by Stephen Orr
I went to the toilet, and when I returned he was gone. A knock. Fuck. Who? What?
Calm, Whelan. Wrong address.
Knock.
I could just ignore it. He’d go away. Unless he didn’t go away. And what if he started shimmying (was that even a word?) up the windows, crawling in, prowling around the house?
Knock.
Having spent my life complaining about the dullness of our suburb, I’d finally got some action. I walked down the hall, waited, and peered through the bubble glass. It was him. The hair, nose, broad shoulders. The jaw, even, big, Clutch Cargo. Bulljaw. Yes, he’d arrived, at last. My mythical hero, come to save the day. I opened the door and said, ‘Hello?’
‘G’day. Is Fay around?’
I didn’t want him thinking I was alone, but he must’ve already tried the empty house. ‘She’s gone down the shops. She’ll be back in a minute.’
‘You Clem?’
‘Yeah.’
Fuck, the voice. I knew.
He said, ‘Guessed you were.’
Now I was really confused. It wasn’t meant to happen like this.
‘I’s hopin’ she’d be here, but it doesn’t matter.’
‘D’you wanna leave a message?’
He waited. ‘What are you now, Clem? Sixteen?’
I knew I shouldn’t, but had to tell him. ‘Seventeen.’
And I could hear him doing the maths.
‘Of course, seventeen. Sorry.’
Sorry. Maybe that was the apology. Sorry. I recognised the tone, the timbre, and knew it just as surely as Mum’s or Pop’s or Val’s. I was in a bassinet, sitting in my unfurnished room, new carpet, Status Quo playing on a tranny in the corner as this man stirred paint, tipped it into a bowl and worked on my lime-green walls.
‘I used to know your mum,’ this strange man said.
‘Yeah?’
‘Haven’t heard a word for donkey’s … so I thought …’ He studied my face.
I opened the screen door. I don’t know why, but I did.
He said, ‘Fuck, you look just like your mum.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Yer forehead, the way your hair falls.’ He indicated, but stopped short of crossing the threshold (I guessed) he’d built. ‘How long you say she’d be?’
‘Little while.’
‘Right.’
I wasn’t sure Mum would want to see him, but I wasn’t about to tell him to leave.
‘She’s a good woman, your mum.’
I couldn’t ask him. He’d have to tell me. Those were the rules.
‘Long time ago,’ he said, ‘I painted this room.’
‘Were you a friend of Dad’s?’
He waited. ‘How’s yer sister?’
‘Good.’
‘Still do calisthenics?’
‘Na.’
‘She a hairdresser, isn’t she?’
How do you know? How long have you been watching? How many people have you been asking? ‘Yes.’
‘Good she’s got somethin’.’
‘Do you wanna wait for her?’
‘No.’
‘Leave your number?’
Bulljaw wanted to do it on his own terms. ‘What you gonna do when you leave school, Clem?’
‘Might be a writer. Although Mum reckons that’s a dumb idea. Although Peter, next door—’
‘How is he?’
‘You know him?’
‘Used to.’
‘He reckons I should. Reckons I’m pretty decent.’
‘Good. That’s what you should do then. What you want. Don’t listen to anyone, Clem. Just what you want, yeah?’
‘I guess.’
‘I’ll pop back.’
‘I’ll tell Mum you came.’
He couldn’t make up his mind about this. He just turned, got in his car and drove off, leaving me wondering if he’d ever return.
I sat on the porch thinking. Why now? But in a way, it didn’t matter. Like Pop said, Everything happens if you wait long enough. He was tall, but no taller than me. Had a smell, but not a bad one, or strong, or inviting or off-putting.
Mum pulled up, dragged Pop from the car and said, ‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’
‘Done it.’
‘Half an hour? Year Twelve?’ She went in, shaking her head. Pop stopped and showed me a pack of beef jerky he’d hidden in his jacket. ‘I’ll buy somethin’ every week.’
I’d never eaten it. No one had ever eaten it, not since the Eureka Stockade. He went in and she came out for more groceries. ‘You gonna help, or supervise?’
‘Someone came to see you,’ I said.
The frozen stuff. She handed it to me. ‘Who?’
