by Stephen Orr
I explained this, too. My gradual coming-to-see that a man had to do what a man had to do. Like me, surveying my melamine future, and knowing I’d do anything, no matter how irrational. ‘At least he’ll die happy,’ I said.
‘You should tell your mum.’
‘No. And you can’t. I’m trusting you.’
She smirked again. Like, how do you know what I’ll do?
‘If she stopped him he’d just sit there, give up. At least if he goes, and finds out …’
Less smirk, more smile. She knew I was right. That’s what I liked about Vicky (one thing, anyway). The joke lasted as long as it should, no more.
Pop said, ‘Curtin Springs … they got water, so that’s the best place to camp.’
‘How much we taking?’
‘What?’
‘Water?’
‘Plenty. We can refill at Coober. Don’t worry about all that, it’s sorted.’
We took our Cokes and went to my bedroom. Not something you could get away with if Mum was home. As we passed them, Pop shooshed Ernie.
‘Don’t worry, we didn’t hear a thing,’ I said.
Vicky sat on my bed and looked across at her home, Tina busy clearing weeds from around the water meter.
‘I’ve sat watching your place for years,’ I said.
She just studied her mother’s efforts.
‘Like I said, there were prowlers, but we moved them on.’
Again, nothing.
I was unsure what to do, so I sat close to her. ‘I’ve been watching the street, all these years.’
‘That’s a bit creepy.’
‘Not much else to do.’
She noticed my telescope. ‘With that?’
‘No. For the stars.’
But she wasn’t convinced. ‘So I should make sure my window’s shut of a night?’
‘It was just out of curiosity. I’m a very curious person. You remember that?’
She just grinned, like she’d known me forever. ‘You’re just a little boy still, aren’t you?’
‘How?’
‘Like you used to be. A little mouse, watching.’
‘Well, I think you’ll find I’m capable of much more now.’
She almost laughed. ‘Really?’
I wanted to explain, or demonstrate, but dared not.
‘Like what?’
‘Like plenty of things. My novel, for instance.’
‘Do tell, Clemmy.’
A moment later I had it out, and turned to a passage I thought she might enjoy.
‘Arnold’s view of the world was really quite simple. Everyone was in need of help. Rescuing. And only he was able.’ I explained. How it was Arnold, not me, who’d rescue the world. ‘This could happen in a physical way (for example, rescuing people from high-rise fires) or in a simpler, more domestic way.’
She turned towards me. One leg (don’t look, don’t look, Whelan!) across my unmade bed, the other sticking out like a snag, ready to trap me.
‘Arnold woke to screaming. Then, smoke. He jumped from bed, saw his neighbour, Joan, on the roof of her house, the flames licking at her feet.’
‘You imagined this?’ Vicky asked.
‘That’s what writers do, Vick.’
‘Go on.’
‘Arnold donned his tights, adjusted his tackle, and flew from the window of his small room. Across the road. He hovered above the gal, took Joan in his arms and rocketed upwards, and at that instance, the house exploded, disintegrating in a ruin that would lay unrepaired for more than a decade, until Joan returned, determined to fix her future.’ I waited. ‘Well?’
‘I’m Joan?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You’re a good writer.’
I had a thought. A stroke of genius. My hand was on the bed, and if I moved it, and a finger or two accidentally touched hers, then it was like I was actually … trying.
I had to do it before I reasoned it away. I touched her hand, and every nerve in my body tingled. Stasis; the shared warmth of skin. Although she didn’t reciprocate, she didn’t do anything to stop me.
Ernie held a small pistol, taking the magazine in and out, showing us how it worked. ‘You can’t be too careful.’
‘We’re not taking a pistol,’ Pop said.
‘You wanna catch rabbits?’
Pop showed him a small trap he’d already packed in the trailer.
‘You won’t catch nothin’ with that.’
‘I used to get plenty.’
Ernie loaded, cocked, and pointed the pistol at the roof.
‘Put the bloody thing away,’ Pop said.
‘Don’t worry, it’s on safety.’
Pop took a few steps, grabbed the weapon and slammed it down on the tool bench. ‘Let’s get it clear: I’m running things.’
Ernie and Peter waited, unsure.
‘Right, let’s get this done.’
