This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  Busy with tea.

  ‘Then there’s this bit about … circumstances, but I know what I’m gonna say.’

  Val gave me my tea. ‘That’s easy enough. Mother needs her kiddy.’

  Wendy said, ‘I’m gonna write about the nuns.’

  ‘Seems fair,’ I ventured.

  ‘Then, the next bit says: Reasons for seeking information.’

  ‘Seems obvious,’ Val said. ‘You shouldn’t be expected to say.’

  ‘No, I can see it,’ Wendy said. ‘Assuming the kiddy’s settled in somewhere else, grown up, maybe even had his own family.’

  ‘I suppose. Could be a bit of a shock, comin’ out of the blue.’ As she imagined Clem, perhaps, busy mowing his lawn when the postie arrived.

  Wendy said, ‘What d’you reckon, Clem?’

  I remembered the promise I’d made in the Rosie house. ‘I guess you gotta say you need to know.’

  She slid the form in front of me. ‘That’s it. You write it.’

  Maybe I was a writer, but this was beyond my expertise. I picked up the pen. ‘You want me to just …?’

  They both waited.

  It’s been years since I last saw my child. I never felt like I had any choice. I read it back.

  ‘Good start,’ Val said.

  Since then, there hasn’t been a day when I haven’t wondered …

  ‘Oh, you can write,’ Wendy said. ‘Can’t he, Val?’

  ‘He’s workin’ on a novel. Aren’t you, Clem?’

  I nodded. This was the strangest story of all.

  Of course, if he agrees to see me, I promise I won’t interfere with his life. As long as I get a chance to explain.

  Wendy said, ‘I can still see my mum in a frock, with her long white gloves, telling the nuns it couldn’t be avoided.’

  Val had cupped her tea in her hands.

  ‘And the glass-fronted cabinets full of … instruments.’ She was there, I guessed. The sheets all white, with little Calvary crosses, the nuns all pale and pink and forced smiles. And her mum (when the nuns had left the room) saying, They reckon a couple of hours. Or can you get up now?

  ‘That enough?’ Wendy asked me, and Val.

  ‘Pretty clear,’ I said. ‘Seems natural that someone would want to …?’

  They were hanging off my every word. But what did I know? Wendy reread it and said, ‘That flows real nice, Clem. Just what I wanted.’

  ‘Just hope they let you,’ Val said. ‘These government depart ments have a peculiar way of thinking.’

  ‘How’s that?’ Wendy asked.

  ‘Well, that money we applied for …’

  And she explained. The form, like this one, where you had to say why you needed three thousand dollars.

  ‘I wrote down that David couldn’t get in the bathroom. Well, he can’t.’

  ‘No,’ Wendy agreed.

  ‘That me and his brother had to lift him out of his chair, and I’m old. I wrote that we couldn’t do it no more, and we couldn’t afford for someone else to come in.’

  ‘Seems fair,’ Wendy agreed.

  ‘It’s like a circus of a night. Me takin’ off his daks, Peter gettin’ him under the arms, dragging him into the shower, dumpin’ him on that chair. All I asked for was a few thousand. But, of course, it comes back no.’

  ‘Disgrace,’ Wendy said.

  ‘They got enough to fly politicians around the globe, but a few thousand for a shower.’

  There seemed to be a consensus: hard-working people paid taxes, asked for little, but when they did need help it was always no. Still, Wendy wasn’t put off. ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way.’

  My mind was ticking over. A will. A way. In a street of handymen, and foreignies.

  ‘Maybe we should tell them about my mother,’ Wendy said to me.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘How it wasn’t my choice. How she had the car out front, running, and got them Catholic hounds to take me down the steps, out the door, the ramp, in a wheelchair.’

  I could see this too, and hear the chair’s flat wheels grinding on the asphalt. Arriving at the car, brakes on, Come on, Wendy, help us a bit.

  ‘I suppose it might help,’ I said.

  The choice had been made for me. My mother and the nuns had decided they knew best. Although I was young, I thought I might make a good mother.

  ‘In the car on the way home,’ Wendy said. ‘I started kicking and screaming, but then I musta fallen asleep. I reckon they’d given me something.’

  My son was forcibly removed. The shock is as great today as it was then. I’ve never stopped thinking about him, wanting to hold him, to see his face, hear him talk. All of the things any mother expects. To see him walk for the first time, write, sing, start school.

