by Stephen Orr
We arrived. She wasn’t lying. On the front fence, the staff room door, the main doors, the arbour, stapled to trees. Every square inch of weatherboard building. Arses, hundreds of them, flapping in the breeze, blowing along the ground, caught in lavender bushes. Arses on the change rooms and arses on home economics. Bums all over our art room, where the year had started with such promise.
‘Come on.’ He started pulling them off, gathering handfuls, stuffing them down his BP shirt. This proved inefficient, so he fetched a wheelie bin and we started filling it.
Later, we walked around the school checking. He was sure we hadn’t found all five hundred. Then we heard a voice, looked up, and Tracey and Something Harris were sitting on a fire escape eating what might have been popcorn and drinking Diet Coke. Tracey said, ‘I still got the original.’ And she held it up.
‘You’re such a fucking idiot,’ Curtis said.
We walked back to the BP with the bin. It took us an hour, but Curtis was determined to destroy the images. When we arrived Gary was waiting in the shop. ‘Ten minutes?’
When Curtis explained, Mr H laughed so hard he leaked (or so he said). He was good like that. He might’ve missed a few sales, but they’d be back. What mattered was that this Curtis kid, this strange, slightly idiotic boy of the suburbs, had learned his lesson.
There was a forty-four-gallon drum behind the workshop. Gary helped us unload the pictures, and he tipped a little petrol on them, threw in a smoke, and we watched them burn. Over twenty minutes, we fed the flames. Gary took care of the customers, and we overheard him telling one what we were burning. They laughed.
It was getting dark and I said, ‘I’m going home.’
‘I’ll come with you.’
The fire died down.
Gary won out, because he got a bin, and it was handy (once he painted over the school name) for the driveway.
That’s how it was done back then. There was no point worrying about anything. It was only a bum. Everyone had one.
I got out, closed the door and Pop said, ‘Tomorrow, practise yer parking.’
The L-plates were still L. Curtis was in his yard, and called over, ‘How did it go?’
‘Nine points,’ Pop said.
‘Bad luck.’
Seeing how you were only allowed eight.
‘What did you do wrong?’
‘Plenty,’ Pop continued. ‘Reversing, parking …’
‘Pop,’ I said.
‘And we’ll keep going until you get it right.’
He went in, and I could hear him telling Mum and Jen before he was even through the door. I didn’t want to face another half-hour of analysis. The fact was, Pop was pissed off he’d have to spend more time preparing for Lasseter.
Luckily, there was a voice. ‘Clem?’
I followed it into Val’s yard, over the lunar landscape, to David, sitting in the shade. He said, ‘Don’t worry, I failed three times before I got mine.’
This is what I wanted to hear. Dave was a sage, stranded under his Bodhi tree, contemplating life’s possibilities.
‘I’m in the Datsun waiting,’ I said, ‘and he gets in and looks at me like, You’re gonna be trouble, writes something down, says, Reverse, turn right and enter the left carriageway. Who says that? The left carriageway?’
I noticed a boot on the footpath, half-burning, half-smoking. ‘Is that yours?’
‘No.’
‘I pull out and this guy comes burning along, pounds the horn and old four-eyes writes something down. I say, I did check, but he was speeding. And he just looks at me like, I’ll be the judge of that.’
I sat in the grass beside him. It was one of those indecisive winter mornings: sun for a few minutes, overcast, a few spots of rain. ‘Who sets a boot on fire?’ I asked.
‘Go on,’ he insisted.
Ernie, from next door: ‘Worker competes with worker, and the employer takes advantage of this. Wages are driven down …’
We turned and saw, through the bushes, Ernie in his singlet and shorts, sitting on his porch, reciting (what I assumed to be) more of his soapbox speeches. ‘The effect of this is a weakening of the workers’ rights.’
Blah, blah. The boot burned, the sun broke through. ‘Go on,’ David insisted.
‘Reverse parking. It was an impossible gap, no one coulda got their car in. I said, Seems a bit small, and he said, Plenty of room. I said, I dunno, and he scribbled again.’
‘The covenant of minimum wage is a temporary construct.’ I noticed the four bottles of dark ale. ‘Comrade Sharpe is speaking,’ I said.
