had more to do with finding the gold, but that was a given, apparently.
‘Boots?’
He’d taken me to town, got some kid to measure my feet, fit them properly. ‘That’s what Blamey said.’
‘What?’
‘If a soldier’s got good boots …’
I had no idea who Blamey was, but what did it matter?
‘What about my spare teeth?’
I checked the choppers he’d had made, leaving his loose ones with the dentist overnight, staying in his room so Mum wouldn’t notice. Dad, you comin’ for tea?
Not hungry.
He stopped, lit a smoke and said, ‘I reckon we got it all.’ He surveyed the gear, and inhaled deeply, like everything was as it should be. ‘Course, we prob’ly forgot something, but we can stop on the way.’
I wondered if the idea would fade, or if he’d back out, as the time approached. Then he said, ‘I got you a birthday present.’
This seemed strange. To Pop, birthdays were like ponies, or Disneyland holidays.
‘It’s in the toolbox.’
I extracted a small parcel, done up in newspaper. Then I sat down beside him. ‘Ta.’
‘I didn’t want to give it to you when we did the cake.’
A week before; as we ate little boys and sausage rolls, Jen sitting with her arms crossed, Mum lighting the candles.
‘Go on, open it,’ Pop said.
I don’t think he’d bought a present in his life. That was Nan’s job, then Mum’s, or there wasn’t a present at all. But I knew he gave Mum money and she bought stuff for us and put his name on the label. I opened it: Old Spice, of course. ‘Ta, Pop.’
‘It was on special.’
‘Thanks anyway.’
‘Make sure you use it.’
‘Did Mum buy it?’
‘No, she did bloody not. I bought it.’
I studied the little blue bottle. It was the best present ever. My Pop had bought it for me, his grandson. He’d walked to the shops, thought, purchased, and even wrapped. Imagine that? Pop wrapping something up. I knew, then, I’d never use it. I’d keep it to show my kids so they could understand how people worked.
‘I thought Mum bought the presents?’
‘You thought wrong. Anyway, since we’re travelling together …’ He checked his list. ‘Toiletries?’
‘Inside.’
‘Don’t let your mother see.’
Maybe I was grinning.
‘So what?’ he said. ‘I bought you something. Tyre pressure gauge?’
‘There.’ I pointed.
‘There’s something else in there.’
A one pound note. Old. English. I smelt, felt it, examined the fading image of the king. ‘That’s an old one,’ I said.
‘You’ll need to look after it.’
Why give someone a pound? What was a pound even worth? A dollar? Two? Was he trying to be generous, somehow?
‘Thanks for that, I’ll buy something with it.’
‘You can’t.’
‘No?’
‘No one’ll accept it. Anyway, it’s not for spending. It’s so you remember.’
‘What?’
He took a moment. ‘When I was nineteen I went to England.’
‘I never knew that.’
‘Got a job and saved a bita money. Bought a ticket, six weeks on a steamer. The Orion. Heard of it?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, arrived in London, got drunk, worked in a meat-packing store, saved some more money, travelled around—Stonehenge, Edinburgh—all over the place.’
‘Why’d you never say anything?’
‘Met a nice girl, but a week or so later …’
I studied the pound note. I thought I knew why.
‘Time was up. I came home, met yer Nan, got a job and settled down. And that’s how it’s been, ever since.’ He took the note. ‘And this … this was the last pound I come home with. The only one I didn’t spend.’
‘So it’s pretty old?’
‘Pretty.’ He returned it. ‘You keep it.’
‘Why?’
‘To remind you.’
‘What?’
‘Fifty years I been lookin’ at it, and every time I’ve thought, I shoulda stayed longer, or shoulda gone back, travelled to America, France, all over the place. It’s a big world, Clem.’
‘I’ve heard.’
‘Staying here, that’s okay, but you only live once, eh?’
I put it in my wallet. It seemed strange, carrying a regret in your pocket for that long. ‘You reckon I should travel?’
‘Yep, go see it all. Don’t believe what they say about university, or getting a good job. That’ll all come in time, but you gotta go. Sit on the lion in Trafalgar Square.’
‘You reckon?’
‘I think back now, that was the happiest day of my life. Sittin’ there, nothin’ to do, no money.’
Silent, again. He wasn’t forgetful. There was no Alzheimer’s.
‘Mortgage, that’s what kills a man,’ he said. ‘Mort, from the Latin for death. That’s what it is: a little death, every day, till you forget.’
He’d given me a present. But old blokes like Pop only did something for a reason. Old Spice, because he wanted to give me a pound. And now it was done there’d never be another present. Which was okay.
He’d had enough. ‘We need to fill those water drums, make sure they don’t leak.’
‘Done it.’
‘Righto. We’ll need plenty of warm clothes, even in September. Middle of the desert. Plenty of them explorers died of exposure.’
We saw the dog first: Fi-Fi, staring at us, a little yelp, then Ernie looking down the drive. ‘Hey, Doug.’
