by Stephen Orr
‘Careful,’ Pop said.
Then she was at the back door, hands on hips—never a good sign. ‘You got something to tell me, Dad?’
‘What you talking about?’
Tina stood behind her, terrified.
‘You and yer bloody reef!’
Shit, I thought. Vicky. I remembered what Pop had told me dozens of times: They always tell their mothers.
Pop said, ‘When you start makin’ sense …’
‘Packed ready to go?’
‘What are you talkin’ about?’ He turned to Ernie, who played along, and me, although it was more, I’m gonna kill you, you little shit.
Mum stormed across the road towards our shed. We followed. The trinity of naughty boys, and Tina, saying, ‘I thought she knew.’
‘No, she didn’t bloody well know,’ Pop said.
Through the gate, to the side door of the shed. Locked, of course. Mum stood waiting, and Pop had no choice but to let her in. He switched on the lights and attempted an explanation. ‘All planned.’
‘When?’
‘Soon. Ernie and Pete are coming.’
She turned to Ernie. ‘He’s an old man.’
For once, he had nothing to say.
‘Clem—you knew?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I don’t believe … your grandfather … you shoulda told me.’
‘He’s coming too,’ Pop said.
‘He is bloody not. I don’t believe it. All of yers. Behind my back.’ She lifted the tarp and said, ‘You were gonna look for this gold?’
‘Not this gold. Lasseter’s Reef. I know where it is. You know I know. Nan knew. So, what’s the problem?’
‘The map? You think—’
‘Everyone’s been stoppin’ me, for fifty years. Now I’m goin’. See, Clem gets it, don’t you? If you just keep talkin’ about things, where’s it get you?’
Mum wasn’t about to be swayed. ‘How were you gonna get there?’
‘The Datsun.’
She laughed. ‘The Datsun? Barely gets us to Woolies.’
‘Nothin’ wrong with it.’
‘I can’t believe you did all this behind my back.’ She glared at me again for good measure.
‘Why not?’ I said.
‘He’s an old man with dementia.’
Like he wasn’t even in the shed. But he was having none of it. ‘So bloody what? I might forget a few things, but I still know what’s happening.’ He went to the cupboard, opened the toolbox, took out his map and shook it in her face. ‘Every detail, down to the closest foot. All we gotta do’s follow it. How hard’s that?’
She grabbed the map from his hand, tore it in half, again, and again. ‘Some piss-pot drew it up as a joke. A joke!’
This was his Torah, his Bible, his life. So I was expecting some sort of reaction. But nothing. He just stood there, watching her make confetti. No anger, frustration, disappointment.
Then she said, ‘I forbid it.’
But he didn’t react to this either, which annoyed her even more.
‘Did you hear me?’
Nothing.
She turned on me again. ‘And you, you’ve got exams coming up. What were you thinking of doing?’
‘Pete’s gonna tutor me.’
Pop sat, lit a smoke, and watched. This pissed Mum off no end. She stood in front of him. ‘You lied.’
‘How?’
She indicated the trailer.
‘Didn’t lie about nothin’. You didn’t ask the right questions.’
‘I forbid it!’ She turned and walked out, saying, ‘Carn, Tina, let’s get this kitchen finished.’
We stood watching Pop. He said, ‘You gotta learn, Clemmy. You can’t trust any of them.’
‘Sorry, Pop.’
‘They’re welded to their mothers. No man can change that.’ He stood, went to the cupboard, fiddled under the tools and pulled out the real map. ‘You learn to work them out.’ He folded it, and placed it in his pocket.
Ernie said, ‘You’ve been told, Doug.’
‘Na, just gotta bring it forward a few days … maybe tomorrow morning?’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘You still in?’
‘Too right.’
‘Five o’clock departure. Sleep in yer clothes. Go tell, Pete, eh? And whatever you do, not a word!’
Ern took a moment, thought about it, and smiled. ‘Not a word.’
And was gone.
Pop was left with his smoke, and me, and I said, ‘I screwed that up, eh?’
He shook his head. ‘Na, that’s just what we needed to get us going. No lookin’ back now, eh, Clemmy?’