David smiled. ‘I’ve heard them all. What else?’
The flames had died down, but the boot was still smoking. ‘Did you see who put it there?’ I asked.
‘Mum.’
‘Why?’
‘She threw it, from the backyard. You should put in a complaint about him.’
‘I should. I had three shots, but couldn’t get it in.’
‘Idealism becomes materialism.’ Ida came out in her leotards and said, ‘Get in before everyone sees you.’
He didn’t respond. It didn’t need dignifying. When the time came, certain people would be put against a wall.
So Ida went in. ‘How’d you feel if I sat on the porch in my underwear?’
‘There were a few other things,’ I said.
‘Go on.’
‘A school crossing.’
‘Ah.’
‘But … but … it said to slow if children present.’
The boot was shitting me off. I went over and picked it up, filled it with dirt to stop it smoldering, and brought it back. Then I sat in my spot, and read the tag: Sid Donnellan.
David said, ‘Mum and Peter had a disagreement.’
Apparently Peter had decided to burn some of Sid’s old gear in the backyard. Val had gone out, seen the clothes and shouted at him, picked up a poker and tried to remove them. Some were destroyed, others half-burned. But she’d got them out, stamped on them, and said, ‘What made you think …?’
‘It’s like living in a museum.’
‘They were your father’s.’
She’d continued dragging underwear from the ashes, reaching in for the boots, but had flicked one high into the air, over the house and into the front yard.
‘Why today?’ she’d asked.
‘This is the problem,’ he’d said. ‘Like he’s still here, and you won’t move on.’
David said, ‘Peter’s always reckoned that.’
‘What?’
‘Mum won’t move on.’
This made sense. Sid was on the walls, his watch on the sideboard. There was even a pile of his magazines beside his recliner.
Ernie was snoring. The boot was cold. The fugue had ended. I noticed something shining in the grass, walked a few steps on my knees and examined it. Pond’s Powder. It was an old tin, the paint flaking, the borders rusted.
‘That came over, too,’ David said.
I emptied some of the powder, smelt it, blew it into a cloud.
‘Even that. She’d never part with it.’
‘Why?’
He told me the story of how his mum had prepared for her first child. Sid had helped with a nursery, a homemade cot, reflective stars on the ceiling. A change table, cloth nappies, pins, powder. Pond’s.
‘I reckon they had the name picked out.’
‘Who?’
‘Clement.’
It dawned on me. The conversations I’d had with Mum. ‘Why’d you give me such a crappy old name?’
‘It’s not crappy, it’s nice.’
‘Mum got pains too early,’ David said. ‘Dad rushed her to the hospital. Bombs dropping everywhere, but he just drove, cos it was coming. He was coming.’
‘Clem?’ I asked.
‘Yeah. They arrived and out he comes, and they’re celebrating, but then he stops breathing.’
‘Shit.’
‘The doctors tried to help, but they couldn’t … and he died.’
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Now I got it. Me asking Mum, ‘Can I change my name?’
‘To what?’
‘Trevor? Gary? Darren? Anything but Clem.’
‘No, you cannot. It’s a nice name.’
I smelt the talc again; felt it on my arse. ‘So, we should give it back to her?’
‘I guess.’ I held the tin, studied the floral design, and wondered about this dead baby, lying on a stainless steel table, as Hitler went about his business.
‘So she asked my mum …?’
‘No, she didn’t ask. But your Mum knew, and offered.’
I handed the tin to Dave, but he returned it and said, ‘You hold onto it, eh? I’ll tell her. I think she’d like that.’
‘What sorta idea’s that?’ Ida asked.
‘Mind yer own business,’ Ernie told her.
We removed the tarp, examined the trailer, and Pop said, ‘She’ll need a bita work.’
‘Nothin’ major,’ Ernie explained.
‘You’re too old for this, Ern,’ Ida said. ‘If you want another heart attack.’
He didn’t reply, but I guessed he was thinking it was better than sitting around listening to her.
Pop said, ‘I’m a lot older than Ernie, and I’m going.’
‘Well …’
‘And whatever you do, not a word to Fay,’ Ernie said.