‘Some bloke in a Kingswood.’
She dropped a bag, and sugar and flour and rice fell out. She knelt down and gathered them. ‘And?’
‘I asked if he wanted to leave a message, but he didn’t. He wanted to know about me and Jen.’
She sat down beside me. ‘That’s strange.’
‘I’s thinking, he looks familiar.’
‘How?’
‘The photo.’ I looked at her, but not accusingly. ‘Same person.’
She stood, but left the groceries on the porch. A moment later she returned, sat and unfolded a piece of old paper. ‘Read this.’ She handed it to me. There was no name, address, nothing.
Dear Mrs Whelan
I was in two minds about writing this. Sometimes its best not to know. But seeing how Wilf had talked about you and Clem and Jen. He’d told me all about you. And the place hed put up in Gleneagles. He was very proud of it.
Me and him had been working together for three years. Freighters. Hed done so well theyd promoted him. Last month we had a free night in Callao. We split up, but agreed to meet at eleven to get back to the Joyita by midnight. I waited for Wilf until quarter to twelve, but he never arrived, so I went back to the ship. He’d been found floating, in the water. Dead. The police were called, they took the body, and we sailed later that morning. When we checked, after, they said they had no record of him.
Sorry that’s all I can tell you, but I thought perhaps I should write.
Good luck, Mrs Whelan. I hope it all works out.
Yours: A Friend.
Mum waited as I read. I turned to her and said, ‘That’s bullshit. I don’t believe it.’
‘Why would someone send it?’ she asked.
‘Dunno. But it was him, clear as day, from the photo.’
She shook her head. ‘I wish it was, but he wouldn’t wait this long.’
I just sat, studying the letter, trying to work it out.
‘Here,’ she said, handing me a small card.
It was the same man from the photo. And the same, perhaps, from the porch on which we sat. He was younger, side-burned, narrow-faced. It was a Maritime Workers’ Union membership: Wilfred Albert Whelan. Born 10 December 1938. ‘He’d included this,’ Mum said.
I studied the face, the eyes. ‘I know it was him,’ I said.
‘Your dad’s dead,’ she said. ‘Unless …’
I waited.
‘It’s a sick joke.’
But that didn’t explain it. My dad was either driving around in a Kingswood, or buried somewhere around Chacaritas.
Ern had brought beer, and wanted to make a night of it, but Pop was having none of that. Regardless, Comrade Sharpe cracked a stubby for himself and Pop, and Pop sipped it, but said, ‘We’ve gotta keep our eyes on the ball.’
In the form of the stripped-down trailer, new springs, tyres ready to go. Pop handed Ern a brush and he continued painting, smoke in the corner of his mouth so he could move it with lips, inhale, exhale, drink, talk, and repeat the cycle until he was down to the stub and an empty bottle. He said, ‘MacDonnell Ranges, not far from Alice Springs.’
‘Long way,’ Pop said. ‘Under the stars, Ern. No motels.’
‘No?’
‘Unforgiving country. Read yer book of explorers.’
‘M
ad, that lot. Who’d head out with a coupla camels?’
‘Or a Datsun?’ I suggested.
I was studying a wiring diagram. That, Pop had explained, would be my job. Apparently, the ability to use a VCR qualified me.
Ern said, ‘The map makes it clear, doesn’t it, Doug?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean, what roads, where to turn … exactly.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So we couldn’t get lost?’
‘No chance.’
‘So, you got it handy?’
‘Yep.’
‘Can I have a look?’
Pop sipped the warming beer. ‘I don’t show no one.’
‘But if we’re gonna go, eh, Clem?’
‘If Pop says,’ I explained.
‘Right. But, Doug, I’ve committed, I’m willing to put in …’
‘Your choice.’
‘Right.’ He kept painting. ‘But the thing is, if we’re in the middle of the outback, we gotta be able to trust each other.’
Pop seemed to be enjoying it. ‘Listen, Ern, you wanna take yer beers, you can go home.’
‘No.’
‘I’ve compared the map to proper ones, army ones, and it checks out. Whoever done it must’ve known the land.’
