This Excellent Machine

by Stephen Orr

  He smiled. ‘Wilf?’

  This was enough to get me into the kitchen, and a beer, the radio turned down. He sat and said, ‘I seen you before.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just a bub. Few months old. We were working somewhere, and yer mum brings you in … and yer dad’s showin’ you off.’

  ‘Mighta been my sister, she’s two years older.’

  ‘No, it was a boy, I remember. Clem, you say?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ And we shook.

  Half a glass later (with the form put away) he said, ‘I gave yer dad that job. Sixty-eight, nine, when I was foreman with Blackie’s.’ He squeezed my arm. ‘Look at you, all grown up. I remember that day. Your mum brought you along and yer dad’s sayin’, Number one son … not bad, eh? Like that. Not bad? Proud as punch. Course, a man is with his first son.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Why would you? Bet you’ve done him proud.’

  ‘Haven’t done much yet, till I get out of school, anyway.’

  ‘You will. Lay bricks, like him. What a worker.’

  I waited, and drank. The beer seemed natural, and I could already feel my head.

  ‘Got nasty when he left.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it. Everything worked out okay.’

  ‘He was sacked?’

  ‘Not me. Mr Black, the owner.’

  ‘Why?’

  He paused, wiped beer from his mouth. ‘He laid around a bit, left work to others. Then when Mr Black challenged him he’d give him a mouthful. I stayed out of it, cos he could lay bricks real good. But you know … some blokes are their own worst enemy.’

  It sounded like Mum had said, but Mr Jones seemed apologetic. ‘Don’t worry about that. Blokes came and went. That was the business. Yer dad’d had enough anyway. Reckoned he’d make a good sailor.’

  ‘And that’s why you went referee?’

  ‘Yeah. Old Blackie sacked lots of fellas, didn’t mean they weren’t decent. He was short-fused, and if you come up against him, like your dad did, that’d be the end of it. But you ask him, he’ll tell you about Blackie.’

  I wondered what he meant. ‘But he’s dead.’

  Bob looked confused. ‘Blackie?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Dead?’ He almost laughed. ‘Not less he’s a ghost.’

  Then I told him about the letter.

  ‘Someone’s pulling your leg.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How old’s the letter?’

  ‘Seventies some time.’

  ‘Last time I saw your dad was three, four years ago. He dropped by, sat there, drinkin’ a beer, like you. Even looks like you.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘I seen him plenty of times over the years. Stops by, asks how I’m going.’

  I didn’t get it. The letter. Mum’s words.

  ‘And he never mentions me … Mum, Jen?’

  ‘I knew he’d moved on but … Told me about you. Like books, don’t yer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And yer sister, she’s a hairdresser?’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  ‘He’s been tellin’ me about you kids for years. You grazed yer arm, didn’t yer, riding yer bike?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you were in scouts at one point? Won some trophy?’

  It didn’t seem real.

  ‘He never held it against me, you know, him gettin’ sacked. Said I’d done what I could.’

  This seemed to go against everything I’d ever heard about him.

  ‘Wanna another beer?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Why not?’

  I no longer felt the need to escape from Wilton. Whatever it was, it was an honest place, and a place of honesty. Maybe I’d remain forever, discovering more of the truth the suburbs had denied me. Over the next hour I heard about Dad’s bricklaying records, how quickly he could cut and nail up asbestos, and how, in a way, he’d built our fibro dream. How he was good at sport, and how women liked him. How he could get along with almost anyone, unless he was backed into a corner. ‘What’s he do now?’

  ‘Works for a plumber. Fella he gets along with.’

  ‘And he’s …’

  He leaned forward. ‘She’s a nice girl, coupla years younger. Yvonne, I think, or Yvette.’

  Damn. ‘You got his number?’

  Bob just looked at me. ‘You sure you want it?’

  6/viii/84 Technically, I had failed another driving test. I say technically, because I didn’t really fail. There was a stop sign, and I stopped but (apparently) rolled, so that I hadn’t really stopped. But, according to any reasonable human being, I’d stopped. So after turning the corner, the examiner (a nose picker who whistled when he breathed) said …

  ‘Okay, Mr Whelan, you can head back to the office.’