This being the trailer, sitting in the cheesy light from our sixty-watt globe. Welded, primed, painted, and the wiring working, praise Clem! It’d taken me a while, following the diagrams, and then we’d hooked it up to the Datsun, but the brake triggered the blinker, the blinker the running lights, so I’d tried again, and eventually it worked. Pop had been pleased, hair had been ruffled. New tyres and a rego disk we’d arranged from the office of my many failings (the licence could wait).
So under Pop’s direction, it began. Firstly, the tent, packed in the bottom. I sat on it. Then, the groundcovers and swags, cooking pots and digging tools. As they were slipped into the gaps, Pop said, ‘I can hear the clunk.’
We waited for him.
‘As we dig down … through the sand. Quartz. Can you hear it, Clem?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Pete?’
‘Gold-bearing, eh, Doug?’
‘Oath. Ernie?’
He took a moment. ‘I can hear it, Doug. I can hear it.’
Like we were all being asked to take a pledge, to believe in Lasseter’s gold. We’d had it all explained: the hills that looked like sun bonnets, the sacred waterhole, the razor-sharp mallee protecting its gold. The dozens of doomed expeditions. Amateurish efforts, destined to fail. Lasseter’s son, even, driving west every year in search of his father’s slippery dream.
‘This is what we’ll do,’ Pop said, packing an esky. ‘Take a picture and mark the spot. Then, cover it up and head back to town to make the claim.’
‘How’d you do that?’ Ernie asked.
‘Department of Mines and Energy.’ He took a sheet of paper from his pocket and showed us. ‘Application for Mining Claim’. We examined it. He’d already filled in certain fields: name, address, type(s) of minerals under consideration.
‘It’s just got your name on it,’ Ernie said.
‘Correct. I make the claim, then we come to an agreement.’
Ernie was unsure. ‘Agreement?’
‘Pete draws up a contract, saying who gets what.’
‘I do?’
‘We agreed on this.’
Ernie. ‘But why can’t we have our names on the claim?’
‘It’s my claim. I’ll discover it. That was the agreement. Me and Clem were going, but you two wanted to come.’
This didn’t go down well. Maybe they’d reconsidered. After all, it was a long way to go for a few scraps, especially if the lode was as big as Pop was saying.
‘You could pop our names on the claim, and make the percentage clear,’ Ernie said.
‘Easier this way.’
Peter said, ‘Maybe we should agree on it now?’
Pop. ‘Fine.’ He sat, placed the claim on the bench, found a carpenter’s pencil and wrote: ‘I, Douglas Currie …’ Then turned to Peter. ‘Come on, you’re the lawyer.’
‘You can’t do it that way. It wouldn’t hold up in court.’
‘It’s never gonna get to court. We’ve agreed, haven’t we?’ He handed Peter the pencil and he sat down and wrote.
‘I, Douglas Currie, holding the claim on this gold,
do hereby state that all earnings and royalties will accrue ninety per cent to me, five to Peter (add yer middle name) Donnellan and five to Ernest—what’s yer middle name?’
‘John, as if it matters.’
‘Ernest John Sharpe, all of Lanark Avenue, Gleneagles.’
Ernie said, ‘Five? Coupla weeks ago it was ten.’
‘It was never ten.’
‘This yer memory going?’
‘It was never ten.’
‘It was.’
‘If you want, there’s the door.’
Again, a stand-off. Ernie mumbled, ‘Five?’
‘Five.’
Peter didn’t say a thing. Maybe he was thinking that five per cent of nothing’s still nothing. He finished writing, signed the bottom then presented it to Pop, who signed, and Ernie, who looked miserable, made a few more comments, then signed.
I reclaimed my spot on the trailer and they continued packing lanterns, saucepans and camp oven, Pop finding spots, squeezing them in, me jumping up and down.
Pop said to Peter, ‘You haven’t told anyone?’
‘No.’
But he didn’t look sure. ‘Not even Davo?’
‘You gonna trust any of us, Doug?’
‘I do, only I don’t want Val knowin’. She’s in Fay’s ear five times a day.’