  Wendy nodded. ‘You got it just right, Clem.’

  I felt ashamed, because now I was just writing.

  ‘There’s a lot we could say,’ Wendy explained. ‘Like how when I woke up Mum was sittin’ there and she said, All done. Like that. Happy as Larry. All done. Now, Wendy, she said, we gotta move on.’

  I was taken home and told to forget about my boy. I was told it was best that way.

  ‘It was a week later. Mum went out and I called a taxi, went back to the nuns, and they told me he’d gone. Put that, Clem.’

  So I did.

  ‘How can I be denied a sight of my boy when none of this was my fault? Say that.’

  Again.

  ‘Even just seeing a photo. His hair—could you imagine?—how it’d part in the middle.’ She stopped, exhausted by the thought. ‘Can you say all that, Clem?’

  ‘I think I’ve got enough,’ I said, showing her how we’d filled the half-page allowed. ‘I reckon when they see what we’ve written …’

  She waited. ‘But if we got one more line, I’d like to put down that my husband’s supported me, all these years.’

  I put it on the back.

  Providence had climbed onto Val’s lap and fallen asleep. The tea was cold. I’d barely touched mine.

  ‘Know what I’d like to say,’ Wendy managed.

  ‘What?’ Val asked.

  ‘The way it was done.’ She looked at me, but guessed it was okay. ‘How they made sure I’d never have another one.’

  As a whole load of things were explained. Les’s faulty plumbing laid to rest.

  The prison-bar memory of a thousand days. Handball, losing interest, the Stephenson twins putting away milk benches, Pop’s chalkless map (for now), walking along the fence line, and an old man smiling at me (stranger danger) and Mr Gottl saying, ‘Oi, Clem, what cher doin’?’ Sherrin thumping across the afternoon, as sprinklers drizzled, boys fell, teeth chipped, and the bell … in.

  Walking home. A handful of seed pods, high in the air, hitting Jen and her friend, an earlier Tracey. The same driveways, bushes with holes where cats slept, stumped cars and onion weed. As though the world would go on like this forever. The hot-steel smell of burning rosemary, and loin chops, perhaps. Mum, as I fell asleep, as I fell asleep.

  A Datsun 180B pulled up. Chariot hubcaps, fresh liquorice tyres, chrome trim and bucket seats. A man got out and headed into the Glassons’. The car was left alone, waiting. For me. Squat, solid and angry-eyed. Ernie and Fi-Fi walked past, and she pissed on it. He waved and said, ‘Howya, Clem?’

  Then footsteps on the path. John approaching, jumping our fence and running towards me. ‘You there, Clem?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doug around?’

  ‘Go to the shed.’

  He disappeared. I went into Pop’s room and found him, half-asleep on his bed. ‘He’s back,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him I’m not here.’

  I waited.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘The shed.’

  I followed him out and as we went Mum said, ‘Where you goin’?’

  ‘Work on the trailer,’ Pop said.

  ‘What’s Ern want a trailer for?’

  Pop unlocked the she
d door and we went in, John carrying his backpack and a plastic bag. He sat on the floor, glared at me and said to Pop, ‘Why’s he gotta be here?’

  ‘He’s meant to be helping me with the trailer.’ Pop noticed the bag. ‘What you got there?’

  ‘I founda place to stay. Williamstown. In a shed. George’s old girl cooked for me.’

  ‘Who’s George?’

  ‘Friend. But I couldn’t keep livin’ there, Doug.’

  ‘Righto.’ Pop sat and rolled a smoke.

  ‘Bout the worst thing of all, listenin’ for who’s pullin’ up in the drive, who’s knockin’ at the door.’

  Pop lit up, stood and examined the welds he’d made on the trailer’s wheel wells. ‘You shoulda been doin’ this.’

  ‘So I’s thinkin’ I should give myself in?’

  ‘It’s an art, welding. Harry woulda taught you.’

  ‘Doug?’

  Pop picked up the bag and emptied it out. Twenty or more cartons of cigarettes fell to the ground. ‘Gary Haslam?’

  ‘Didn’t have much choice, eh?’

  ‘He’s given Curtis a job.’

  I knew Curtis had a key, but wasn’t sure if, or how.