She just shook her head. ‘Man your age, Doug, should be relaxing. Put your feet up, bowls …’
‘Couldn’t think of anything worse.’
Pop threw the tarp aside and we pushed the trailer. Nothing. Again, and we managed a few inches. And again, and it rolled on its flat tyres out of the shed.
‘You two should know better,’ Ida said. ‘What if something goes wrong? It’ll all be down to Clem.’
‘He’s up to the job,’ Pop said.
‘How will Fay know what’s goin’ on? Once you go, she’ll be worried sick.’
‘She’ll be fine.’
‘How you gonna keep in touch?’
‘Give it a rest,’ Ernie said. ‘We’ll ring you.’
‘And when we come home with a boat loada gold?’ Pop asked.
‘I’m not holding my breath.’
We pushed again, and the trailer emerged into the sodium-lit night. It was warm, overcast, and blowy. That’s why Pop had chosen his moment. No one would hear the commotion. The trailer ground on its flat tyres. The springs amplified every bump in the concrete. There was no suspension. The whole thing shook and wobbled like it might fall apart at any moment.
Ida wasn’t finished. ‘What if I tell Fay?’
‘You won’t,’ Ernie replied.
‘If it’s the only way to make you lot see sense.’
‘She won’t,’ he told us.
‘I will.’
‘You do, you watch. Whose name’s on the deed?’
‘You can have it. Loada shit, anyway.’
She’d always thought this. Always wanted brick, or a nicer street, suburb, life. Ernie was the eternal disappointment. She’d tell anyone who’d listen. I chose bad. I shoulda waited, seen what else was available.
‘You tell anyone, you see,’ Ernie said.
‘Yer mad, the lot of yer. You haven’t thought it through. I wouldn’t mind if yers were goin’ fishin’ or somethin’, but gold.’ And with that she turned and went in, slamming the door.
‘She’ll be okay,’ Ernie said. ‘Now come on.’
We got behind the trailer, pushed it down the drive and onto the street. Then the skipping woman buzzed past, singing. Ernie said, ‘At this time of night?’
Pop shooshed him and we continued. Ernie said, ‘Saw you on the telly last night, Doug.’
He didn’t reply. He’d refused to watch. Mum had made popcorn and cracked fresh Coke and we’d laughed, and Pop had come out of his room and switched it off, but Mum had switched it back on. Then he’d said, ‘Think it’s funny?’
‘No, but it’s strange to see you on the telly.’
Back on the road, Ernie said, ‘You hada bita bad luck.’
Pop shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I agreed.’
‘Every time it spun me and Ida were rootin’ for yer. Woulda been nice if they’d given you some sort of prize. My sister went on Tony Barber.’
‘She win?’ I asked.
‘First night. They offered her a trip to Tassie but she turned it down. Always regretted it. Second night, put on this professor, and that was that.’
‘Never been to Tassie,’ Pop said.
‘No,’ Ern agreed. ‘They reckon it’s nice.’
Maybe, I thought, this was Pop’s Tasmania. The trip he’d never taken, or continued. Maybe he was still trying to get back to the bronze lion.
We kept going, and I thought I noticed the curtain move in the Donnellans’ lounge room. ‘Don’t look now,’ I said, indicating.
Pop checked and said, ‘He can mind his own business.’
We arrived at number 31. Turned the trailer, lined it up with the drive, and pushed. It went forward, then back, forward, back. We stopped and Pop said, ‘We’ll have to do better, gents. Three thousand kilometres, and we can’t get it in the shed.’
We tried again, and this time made it along the drive, past the front door and into the shed. Pop closed it, and said, ‘Gonna take a bita work, Ern.’
‘Bita paint, get it registered, coupla wheels.’ He sat on Pop’s chair, took out a smoke (just one, for himself) and lit it.
Pop said, ‘I reckon we take turns cooking?’
Ernie didn’t reply.
‘Ern?’
‘Yes, I reckon.’
Pop had already explained his concerns. Ernie was a strange sort of communist; he had the theories, but not the practice. Pop’d said, ‘That’s why I didn’t want to take him.’
‘Cos he’s lazy?’