I knew Pete would’ve told Dave, and he would’ve said, Can I come? And Pete would’ve explained: only four seats in a Datsun. They would’ve whispered and laughed and Val would’ve heard and said, What you two talking about? Maybe they’d told her, and she’d agreed to keep mum, seeing it as Pop’s final, grand delusion.
‘We’re a team,’ Pete said. ‘It’s not just you, with us along for the ride.’
‘Exactly,’ Ernie agreed. ‘We got a stake too. We believe, don’t we, Clem?’
I nodded.
‘Righto,’ Pop said. ‘I’m tryin’ to make it happen. Can’t just talk about it. Planning, that’s how you find gold. Less you wanna end up like Burke and Wills.’
‘They didn’t have a Datsun,’ I said.
‘Camels,’ Pop replied. ‘And their radiators don’t overheat.’
We were nearly there. The last of the food, bottles of water, a box with powdered milk, custard and cordial. Then Ernie picked up the dry goods. ‘Shit.’ He put them down on the wheel arch. Flour everywhere, and biscuit crumbs from the few packs we’d wrapped in foil.
‘Rats?’ Pete asked.
Pop looked at him like, Yes, from your shed.
‘No,’ I said, watching the little red eyes.
Everyone followed my stare. A rabbit: grey, fat, buck-toothed. After years of hearing about them, here was the proof. Les’s mythical bunnies. ‘One of Les’s,’ I said.
Ernie moved towards the bench, picked up his pistol, slipped off the safety and lined it up.
Pop pushed his hand down. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I can get him.’
‘Everyone in the street’ll know.’
Ernie wasn’t happy. The rabbit just watched us.
‘What we gonna do?’ Peter asked.
Pop took a step towards it, but it didn’t move. ‘Come here y’ little shit.’ He lunged, but the bunny darted behind the shelves.
When we were done, Pop produced a bottle of brandy and paper cups and insisted we all drink. More of the pledge, or some sort of blood-mixing. He spread a map on the bench and used the pistol as a pointer. ‘Day one, here … here. Ern, you rang the hotel at Port Augusta?’
‘Done. Single room. Put the swags on the floor.’
Mum was at the back door. ‘Dad, Clem, you comin’ in?’
Pop stuck his head out. ‘Gis a minute, will you?’
‘What you doin’?’
‘Fixin’ that idiot’s trailer.’
We waited, listening, as she went back in. Then Pop folded the map and said, ‘That’s gonna have to do for now. We’ll talk again tomorrow.’ He raised his cup and said, ‘To success.’
And we repeated it, half-believing, half-dreading. But some times you just had to sit on your egg, regardless of its chances of hatching.
Fig trees were bastards. Even if you managed to remove them, they were back a few months later. But Pop was determined. He’d dug around the base, loosened the trunk, and now, him and Ernie were rocking it.
‘Must be an easier way,’ Ernie said.
‘Keep going. Clem?’
I joined in, the three of us, back and forth, but it refused to yield.
Tina came out and said, ‘Drinks?’
‘In a minute,’ Pop grumbled.
‘Don’t damage yourselves.’
He didn’t reply. He’d never liked gardening, but it was something that had to be done. Why people planted trees, he didn’t know. Grass was the go. Run the mower over every couple of weeks, everyone’s happy. ‘Who planted this?’ he asked.
‘Ossie. He liked fig jam. Reckoned we could make our own.’
As Pop thought (I guessed), Well, why the hell isn’t he here removing it?
‘Gis a call when yer ready,’ Tina said, going inside.
Back and forth, but it wouldn’t yield. Ernie took the pruning saw and started on the trunk.
‘That’ll take hours,’ Pop said.
But he kept going.
Pop sat back, his legs in the hole. ‘Why can’t she get some one in?’
‘Can’t afford it,’ I suggested.
He surveyed the yard—overgrown trees surrounded by dead or feral shrubs; four-foot lawn full of thistle and wireweed. ‘She can’t expect us to do it all.’
‘You offered.’
‘No, your mother offered me. While she sits in there havin’ a cuppa with her.’
Ernie’s saw slipped, grazing his hand. He examined it, and licked the blood.
‘Go easy,’ Pop said. ‘That gets infected, you won’t be coming.’
‘It’s not gonna. Anyway, who says who’s goin’ or not?’
‘I do.’