That night, as I was getting ready for bed, Vicky came to my window and whispered. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s sorted.’ I wondered if I should tell her, but remembered Pop’s words. Welded to their mothers …
She said, ‘It just slipped out.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘What’s he gonna do?’
‘Wait and see. He won’t give up. But don’t tell your mum’
‘No, definitely not.’
‘D’you get the job?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’re a shy little thing.’
I thought about removing the fly screen, letting her in, and all the other things that were due. But I had to be strong—the clock was set for four thirty. So I said, ‘Might have another go at your garden tomorrow.’
Pop at my door. ‘You awake?’
As I tumbled into consciousness. ‘Yeah.’ And checked my clock: 4.21.
‘Come on.’
I pulled the clock’s cord from the wall, got out of bed (jeans, shirt and jacket ready to go), slipped on my shoes, found my backpack and emerged from my room. Pop whispered, ‘The kitchen.’
Where he’d filled two bowls with cereal and milk; where we ate, silently, by the glow of the microwave clock. He’d dressed, combed his hair, written a note (Don’t fuss, just a few days. We’ll call with the good news) and made tea. We finished, went outside, and Ernie was waiting, jacketed, heavy boots, freshly shaved. ‘You’re early,’ Pop whispered.
‘Couldn’t sleep.’
He was agitated, but I guessed this was excitement. He wore a woven cap, like he was ready for a bank job, or a week on the wharves. ‘Here.’ A Tupperware container full of fried eggs and bacon. ‘Ida’s just done it.’
Pop knew there was no time. ‘Come on.’
The shed door groaned, but he slowly lifted it and switched on the light. We got behind the trailer and pushed it to the road, by which time Peter was emerging from number 33. Pop opened the boot and we threw our bags in. No talking; it wasn’t needed. Everything had been discussed, arranged, made ready.
I studied the street. A light was on in number 35 and I fancied I could see Ida watching from a window. Ern noticed and said, ‘She’s going back to bed.’ It was a cool morning, and the birds were already at it. Providence sat at the end of Val’s drive and Peter said, ‘Get inside.’
Pop used hand signals to lead. We pushed the trailer, attached it to the Datsun and I fixed the shackles and plug. Then Pop said, ‘Ready?’
Sometimes dreams are bouncy castles, half-filled with air. But this felt good, like the Mad Mouse, ready to fly into the universe. And we four were holding on for dear life, because it was expensive and you only got one go and if you never rode the coaster then how could you know what it was really like?
We climbed in. Pop, of course, wanted to drive. He started the 120Y, and it purred, and he stroked the dashboard and said, ‘God love yer, Bessie.’
We headed north, into darkness. For a while, no one spoke, then Peter said, ‘I hope she finds it.’
‘What?’ Ernie (sitting beside Pop) asked.
‘My note. Thought I better explain.’
‘Why?’ Pop asked.
‘It’s gonna be a shock for Mum. Can you imagine? Her running inta Fay … d’you know what’s happening?’
W
e smiled, but it was too early to laugh. Ern opened a loaf of bread and started making sandwiches with Ida’s bacon and egg. We each got one, and Peter dropped his egg in his lap, and Pop said, ‘Careful, we gotta keep it clean.’
‘She’ll have a coronary,’ Peter said.
‘She’ll be alright,’ Pop consoled. ‘They’ll all get together, have a cuppa, complain about us, and Fay’ll say, I reckon I oughta call the police, but Ida and Val’ll say, Na, they’ll be fine. Somethin’ like that.’
‘I hope,’ Peter said, licking egg from his fingers.
Bessie loved city roads. Just glided, up and down, loop the loop, as we clutched our handles and Ern said to Pop, ‘You got the map?’
‘What am I, stupid?’
‘Just asking.’
Pop patted his pocket, to make sure.
Then silence again. Petrol stations, suburbs with sleep in their eyes, the road so open Pop started weaving from lane to lane. ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do …’
‘You won’t be so happy when the cops pull you over,’ Ernie said.
Pop glared at him. Ern, the destroyer of dreams. ‘What cops? No one for a million miles.’
Suburbs became factories, white-fanged hounds drooling as we passed. A yard with a hundred tractors, another with a thousand caravans, another with a million drilling rigs. All lined up, waiting for another dreary day that we’d avoid. ‘We’re doin’ it,’ Pop said. ‘We’re actually doin’ it.’