  Not a good sign. We’d only been out five minutes. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘You failed to stop.’

  ‘But. I. Stopped.’

  ‘You need to come to a full stop.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Turn around, please.’

  I was destined to remain licenceless. It seemed unfair. Girls always got theirs first go, but there was some unwritten rule about suburban males. The minute we got our licence we were off drag racing, drunk driving, wrapping our parents’ cars around poles. So they kept failing us. All of which proved it was a woman’s world. Pop, particularly, subscribed to this view. Germaine Greer. It was all her fault. If only she’d kept her trap shut everything would’ve been alright. And Helen Reddy. I am woman. So bloody what? I am man (nearly).

  Pop was pissed. ‘Three fuckin’ times. You’re a perfectly good driver. Revenue, that’s what it’s about.’

  We were driving down North East Road after the test. Pop couldn’t see the problem. ‘Hundred and fifteen dollars each time. That’s … three forty-five. That’s what it’s about.’

  I just drove.

  ‘You stopped, you reckon?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Course you did. I taught you to stop. Full stop?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I’ll write to the paper.’

  ‘What’s that gonna do?’

  ‘Gotta be a limit, doesn’t there? You can only fail so many times.’

  ‘Thanks, Pop.’

  ‘A statute of limitations. What is it? Ten, twelve?’

  ‘I’m not doin’ it ten times.’

  ‘You might have to.’

  ‘I don’t need a licence.’

  He thought about this. It was just a bit of paper. ‘Well, bugger it.’

  ‘Y’ reckon?’

  ‘What’s the fine for driving without a licence?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Gotta be less than doing that test a hundred times.’

  A hundred? Maybe he thought I really was hopeless. ‘Annoying, cos I had it all down pat. The reverse parking, three-point …’

  Pop was caught up in his own thoughts. His fist clenched, his head shaking. ‘Not gonna let this stop us?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The trip. You’ll do.’

  I pulled into Lanark II, slowed, wondering what Mum would say. I noticed a car parked in the Rosies’ drive. Pop got out, slammed the door and went in. I heard Mum saying, ‘How’d he go?’ and Pop replying, ‘Failed again,’ and Mum saying, ‘What this time?’

  But I wasn’t interested. A car in the Rosies’ drive. No one parked there.

  I waited. An older woman came out, took something from the boot of her car, and went in.

  Tina …

  Inside, Mum was saying, ‘They oughta give him his money back. No one stops at stop signs.’

  ‘But yer meant to.’

  How many years? Surely someone had bought it?

  Then, a second figure. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Short brown hair and an oval face (at least from this distance). I reckoned … but it had been so long.

 
Vicky.

  No, it couldn’t be. The girl took bedding from the boot, brushed hair from her face and went in.

  Mum called, ‘Clem, come and tell us about it.’

  That was the last thing I felt like doing. I walked down the drive and slowly crossed the road, just in case I was wrong. I thought, Fuck, if it’s them, we’ve got a full house again. I stopped to think. Vicky. Standing together in this same spot on the morning the ambulance came to take him away. Me saying something like, That’s pretty rotten.

  They reckon he was sick, and it just got him, quick.

  Sorry ’bout that.

  Not your fault.

  Where do they take him, d’you reckon?

  No point goin’ to the hospital, is there?

  Guess not.

  Those were the sorts of conversations I remembered. Probably all imagined, later, in some sort of fantasy, as I lay in bed, dreaming of touching her smooth skin, kissing her, holding her hand, telling her how much I loved her.

  I walked up the drive and stood beside the car. The boot was full of blankets and pillows, and clothes, stacked half-neat in the wheel well. In the back there were a couple of suitcases, and books, stuffed in the gaps. Some of Oswald’s, perhaps?

  The girl came out, looked at me, then smiled. ‘No way.’

  I said, ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Clem?’

  ‘Vicky?’