  ‘I can get ten bucks a carton,’ John said.

  ‘Think,’ Pop growled. ‘How does one thing fix another?’

  ‘How else was I gonna—’

  ‘Think.’ He put the cartons back in the bag, and handed it to John. Then he looked at me. ‘Is there a camera?’

  ‘No.’

  Then John. ‘So, we’ll fix it.’

  Pop helped John up. We went out, down the street, past the substation and the glass shop, reflections of three shabby figures in the low-light dusk. I never liked what I saw. Mirrors had a way of distorting. We stopped before the servo and Pop said, ‘Go on, take ’em back.’

  The servo was dark, the concourse empty. John refused to move. ‘I need the money.’

  ‘I’ll give you the money. How did you get in?’

  He took the key from his pocket and showed Pop.

  ‘Come on.’ Pop took him by the arm, dragged him to the door and waited while he unlocked it. They went in and replaced the smokes, locked the door and returned. John handed me the key and said, ‘Give it back to him, will yer?’

  As we walked back he explained how he’d made up his mind to go home. Knocked, but there was no one there. Went in, searched Curtis’s room and found the key with Haslam’s BP tag. ‘I’s gonna see what Dad thought,’ he said.

  ‘Well, come on then,’ Pop replied.

  ‘No, not now.’

  Back to our shed. Pop picked up a set of new shockers and started bolting them to the chassis. For a while, John watched. He lit his own smoke and said, ‘I don’t care about nothin’ no more.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ Pop said.

  ‘I could string up a rope from the rafter there.’

  Pop didn’t even look up. ‘You could.’

  ‘Save everyone a lot of trouble.’

  Pop turned on him. His voice was solid, determined. ‘Since I gave up, I been watchin’ a lot of telly. That one where they stand talking at each other. Tess and Eugene and Carrie.’

  John just listened.

  ‘Pathetic. But it’s not real. Some idiot wrote it, for stupid housewives.’

  John said, ‘I coulda stood in front of a train. I’s watchin’ the other day, for an hour, just thinkin’ …’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘Just didn’t.’

  ‘Well, stop goin’ on about it. I coulda done it, Clem coulda, we all coulda.’

  Pop kept working. John stood, helped him with the springs and waited until he had them fastened.

  Pop tightened the bolts and sat down. ‘So, what’s it gonna be?’ he said. ‘Wanna rope, or you gonna go ask your parents for help? They’re the ones made you, wiped yer arse, drove you to footy when they’d rather be sleepin’. But if you wanna believe they hate you.’

  ‘Didn’t say that.’

  ‘Or you wanna go to the cops, and do it properly. I’ve tried for you.’

  John waited.

  ‘I went with him,’ I said.

  ‘Wrote a letter,’ Pop explained. ‘Clem drove me to the station. Gave it over, asked they give it to the right person.’

  John sat up. ‘What d’you say?

  ‘Said I seen you, and you didn’t take nothin’ or do nothin’ but you were too scared to come forward, seein’ how you thought they’d already made up their minds.’

  ‘And d’you hear back?’

  ‘No. But we’ll go see them now.’ He stood.

  ‘No.’

  I think Pop was too tired to argue. He took his swag from the shelf, rolled it out and said, ‘You can sleep there.’

  John seemed happy with this. He could see the trailer, examine the work, smell the grease, and dream, perhaps, of how this was his future.

  ‘Wait here,’ Pop said. ‘I’ll get you somethin’ to eat.’ And he went in.

  At first, John ignored me. He settled into the swag, placed his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. ‘How’s Curtis been?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Still got that list?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘I’m number one. He was always strange. I remember parent—teacher nights, and we’d get dragged along, and they’d say how smart he was.’

  ‘Say that about everyone.’ Then without thinking I said, ‘He got this bird pregnant.’

  ‘No fuckin’ way?’ He sat up.

  ‘In the tunnels under the main wing. Then she wouldn’t deal with it, so it got nasty.’

  ‘Randy little shit. Who was it?’

  I explained. Tracey, the Inferno, the revelation, the five hundred bums.

  He said, ‘Serves him right. See, he’s not so clever.’ He stopped, but not because he understood the irony. ‘But she … you know?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, I gotta hand it to him. Even I haven’t done that.’ He lay down again. ‘Why any girl would let him fuck her. Jesus.’