Vicky had helped for an hour: short shorts and work shirt, borrowed boots and hiking socks. Quite the modern woman, although I did keep my eyes to myself. Then she’d had to go in, shower, and get a bus for a job interview. Secretarial, although she couldn’t type or take shorthand. But she’d just said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll convince them.’
‘Despite not knowing what to do?’
‘The right person, Clemmy. You can teach a monkey to type.’
‘Really?’
She’d punched my arm, hard enough for a bruise. Which, I guessed, I’d wash lovingly every night until it faded.
Back and forth. Pop said, ‘I’m too old for this.’
Ernie’d had enough. ‘A hundred and fifty for the day and he’d clear this lot out. I’m too old.’
‘You’re too old?’ Pop said.
Silence, as the wilderness was contemplated, and we listened to the ladies, inside number 26, laughing and talking about whatever women talk about.
‘Bita spirit,’ Pop said. ‘That’s what we’re gonna need: bita spirit. Let’s get it started.’ As he pushed, pulled, spat on his hands, wiped sweat from his forehead, bulged from his singlet. ‘Come on, you two, I’m the old bastard.’
Then, finally, the cracking of wood, splintering of fibre, as the fig groaned and laid itself out, defeated. Ernie cut the sinew and Pop pushed it with his foot. ‘One down. What’s next?’
‘The lemon tree,’ Ernie said.
Pop wasn’t sure. ‘We better ask.’
‘She wants them all gone. Her words.’
It was a big tree, with healthy limbs, although, since it hadn’t been watered in years, its fruit was small, scrotal. I said, ‘Bita water and fertiliser, it might come good.’
‘All gone,’ Ernie repeated.
‘Strange she left it,’ Pop said.
‘Why?’ Ernie asked.
He didn’t reply.
‘That’s the tree he used,’ I said.
‘You don’t know that,’ Pop growled.
‘
See, that big branch.’
‘Don’t say what you don’t know.’
Ernie was a gossip. ‘How do you know?’
‘We know,’ Pop said.
We all saw Ossie moving in the breeze, his feet brushing against the trunk.
‘Pity,’ Ernie said.
‘Pity,’ Pop agreed. ‘He was a decent sorta fella, wasn’t he, Clem?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Gave you them books, eh?’
All this made me wonder whether we should chop it down. ‘Maybe we should ask Tina.’
Pop wasn’t so sentimental. He stood and said, ‘Yer gotta move on,’ took the pruning saw from Ernie and approached it. Picked the narrowest part of the trunk and began.
It felt strange. The object of my and Curtis’s fascination for so long. The number of times we’d examined it for rope marks, imagined the day, the moment, the result, the ambulance, the crying and screaming and shouting, the neighbours (some we’d never met) gathering with their arms crossed, asking what had happened. Pop sawed without pausing, determined.
Ernie said, ‘He was never quite right, was he?’
‘Just different,’ I said. ‘Thoughtful.’
‘Doesn’t pay to think about things too much.’ Ern had his own orthodoxy, written and spoken on a daily basis. Sensible, fair, equitable. These small, suburban revolutions didn’t matter. If Ossie had just got on with things … No one had to kill themselves.
Pop’s arm pushed saw into flesh, and it cut, and the wet, green tissue fell to the ground. The trunk moved, and he cut it some more, moved some more, and he pushed it with his foot, and it fell.
‘Done,’ he said, returning.
Good, I thought. Me and Vicky and Tina and everything that might happen now: all in the future. Books were for memories; stories, too, over a cuppa, but not lemon trees.
Tina came out with a tray and handed us a glass of barley water. ‘I do appreciate this, fellas.’
‘Glad to help,’ Pop said.
As we drank, she noticed which trees had fallen. ‘Lotta work, eh?’
‘Not so much,’ Pop said.
‘I was gonna get someone in, but Fay reckoned it wasn’t worth it.’
‘Na, why pay someone?’
‘Yes.’ Her eyes lingering on the lemon. ‘Good job, I’d say.’ Before she went in.
‘What next?’ Ernie asked.
‘I’ve had enough,’ Pop replied. ‘Don’t wanna pull a muscle, this close.’
Suddenly, a raised voice, from inside. Mum, of course. ‘When did he say that?’