‘Quick, shut the door,’ Pop said. He stood, dropped his smoke and reached up.
‘What you up to?’ Ernie asked, starting down the drive.
‘Nothing.’ He turned to me. ‘Help, will yer?’
I reached for it and started pulling it down, but Ernie was already there.
‘What’s all that gear?’ he asked.
‘Nothin’,’ Pop said, giving up on the door.
Ernie came in the shed, inspected the equipment and said, ‘Like yer gonna invade Russia.’
Pop refused to comment.
‘Doug?’
‘I told you, we’re goin’ camping.’
Ernie sat down. ‘You promised, Doug.’
Pop lit another smoke, looked down the drive and said, ‘We gotta finish up. Fay comes home she’ll see this lot.’
‘So?’
I could almost hear him grinding his teeth.
‘I w
on’t take up much room.’
‘You won’t take up any.’
‘This isn’t fair.’ He squeezed my arm. ‘You got yer licence yet?’
‘He doesn’t need a licence to drive a Datsun. Any idiot can do that.’
Ernie said, ‘You’re too old for them thousands of kilometres, Doug.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘And Clem, it’s a lot for someone still at school.’
‘We’ll manage.’
‘Easier with three.’
‘Two’s enough.’
‘You’d regret it.’
Pop turned on him. ‘Regret it? What? Not takin’ you?’
‘We had an agreement.’
‘When?’
‘You’ve got a selective memory.’
‘Bullshit.’ He closed the door, then returned to Ernie. ‘Look at all this. How we gonna get it in with you takin’ up half the back seat?’
Fi-Fi pissed against the wall. Pop used his foot to lift her off the ground, but even this didn’t bother Ernie. He said, ‘What about my trailer?’
‘What trailer?’
‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
Pop stood firm. If he went, he was conceding. ‘This is my trip, mine.’
Ern just waited.
‘Pommy bastard!’ He kicked a water container. ‘Right! Show us!’
A few minutes later we were in Ernie’s shed. He removed a tarp and revealed his trailer, rusted, flat tyres, uneven from broken springs and suspension. ‘That Datsun got a tow bar?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good-o. Bita spit and polish. Was a time you’d fix somethin’ like this in an afternoon.’
Pop shook his head. ‘I’m not takin’ that dog.’
Ernie shrugged, but then said, ‘She sits in my lap.’
Somehow, Curtis had convinced the owner of the North East Road BP to give him a job. Mr Haslam had been one of our childhood idols. Mum’d pull up in the Datsun, he’d be waiting (never busy with anything else), pop his head in the window and say, ‘Usual, Fay?’
Usual, because everyone filled their car with fifty-fifty. As a kid you’d watch the little cups stirring the pink water, passing it into the tube as Mr H stood smoking, watching the road for something different, although there never was. He wore a shirt with a BP logo; a proud company man (I guessed). Grey hair, slicked back, and a carpenter’s pencil in his pocket. As he filled our car he’d take my nose between his fingers and twist it and say, ‘Careful, it might drop off.’ Then he’d get bored, put out his smoke, ask for Mum to pop the bonnet and check the oil.
Once, in 1977, there was a raffle. A Christmas stocking that touched the station’s ceiling. Being Whelans, we never won anything. Mum had given up buying lottery tickets. It was, she said, like God had painted a cross on her forehead. Anyway, Mr Haslam convinced her to have a go (because it was for the crippled children), and we won. I can still remember Gazza (not that we could call him that) helping us tie it to the roof of the Datsun, driving home, unloading, Pop saying something like fuck me, taking it in and standing it beside the Christmas tree. And Mum saying, ‘See, if you live long enough everything happens.’
July 2: the middle of a warm, dry winter. It was quiet, so Curtis opened a pack of Winnie Blues, offered me one and said, ‘He doesn’t care.’
We smoked. A few people stopped, so he went out and served them, came in with the money and returned with their change. Ernie and Fi-fi walked past on the way to the Windsor and I called out the door, ‘Ernie, Pop’s got new springs.’
He smiled and gave a thumbs up, but continued, because cold beer would only stay cold for so long.
The newsstand had the paper and the Post and some titty mags. Curtis opened one, showed me Mrs July and explained how they injected pig fat to make them big. ‘You gotta admit, it’d be nice.’
‘Not her.’
‘Taken.’ He read: ‘Glenda studies hydraulic engineering at a Queensland university … yeah, right.’
‘So what about Tracey?’ I asked, placing my smoke in a tray, eating a handful of teeth.
‘All sorted.’ He continued studying the magazine, then approached the staff toilet.
‘I’m not serving no one,’ I said.
‘Fuck.’ He went in and locked the door.
‘Hurry up.’
No reply. Of course, a car pulled up. ‘You got a customer.’
‘Can you?’
The car tooted so I headed out, undid the cap and said, ‘Fill her up?’
An older woman with what must have been her grandkids. I started, waited, stopped and took her money. I went back in and said, ‘Don’t worry, I got it.’