‘Exactly. He was sacked, and no one’d give him another job. Just complained, agitated. People’ll listen for so long. Not sure that’s the sort of man we need along.’
Pop watched him smoking, like a budget Ho Chi Minh. ‘And we’ll take turns driving, eh, Ern?’
‘In for a penny in for a pound.’
‘And a ten per cent cut?’
‘Ten?’
‘Considering … I think that’s quite generous.’
Ernie reclined and thought about it. ‘Risking my health, and heart, for ten per cent?’
Pop shook the trailer and a light fell off. ‘I could get the gear in the back.’
Then the side door opened and Peter Donnellan looked in.
‘Jesus!’ Pop said.
‘Saw you go past.’
‘Well, we’re just talkin’. Aren’t we, Ern?’
‘I guess so, Doug.’
Peter came in, examined the trailer and said to Ernie, ‘Long time since you’ve had this out?’
‘Few years.’
‘He asked if I could fix it up,’ Pop said. ‘That’s my next project.’
Peter was having none of it. ‘Why bother?’
Ernie didn’t seem concerned. It wasn’t his reef of gold.
‘Like I said,’ Pop repeated. ‘A project.’
Peter said, ‘I don’t want nothin’, assuming you find something.’
‘Fuck!’ Pop glared at me. Then Peter. ‘I’m fixin’ the trailer. That’s it.’
‘I like that dry country. And if you remember, you told me—’
‘I never told you nothin’.’
But he must’ve told him something. Maybe, over the decades, he’d told everyone.
‘Four seats,’ Peter said. ‘You takin’ the Datsun?’
‘Where?’
‘The reef?’
‘What fuckin’ reef?’
‘Lasseter’s?’
‘There’s no bloody reef, and no bloody trip. There’s nothin’. And if there was, I wouldn’t go with you lot.’ Pop glared at them, then me. ‘Got it? It’s my map, and my gold.’
‘I’ll drive, cook, navigate, anything,’ Peter said. ‘And I don�
��t want an ounce of your gold. I just wanna come along. With my mate, Clem. Exams coming up. We gotta lotta work to do, eh, Clem?’
I dared not speak.
‘I’m very useful, Doug.’
Ernie continued smoking. He didn’t care. Someone in the back was company, even if it was the cat woman’s son. He said to him, ‘She’s got another one, hasn’t she?’
Peter didn’t want to start on cats. ‘Doug?’
Pop was fuming. ‘I don’t even wanna go,’ he said, turning, storming from the shed and going inside.
Ernie finished his smoke, put it out on the shed frame and said, ‘What’s she call it, Providence?’
Peter didn’t care. ‘Keeps it inside.’
‘Figure it’ll take her another ten years to breed a colony. By then I’ll be dead.’ He stood.
‘So?’ Peter said.
‘Don’t ask me.’
I found Providence in our garden, and headed next door to return him. Jen was sitting in the garden, tanning herself, ‘Too shy’ coming through the window. She said, ‘Whose is that?’
‘Val’s.’
‘I thought they took ’em all?’
‘Missed one.’
She slipped on her sunglasses and reclined. She’d tried Ida’s Figurama, set up in the lounge room in her old leotards, jumped about for half an hour before retiring to the fridge, and low-fat yoghurt. Tried.
I knocked and went in; down the hall of many photos.
‘In here,’ Val called.
I went in, and Wendy sat at the table, nursing tea, smiling. ‘Hey, Clem.’
‘Mrs Champness.’
Unusual. There was an interchangeability of parts in Lanark II. Things fit where they fit, depending on what was needed. But Val and Wendy were a couple of positives, giving off too similar a charge.
I handed Providence to Val and said, ‘He was in our yard.’
‘Let him go,’ she said, already fixing my tea.
‘I thought you were going to keep him inside?’
‘Why bother? Ernie knows.’
I sat down and noticed an official-looking form on the table. Wendy said, ‘I got it.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The form they said I’d need to fill out. To find out … Name, address, contact, year of birth, place of birth, sex of child. And that’s about as far as we got, Clem.’
‘You gonna send it in?’
‘Oath. Val’s been helping me, haven’t you?’