  She half-ran down to me, but stopped, realising we hadn’t seen each other in the best part of a lifetime. She put a hand out, and I shook it. She was so bloody beautiful. The same round face, big cheeks and perfect teeth. I managed, ‘It’s been years.’

  ‘You’re so tall.’

  ‘And you … you were one of those midgety-looking kids.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  And she did touch my hand, squeezed it, then released. ‘You were so scrawny, and now you’re … beefed up?’

  ‘Shit … what are you …?

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, smiling. ‘We’ve come home, Clem.’

  Then Tina came out and said, ‘Clem bloody Whelan!’ She hugged me, and examined me like I was some sort of prize bull she was thinking of buying. ‘You were so weedy.’

  ‘Was I?’

  ‘Ossie used to …’ She didn’t really know what to say. Maybe she just wanted to say his name, so he’d be there, with us.

  They’d cleaned out the rooms, and there were boxes and mattresses. Mum had already been over, apparently, and helped them mop. They’d made a few trips. A couple of pictures, ready to hang. Tina explained how they hadn’t thought it would be in such bad condition, and I told her about the vandals, the local kids, rats, birds, Mr Champness’s rabbits (probably). ‘It was a real pity, cos I remembered how you and Mr … how you and Ossie had it. But we assumed you’d sold it.’

  ‘Nope, never sold it,’ she said.

  I looked at Vicky, and she was looking at me. She was so beautiful. It didn’t seem right, things like this never happened to me. Years of staring out of a telescope, waiting for something to happen, and I’d accepted it’d be like this forever. But now. ‘You doin’ matric?’

  ‘Yeah. You?’

  ‘Stopped end of last year. Mum wants me to do it.’

  ‘Not want, you will.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Tina started making up her mattress with sheets. Vicky went around the other side to help. They were a team. Maybe this is what it had been like, since the lemon tree. ‘Me and Pop used to chase people out, or call the cops,’ I said. ‘I said we oughta board it up, but he said it wasn’t our business.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ Tina said.

  Not only beautiful, but athletic. Tallish, with long legs joining a bendy torso topped with melonish boobs. Little Vicky standing in the backyard, me, coming out from a talk with Oswald, watching her flatten her chest and say, I reckon they’re coming.

  What?

  Tits.

  Don’t they come later?

  Depends. What you got?

  Kidnapped.

  I read that one. Stupid. Haven’t you got yer own books?

  No.

  You should tell yer Mum to get some. See, here, boobs.

  I can’t see nothin’.

  You’re not looking.

  She’d had a controlling streak. Estella and Pip, to a lesser extent, although she was never really nasty. Just like she had the potential to be a bitch. Pop had warned me about this. Fancy her, eh?

  No.

  You do. Give her a chance. Wait till she gets her claws in.

  Don’t like her.

  Fair enough. You smell like her, though.

  Do not.

  She lend you her perfume?

  There was an esky in the corner and Tina fetched a Coke and poured three glasses. We sat on the mattress, and floor, as the afternoon breeze fought with the sepia curtains.

  ‘Mrs Champness stayed in here,’ I said.

  ‘She did?’

  ‘When she had a blue with Les. He knew she was here, but didn’t say nothin’. Then she went home.’

  ‘They well?’

  ‘Everyone’s well, except Pop.’

  ‘Fay was telling me. That’s a shame, eh? He was always independent.’

  ‘Still is, but he leaves his keys in the letter box. After a while you work out where things are gonna be, so it’s okay.’

  Tina wanted to know about the Donnellans, Sharpes, Burrells, even Ron and Hester Glasson, but I kept it brief because I really wanted to know about them. It got to a pause in the conversation, and I guess she knew it was her turn. ‘Donath,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Coupla hours’ drive north, coupla thousand people. Places like that get smaller after a while. I guess that’s why we’re back.’

  Why so long? But I didn’t have to ask.

  ‘I can see what you’re thinking, Clem.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I could always tell what you were thinking. And Ossie. He could read you.’ She’d found her mark. ‘He thought you were a top kid.’