Nothing. I returned, gave her the change and another car pulled up. I did this one too, but when it’d gone, I knocked on the door. ‘How long’s it take?’
He came out, zipped up and returned to his half-done smoke. The magazine didn’t seem to interest him anymore. ‘What was I saying?’
‘Tracey.’
‘I think that’s resolved.’ He opened the fridge, took out a Coke and cracked it. ‘So we went to the clinic and there’s this doctor, and he gives us a talk about contraception, looks at me like, You dirty little prick. Which was fair enough. Then he says, Once it’s done it’s done, and he asks her what she thinks.’
Curtis served another car, then continued. ‘She says, I reckon I’d make an okay mum.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Exactly. He asks me and I say, Maybe if we could … take care of it, we’d heed your advice next time.’
He found a Bay City Rollers best-of in the carousel and put it on. I only want to be with you. ‘S’pose I should do some work.’ He found a broom and started sweeping the lino. ‘Anyway, then it was on. Tracey saying I should support her decision, it was her body, our child. But I just said, Na, forget it, and asked the doctor about our options. He gave us this leaflet, and explained the process, and Tracey starts again. I’m not doin’ that. I told her she should, and she called me an arsehole.’
He swept the dust, butts and pull tabs out the front door. It was strange to see him working, with his sewn-on logo. He wasn’t the logo type. He danced with his broom. ‘It happens to be true … I only want to be with you.’ Then he grabbed my arm, and we waltzed, sort of. I gave in and sang, ‘You stopped and smiled at me, Asked me if I’d care to dance …’
And then, in a squeaky chorus, like we’d done a hundred times in the cubby, as the batteries slowed the music: ‘I just wanna be beside you everywhere …’ On and on, until the bell rang, and we climbed down the steps his dad had welded.
When he came back he said, ‘The doctor looks at her and says, Miss Smith, bringing a child into the world is a very big responsibility. Like that, like he was on my side.’
The smokes were finished, the pornography, Coke, Rollers, so we helped ourselves to a couple of Gaytimes.
‘She huffs and puffs but eventually takes the brochure.’
‘And she’s … done it?’
‘I dunno.’
‘Why?’
‘When we went out she calls me all these names, storms off.’
‘So she might still be preggers?’
‘I guess, but in that case it’s not my responsibility.’
The phone rang and Curtis answered it. ‘Yes, Mr Haslam … not very busy, no … just cleaning up, then I thought I might hose down the driveway … yes, I know … righto, see you at seven.’
‘And what if she doesn’t …?’
He finished his ice cream. ‘She had the choice.’
He hosed the driveway. I sat on a pile of tyres. ‘I reckon your Mum’d be happy.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘She loves kids. But she just got stuck with you and John.’
‘There’s a secret.’
‘What?’
‘How Gazz holds his smoke, but doesn’t blow the place up.’
‘It’s probably got eyes by now. Yours. And a nose, stubby—’
He tu
rned the hose on me.
‘Or maybe it’s a chook? And it can walk backwards?’
He kept wetting me, but I ran, laughing, across the driveway. ‘Dad, can we go to the footy?’
A car pulled up, but he didn’t care.
‘Think I shat me nappy. Dad, can you change it?’
It was a Torana, a girl on her P-plates. She got out and said, ‘Fill her up, please, Curtis.’
Harris. Something Harris. One of Tracey’s mates. Curtis unscrewed her cap and began.
She said, ‘Trace told me you worked here now.’
‘Yeah?’
She waited, deciding. ‘Told me to tell you she’s gonna fix it.’
No expression, but I could tell he was smiling inside.
‘But she said she’s gonna make you pay.’
‘Yeah?’ He finished, replaced her cap and said, ‘Ten fifty.’
She gave him the correct change. ‘You didn’t check my oil.’
‘D’you want me to?’
‘Na.’
‘Well, why’d you ask?’
She was enjoying it. ‘You’re a creep.’
‘She never said no.’
‘That’s disgusting!’ She took a folded piece of paper from her pocket, opened it, and showed him. It was his photocopied bum, blown up to a full page, and the caption: This is the arse of Curtis Burrell. Big, smelly and full of shit, like him.
Curtis said, ‘That’s very grown-up.’
‘Cost her twenty dollars.’
‘What?’
‘To have five hundred copies made.’
His face went white.
‘And it took us four hours to stick them up around school. What d’you reckon about that?’
He studied his arse. It seemed familiar, convincing.
‘And she reckons there’s more to come.’ She smiled, got in her car and drove off.
‘Five hundred?’ I asked.
‘She’s bullshitting.’
It was a decent arse, with a long cleft, dimples, and a shadow that might’ve been one of several things.
‘Come on!’ He went inside the shop, wrote a note (Back in 10 mins) and locked the door. We ran down North East Road, past Don’s, the salvage yard, Cara-Rest campers. Faster, through the back streets, past the semi-detached houses and cracking fibro. I called for him to slow down but he paid no attention. Five hundred arses. If they hadn’t been named, it might’ve been okay, but Trace had made it clear.