‘Right.’ Ern thought about this. ‘So what happens if we go out there, have a look-see, and find nothing?’
‘If yer gonna say that, why go?’
I sat on the ground, studied where the wires would go, emerge, screw into their plug. It didn’t seem so hard.
‘That day on North East Road,’ Pop said, ‘when I just about got collected by a truck. After, I heard a voice.’
‘Whose?’
‘Come on, Doug, what are you doin’ waitin’? I’ve been sittin’ here for years. I need a bita help.’
‘Who was that?’ Ern asked, finishing his grog.
Pop tapped his nose. ‘I’d assumed he’d given up, gone off somewhere, but he’d been there all along, in the desert … waiting. Bita faith, that’s what you need, Ern. You don’t haveta see a map, it’s up here.’ And he tapped his head.
‘Map’d help. It’s a big desert.’
‘It’s a good map, Ern. Latitude, longitude, the lot. Why would someone draw a map to nowhere?’
I noticed the newspaper Pop had put down to catch the primer. What’s Your Problem? It was Curtis’s arse. I picked it up, studied the grainy photo and read: Dear Ms Attitude. I was wondering if you could help. My boyfriend, Dane, enjoys photographing his privates …
‘You wanna start?’ Pop asked.
‘Hold on.’
This photo, for instance. ‘Dane’ attends Gleneagles High. He’s a Year Twelve, but has the brain of a Grade Two. He has trouble controlling his urges, and I’m worried he’ll get into trouble.
I held up the photo. ‘Hey, Pop, look, it’s Curtis’s arse.’
He almost spat out a mouthful. ‘In the paper?’
I read aloud: ‘I was wondering whether you could suggest help? A psychologist? Ever since starting work at our local service station he’s got worse.’
‘Who wrote it?’ Ern asked.
‘His girlfriend.’
‘I always reckoned he wasn’t quite right. And the brother. The whole family.’
Because, apparently, thirty years of walking to the Windsor had left him with an encyclopedic knowledge of everyone in our street. There was nothing he didn’t know. ‘See him sittin’ on the roof sometimes, and I’d say, What you doin’ up there? And he’d say, What you doin’ down there?’
Ms Attitude hadn’t minced her words. ‘Dear Tracey. ‘Dane’ is the worst sort of adolescent male: infantile, self-absorbed, narcissistic, completely unaware of others.’
‘Why’s he takin’ photos of his bum?’ Pop asked.
‘He thought it’d turn her on.’
He examined it. ‘Not much of an arse.’
I tore it out, folded it, and determined to show him. The war was continuing.
‘So, what d’you reckon?’ Pop asked.
‘Looks easy enough.’
‘Them schematics help,’ Ern said, still not convinced.
‘Not if you know what yer doin’,’ Pop replied.
Mum was at the door. ‘What you lot up to?’
‘Busy!’ Pop growled.
She wasn’t happy with this. ‘What you gonna do with it, Ern?’
‘Ida wants some gardenin’ done.’
She didn’t buy this for a minute. ‘Only costs a few dollars to get yer mulch delivered.’
‘Why? When there’s a trailer handy?’
Mum turned on me. ‘Haven’t you got an essay due?’
‘Peter helped me with it. All done.’
‘Well, man’s gotta have a hobby,’ she said, happy (perhaps) that Ern had done what horse racing and Baby Burgess had failed to.
She went in, and Ern said, ‘If I’m in this deep, least you could do’s show me the map.’
‘You wanted to come,’ Pop replied. ‘Only doin’ this to make room for you.’
‘You needed it.’
‘Bullshit.’
Silence. I folded my schematic.
Pop was staring at him. ‘Carn then.’ He grabbed his box of chalk from the bench and stormed out, down the drive, the road. We followed. It was the usual Saturday afternoon, a distant mower, Gary loading steel onto the back of his truck, Val (her colour almost completely grown out) pulling a few weeds, hoping for a miracle. Pop almost ran and we jogged to keep up. Val went in, said to Peter (I guess), Doug and Ern and Clem are goin’ somewhere, and Peter replied (I guess), Watch the tomatoes, don’t let them catch. A few moments later he was calling after us. ‘Wait on!’