‘What, you thought we wouldn’t?’ Ernie asked.
‘Taken so bloody long. When was it we first talked about it?’
‘Years ago.’
Pop turned to me. ‘You weren’t even thought about. How’s that? A lifetime ago. Just goes to show, if you wait long enough, everything happens.’
He was glowing, alive, dried egg around his mouth, the shovel already in his hands.
Factories became paddocks, then scattered homes, hobby farms with a couple of horses and goats and sheep. Pop studied every detail: every yard, every stumped car, every olive tree and dead willow. ‘The real Australia, eh?’
Peter said, ‘Bit early yet, Doug.’
‘Na. The suburbs are death. Lock a man in a house, shove him next to a million other people—nothing intended, I did alright neighbour-wise—then you watch him wither on the vine.’
‘Reckon you shoulda lived in the country?’ Peter asked.
‘Reckon. Bita land, few animals, keep a man busy. What d’you do in town? Baby Burgess? That’s not a life.’
We passed through a small town. It was already alive, joggers, a rubbish truck trawling the streets. Pop said, ‘Never ends, does it?’
Ernie searched his pockets, found the picture we’d taken in town, and placed it on the dash. The four of us, grinning, clutching shoulders. ‘Do we gotta look at that the whole way?’ Pop asked.
‘It’s just us boys now, eh?’
Pop couldn’t argue. Perhaps, he guessed, it was important.
Soon, the world was gone. Treeless hills stuck out their tongues, thirsting for rain that stuck to the coast. Town-sized paddocks full of sheep and Angus, and vines clinging to hills like old war wounds. Pop put down his window and smelled it. ‘That’s it … we’ve arrived.’
‘We’ve just left,’ Ernie said. ‘Anyway, I gotta pee.’
Pop looked over. ‘Already?’
‘Me bladder.’
‘This gonna happen the whole way?’
‘No, but I gotta pee.’
Pop shook his head, but pulled up. Ernie said, ‘Somewhere with a tree.’
Pop got out, stretched his legs and said, ‘This’ll do.’
‘Everyone can see.’
‘Who’s looking at you?’
Ernie walked a few metres, turned away from us, and waited. A car sped past, and he said, ‘Fuck, I need a tree.’
‘Just do it. It’s not the front bar of the Windsor.’
Ernie zipped himself and walked back. ‘Can’t piss in the open.’
We drove. The tress turned to stumps, the grass dried off and granite and limestone emerged from the hills. Sheep gave way to wheat, or stubble, or harvesters and field bins. Pop scanned the landscape. ‘It’s dry this year.’
But we’d already tired of his travelogue.
‘Not meant for agriculture. They pump fertiliser into it, but it’s not sustainable.’
‘What’s not?’ Ernie said.
‘Grain. This far north. Idiot’s game.’
‘They’ve been doing it for years.’
‘Still …’
Ernie retreated, realising there was no point.
I’d tried some D. H. Lawrence, but it wasn’t working. So I found Jen’s cards in my pocket and said, ‘Who wants their fortune told?
‘Me,’ Peter replied.
‘Not that loada shit,’ Pop said.
But I was shuffling. ‘Lap of the gods, Pop.’
‘Rubbish. Man makes his own luck.’
‘Righto, Pete.’ I laid the first card on my knee. The Fool.
‘What’s that?’ Pete asked.
‘Spirit in search of experience.’ (I’d heard it so many times I’d remembered.)
‘There you go,’ Pete said to Pop. ‘D’you hear that?’
‘Not listening. Jen’s not gonna be happy.’
‘She’s lost interest,’ I said.
On, further. A sagging geography, letting in the sea, so that everything to our west was swamp, brittle land filled with salt, skeletal trees and the smell of rotting vegetation. But it shimmered in the crystal sun, and Pop said, ‘That’s just about the prettiest thing I seen.’
Low-tide beaches covered in sea grass, and a couple of kids with buckets and spades. Pop said, ‘That’s where we shoulda taken you, Clem.’ Regretfully, like there was a whole life he should’ve lived, and shared, and shown, but hadn’t, because he’d listened to other people.