  I don’t know why I said it, but I asked, ‘You ever been into the Glassons’ place?’

  A long pause. Then he turned his head and looked at me awkwardly. ‘Why would you ask that?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘The Glassons’? You’re like Curtis …’ And settled.

  Nothing.

  ‘The Glassons’? Why not the Donnellans’, the Sharpes’? Why would I have gone to the Glassons’ place?’ He sat up again, glared at me. ‘What, cos there’s something missing?’

  Pop returned with a few slices of bread, ham, cheese, and the dregs of a bottle of orange juice. John started eating, all the time looking at me.

  Pop said, ‘I’ll take you in the morning. Go in with you, yeah?’

  ‘Okay.’ But he settled before he’d finished. I guessed there was a lot to think about.

  People had always been saying bad things about John, but it was the first who’d done the damage, and the rest had followed. He hadn’t done a thing, really. It wasn’t, isn’t, fair that some people get a fibro childhood, some brick, some ivy. Years later, I learned that Barry Davidson (I’d been in his class in Grade Six) hadn’t given way to a truck on Eastern Avenue, and the eighty years we’d been promised wasn’t to be. And Matthew Jolley’s cousin had driven through a wall. And a couple kids in Year Eleven had crashed into a tree on the way home from band practice. And Smithy, whose mum had deadlocked the front door, but forgotten the key, and the firemen had found them on top of each other, trying to open it. I’d like to say to this supposed God, Well, you need to explain. I used to share school milk with them. And I don’t feel glad that I survived when they didn’t.

  ‘I don’t think it’s too late for you and Harry,’ Pop said. ‘He’ll need someone else, eventually.’

  John didn’t reply. The concrete under his head didn’t bother him. He didn’t complain. He didn’t say a word.

  And the next morning he’d gone.

 
Lucky bastards, the Burrells. VCR. And Beta, too, which was the best sort. Gary had come good and bought it. Now they could settle in for the night, pop a bit of corn, suck back the Passiona. They’d had me in for The Woman in Red, but what was that? Taken me to Focus Video, where I’d scoured the shelves, unsuccessfully, for half an hour. ‘It’s just a fad,’ I said.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Curtis replied. ‘Who’s gonna go to the movies when you can watch it in your living room?’

  ‘It’s better without your dad cutting his toenails.’

  We turned into Lanark Avenue. The Cohens (37), next to the Sharpes, although they never talked to anyone. Word was they were very Christian and only mixed with other Godbodies. Ern had said he’d seen them invite the Jehovahs or SDAs in one Saturday morning. Something no one ever did. Ida reckoned a couple of Mormons, too. The God theory must’ve been right, because no one was that hard up for friends.

  Curtis checked their perfect roses and said, ‘John taught ’em.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Mormons. They were comin’ up the drive and he told me to let them in, keep them talkin’. So they were sittin’ there saying Jesus this and Jesus that and I see John (he’d gone around the house) taking their bikes, wheeling them down the drive and (I later found out) putting them in our shed.’

  ‘Nice work.’

  ‘So I piss these fellas off. No, our bikes! And John comes out: What’s up, fellas?’

  We laughed. It’s what John had been like when breaking rules was a pastime. When most things could be gotten away with. I remembered, searched my pocket and handed him his key. ‘I found it.’

  ‘Thank God. Where?’

  ‘On the footpath.’

  ‘I was putting off telling Gary. He woulda freaked out.’

  ‘You owe me.’

  He studied it, thought about it. ‘I coulda swore I left it in me bedroom. I do the same, every time: wallet, keys, frangers.’

  ‘Frangers?’

  ‘She’ll come back.’

  ‘You’re delusional.’

  We approached 31. There was a car out front, and a figure, pacing. Status Quo pounding. I assumed he was waiting for Ron. Curtis went home and I went in, looking back at this man, who turned his head to look at me.

  No one home. Jen had trade school, and Mum was probably shopping, leading Pop like a lost dog. I went into my room, threw my bag in the corner (the work could wait) and checked the street. The man was studying our house. I closed the blinds so there was a shredded-cabbage view of the world. Then I thought of John. One of his mates? He was unshaved, wearing a T-shirt, long brown hair and a stubby nose, like a curious pig.