Pop wobbled, tripped, but kept on. Over the mound, in through the primary school gates. When we arrived he was already working, drawing roads, tracks, ranges. Ern said, ‘What’s he doing?’
‘You wanted a map.’
He didn’t get it. Why not just show him? And how could he remember a map as detailed as Doug claimed it was?
The lot: the telegraph station, the Todd, Waterhouse Range, Owen Springs and even Imanda, Talpanama, Tjikara. He’d memorised it all. The path we’d take, the turnoffs (323 more yards, sharp left, beside a gidgee tree), rocky outcrops, the Finke, Idracowra, Mborawatna and finally, Horseshoe Bend.
Peter appeared, exhausted, and said, ‘What is it?’
‘The map,’ Pop said. ‘You wanna see? Here it is? Don’t believe me, look!’
He kept going: the names of stations, wells, springs, creeks (dry from September to March), and even the cross to mark the spot: Lasseter’s Reef.
He faced us, but really just Ern and Peter, because they were the ones who needed converting. ‘This one here,’ he said, indicating Horseshoe Bend. ‘That’s what learnt me.’
We waited.
‘This kid, fourteen years old, lived with his dad, here.’ He moved north, over hundreds of kilometres. ‘Hermannsburg Mission. The dad was the pastor. And for thirty years he said, Listen fellas, Jesus is here, in the desert, and he wants to help yers. Of course, he was bloody nuts, wasn’t he? But that wasn’t the point.’
Ern faced what might have been his second revelation.
‘The dad gets sick and the kid and a few of the blacks have to harness some horses and drive him all the way to Horseshoe Bend. This dad’s fading fast (heart failure) but the boy’s determined he’ll survive, so they go on and on, through the heat, broken wheels, dead horses. The boy refuses to admit his dad’s gonna die.’
Peter was silent, fixed.
‘Because the kid knew if his dad died it’d all be over. They’d have to move, start a new life, and all the people who relied on the pastor (cos he’d got the blacks working, makin’ money from cattle) would be finished.’
Pop was there, in his concrete desert, urging the horses on, checking his dad with his swollen legs and red face and lack of breath, saying, This time tomorrow, I reckon, as his dad (who knew he’d never make it), rep
lied, That’s it, son, keep going.
Pop said to Ernie, ‘Can’t you hear the voice?’
Ernie had no idea what he was talking about. The dementia, no doubt.
‘He’s waitin’ for us, Ern. He’s saying, Keep the faith, son.’
As the cart and horse continued, over roads that were no longer roads, bogging in sand, as the horses strained, and managed to get free.
‘The old man?’ Ernie asked.
‘No,’ Pop replied. ‘Can’t you see? The son.’
Since the government weren’t going to help, we, the inhabitants of Lanark Avenue, had decided to do it ourselves. So Peter and Pop had knocked out a dividing wall, removed the shower screen and peeled back the original tiles. We’d all helped barrow the debris out the door, down the drive, into a skip. Now we were left with blank walls, and twelve boxes of tiles, ready to be stuck on, little plastic toothpicks to get the spacing right. Peter had started at the bottom. This didn’t seem right. Surely any imperfection would be amplified as you worked up? And it was. What had started slightly out of plumb had become very obvious. He’d stopped, stood back, squinted (apparently this helped) and said, ‘Nothin’ you could actually notice.’
Although you could.
So we continued. I smeared the adhesive, handed him the tiles and he worked his way up, saying, ‘I reckon it’s gonna look great.’
I couldn’t argue. Providence came in, sniffed around, licked the walls and left. Val, saying, ‘Look at this: plenty of room for the wheelchair.’
The rubbish had been removed and the tiles and paint and new shower fittings delivered. Peter had said to Val, We could get the whole place lookin’ nice.
How?
Bita paint, new carpet. You don’t have to spend a lot of money.
She’d shaken her head, Carpet’s got a coupla years in it yet.
The rows were getting wonkier. ‘You’ll be twenty degrees off at the top,’ I told Peter. ‘How you gonna finish it then?’
‘Cut a few to size.’
‘Should we just take these off, start again?’