‘Not much of a beach,’ I said.
And near this beach, a little town with a jetty that kept going out for miles, trying to reclaim the sea, because the ocean (I guessed) kept receding. Maybe this is what Pop was seeing. A jetty that’d had bits tacked on over the years. But in the end, the sea would be too far way, and you’d have to stop building, and then you weren’t a seaside town, but a swampy town, and who wanted to live there?
We arrived at Port Wakefield. The highway had bypassed the town centre and now there was a row of servos and bakeries and public toilets, all smelling swampy. We stopped at the BP and Pop filled up, parked the car and led us towards promised pies. Bursting with molten meat. Splitting open, burning our hands as we sat under a lean-to with a few hundred seagulls. As they got closer, Ernie kicked at them, and they scattered, but returned.
‘They’re fearless,’ I said, throwing a bit of burnt crust.
‘Don’t feed them,’ Pop said. ‘Never get rid of them.’
We ate in silence. The conversation, too, surged and receded. Someone would start something and Pop’d say it’s bullshit and Ernie would disagree and Peter would try to find a middle path, and I’d just sit and listen, and giggle inwardly.
‘She woulda read it by now,’ Peter said.
‘Wonder what they’re doing?’ I added.
‘They’re all gonna die,’ Pop said.
The park was dead grass and blue metal, and the lean-to produced a pocket of shade the size of a large grave. We kept moving to avoid the sun. Someone had scribbled vaginer on the table, and someone else had drizzled sauce over the slats. The wind blew up around us. I said, ‘Why would anyone live here?’
‘People need petrol,’ Pop said.
‘But who’d need a job this bad?’
Peter stretched back, breathed the exhaust from the highway and said, ‘I could think of worse places.’
In a way, this was the number 33 of Highway 1. Livable, just, full of its own feral cats, and lives. Treeless, loveless, hopeless.
‘If you’re born somewhere,’ Pop said, ‘and it’s all you know.’
> The seagulls were losing interest. They guessed we were a lost cause. Mincemeat had spilled onto the ground, but Pop wasn’t letting them near.
‘Butcher bird,’ Ernie said.
There, in the middle of the gulls, waiting for a scrap.
‘Na, that’s a swift,’ Peter said.
‘Bullshit, a butcher bird,’ Ernie said. ‘You can tell from the beak, and the big eyes.’
‘They don’t have butcher birds in Port Wakefield.’
‘They got ’em everywhere.’
‘They’re on the east coast.’
‘Rubbish. They’re all over the place.’
‘Who cares?’ Pop said, flicking meat from his hand, wiping it from his mouth. ‘This is the worst fuckin’ pie I’ve ever eaten.’
Everyone laughed, but Ernie was determined it was a butcher bird. He swooshed the gulls and threw it a crust, but a gull swooped and took it, and he chased it a few steps and said, ‘Piss off, yer little cunt.’
We all watched.
‘Pardon,’ he said. ‘Slipped out.’ He tried again, almost delivering the crust to the bird. Happy with this, he returned, sat and finished his pie.
We continued, stopping at Snowtown for drinks and more prostate relief, and Port Pirie, because Pop insisted we walk down Ellen Street and find the shoe shop his great-grandfather used to run. Saying to me, ‘Have I ever told you about him, Clem?’
‘No.’
And surely he would’ve. The family history had been thoroughly surveyed.
‘Maybe it was this place?’ he said, studying what was now a laundromat, Ernie asking if we should get going, Peter unconcerned.
‘Shoes, you reckon?’ I said to Pop.
‘Yeah.’ He looked up and down the street. ‘I reckon it was Pirie. A shoe shop. I remember coming as a kid and …’ But then, like he wasn’t so sure: ‘Or was it Crystal Brook? Maybe not shoes. Maybe he sold clothes, or fabrics? That was him. Mum said …’ Staring into the laundromat.
‘Should we keep moving?’ Ern asked.
Driving north. When the radio dropped out Pop switched on his tranny (which, he explained, reached further). Stock prices and country music, as we headed up the scoliotic spine of the country. The land flattened and the horizon crumbled, little salt grains dissolving in the haze, as the offing floated towards us, retreated, found new features, came to meet us again.