  ‘He was great, wasn’t he?’ I checked with Vicky, to make sure. ‘Got me readin’, and I’m still doing it. Writing a novel.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Done over a hundred pages.’

  ‘See, he woulda known that was coming. He could tell.’

  Then there was a little silence. In memoriam, perhaps.

  Tina said, ‘Took us a while to get back. Thought we’d give it a bita time … and that got longer and longer, and now you’re all grown up.’

  We’ve missed so many years, I wanted to say.

  ‘So we’re gonna fix it up, paint it, aren’t we, Vick?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You can help with the garden, if you like.’

  An invitation! Me, in overalls, and Vick, in short shorts, taming the wilderness, planting cabbages and tomatoes, sweating, together, in the summer sun. ‘Course,’ I said. ‘It’s a lotta work.’

  ‘We’re in no rush.’

  Then Mum was at the door, esky in hand. She ignored me, sat on the bed, got sandwiches out and handed them around. ‘What d’you reckon, Clem? You and Vicky used to get on real nice, didn’t they, Tina?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We ate. Cheese and pickle. Ham and chutney.

  ‘I couldn’t believe it,’ she said. ‘I said to Dad, I know that car, and he said, Bugger me, it’s the Rosies.’

  Tina said, ‘Just sayin’ how big he’s got.’

  ‘That’s cos he never stops eatin’.’

  ‘You oughta be proud, Fay.’

  ‘He has his moments, though not today.’

  She told them about my history of failed driving tests. Mum was good at amplifying failure.

  ‘Wasn’t my fault,’ I said, as I explained the rolling stop.

  Vicky was laughing, at me. Praise Jehovah! She said, ‘I got mine first go.’

  ‘Exactly! See, Mum, girls always get it first go. They hate boys.’

  They all laughed, b
ut I really didn’t care. ‘I did stop.’

  Vicky tried to be nice. ‘I remember you, Clem.’

  I waited.

  ‘You were always a bit clumsy. But that was sorta nice. Curtis, he was an idiot. Is he still an idiot?’

  ‘Oath,’ Mum said, and she gave her a potted history of his idiocy. ‘And his brother, John, remember him?’

  ‘He was horrible.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe the trouble he’s been in with the law.’ As she ate half a samby in a single bite. There was more about John, the coppers, Gary’s foreignies, Peter’s bathroom renovations (courtesy of Ernie, who, she explained, had softened a bit).

  I was glad Mum had come. This way, the Rosies listened and I got to study Vicky’s face. It was like we were five again, throwing a ball from one side of the road to another, her saying, Dad’s gone to bed early.

  He tired?

  He always goes to bed early.

  Why?

  Just does. Then, perhaps, she picked soursobs, and sucked them and I, perhaps, said, Dog’s pissed on them.

  So?

  You can get tuberculosis from dog piss.

  Bullshit.

  Pop said.

  What’s he know?

  He can strip a 240Z in less than hour.

  So what?

  I seen him.

  So what?

  So what? She was back, and like that, the years disappeared. What did it matter that we missed the Bay City Rollers, Sherbet, Grease and Xanadu? Because there was the potential for more, from where we’d left off, sucking weeds.

  Jen stood, plastic apron and gloves, waiting for Curtis to sit. She’d made sure he’d washed his shaggy hair, and she’d cut it, so the perm would take. ‘You sure?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have asked.’

  He sat on an old chair in the middle of our kitchen.

  I said, ‘I haven’t seen anyone with a perm.’

  ‘At Gleneagles High … but in the real world.’ He invoked the names of a few telly stars who, apparently, had permed hair.

  I said, ‘What are people gonna say?’

  ‘What do I care?’

  I could see and hear the reactions: Curtis walking through the front gate, peals of laughter, before the insults. Are you an absofuckinlutelygaypoofda?

  He’d bought the rods, solution, neutraliser, told us how he felt he was growing stale. It’d come out of nowhere. Gleneagles males didn’t have permed hair. Not unless they’d changed sides, or developed some sort of mental condition.