by Stephen Orr
‘Just cos you couldn’t see the point of going.’
‘I couldn’t give a shit about your little trip. If this thing progresses, Dad, I’ll be left to …’
He seemed to calm. ‘Even if … that’s years away.’
She touched his arm, and settled. ‘That’s all I was thinking, Dad. It comes quick, doesn’t it?’ She looked at me. ‘You … little while ago I was changing your nappy.’
Life has a way of making you live it. Not the one you wanted, since you were a kid, but the one that needs doing. The potatoes that need peeling. I looked out, and Les and Wendy had gone in, leaving their coffee cups on the little glass table. Wendy’s knitting, too.
‘Bit of a dweep,’ Vicky said.
‘How’s that?’
‘Um cumnia probus. I mean, who’s he trying to impress?’
‘Told me he likes the sound of the words.’
‘Or his own voice. He said to me, Miss White’s number three on my list. I said, What list? And he said, my enemies.’
I pulled the first seat from the Jag, placed it on the ground and examined it. The leather had been shredded by cat paws, bleached by piss.
‘Making a list doesn’t seem very well-adjusted. He looked at me like, You’ve just moved up a few slots.’
‘He feels threatened,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Cos of … you know, us.’ At last, I was worth fighting over. ‘He just overthinks things.’
‘And John’s at the top of the list.’
‘Well, he’s earned his spot.’
‘I used to like him.’
‘Used to. He turned into an arse.’
‘I like a bita that. Bad boys.’
‘Me?’
‘No, you’re a mummy’s boy.’
‘Fuck off.’ I tried to release the latch on the other side, but it had seized. ‘Gis a hand, will yer?’
Vicky came over, squeezed beside me, and we shook the seat until it came loose. This close, I could smell something nice. I wanted to turn, kiss her, lay her across the shitty leather. Instead, I removed the seat and placed it beside the other one. ‘Maybe I could get them re-covered.’
‘With whose money?’
‘I got money, thanks.’
Next, I opened the bonnet and examined the engine. She said, ‘How long since he drove it?’
‘I can’t remember seeing it on the road.’
Pop walked in and said, ‘You can forget about that.’
I wasn’t about to argue. He’d come around, I guessed. ‘These plugs have seized. What do you reckon I should do?’
He shrugged, determined to keep his distance.
‘Don’t wanna break ’em off.’
‘Tell him to get it towed. It’s not our problem.’ He reached into the toolbox, found a spanner and said, ‘I got other jobs.’
‘Reckon you could get ’em out?’ I asked.
He walked over, checked the engine, and thought better of it. ‘Once you start you gotta finish it.’
We waited.
‘And you got other jobs, Clem. Like studying.’
‘Can’t do it all day.’
‘It’d have to be sanded, gaps filled, sprayed … that’d cost you a Corolla, there.’
‘I could do it.’
‘Windows need new glass, windscreen’s cracked. You’d have to be stupid.’
‘Maybe I am.’
Vicky said, ‘I told him, Doug, but he won’t listen.’
‘Exactly. He just wants it gone, so he can make his wine.’
There might have been something to that. Since he’d cleared his shed, Peter had started fermenting. A couple of tables with plastic vats, and breathers. A box of bottles, ready. Labels, and bags of tartaric acid and oak chips. ‘You ever done it before?’ I’d asked him.
‘Na, but it looks easy.’
As we watched the gas bubble to the top.
‘What you gonna do with it?’
‘Drink it.’
‘All of it?’
‘You can have a bottle.’
Shiraz. Although he reckoned he wanted to do whites, too, but had to wait until he got enough money to buy more gear.
‘Anyway, gotta fix the sink for your mother,’ Pop said.
‘So what do you reckon?’ I asked.
‘I reckon yer stupid. Even someone with the skills, it’d take years.’ Then he walked out.
I removed the old battery. It’d leaked acid for a few years, I guessed, before drying up. Now it was a shell.
‘And what about Curtis’s backwards-walking chicken?’ she asked.
‘You remember?’
‘I remember the television crew, and watching it. He was like that back then too.’
And he was there, in the doorway, saying, ‘Like what?’
‘Vicky was just talking about your chicken,’ I said.
He studied her suspiciously, like he knew why she’d brought it up. ‘A disbeliever?’
‘You can tell us, Curtis.’
‘It’s all true.’
‘Really?’ With her arms crossed.
‘Sis dubius.’
‘We’re not impressed. Use English.’
‘The chicken walked backwards. Mum saw it. She’s the one told me to call them.’
‘And what happened to it?’
‘We ate it.’
‘Cos it wouldn’t walk backwards?’
‘It had its chance.’
There was something between them. Something not-so-nice, or friendly. It’d started with a tennis match, me in shorts and old sneakers, Vicky in a skimpy dress, hair up, the full package. She was winning, of course. Aces, impressive returns to the back corner, as I stumbled and fell, ran out of energy, and will, saying, ‘Carn, let’s get some something to eat.’
‘You’re such a slob.’
‘Thanks.’
At which point Curtis had appeared again, like he’d been stalking us. ‘Tennis?’
‘Wanna go?’ I’d handed him my racquet but Vicky had said, ‘No, we’re playing.’
‘I need a break.’
So Curtis had tried, missed every shot on purpose, and she’d got shitty and refused to continue until I took over. Then he’d sat in the shade and said to Vicky, ‘Did you play in Tumbletown?’
She’d ignored him.
‘You’ve got all the moves.’
She’d stopped, come over and said, ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’
He’d shrugged.
‘Just sit there with your opinions, bullshitting about … with your list. But no one’s listening.’
‘Clem listens.’
‘He has to. He hasn’t got a choice.’
Back in the shed, they were still at it. Curtis lit a smoke and sat opposite her. ‘I still remember that play we all did.’
She just said, ‘Do we have to breathe your smoke?’
He blew it up.
‘That’s not gonna help.’
But he gave her the same look. ‘Do you remember? I was a tree. You were a post box.’
‘I wasn’t a post box.’
‘Stop it, you two,’ I said. ‘Curtis, help us, will you?’
We ripped the pissy old carpet out of the boot.
‘But what I do remember,’ Vicky said, ‘is you having to wear that sign around your neck because you’d damaged a teacher’s car.’
‘Accidentally.’
‘And it said: I have misused someone else’s property.’
‘That was John.’
‘No, it was you.’
Stand-off. I remembered it. Gottl had come up with a scheme whereby students were given a dollar for washing teachers’ cars at lunch. Curtis had removed bearings from a wheel, and it had wobbled, and been discovered. Anne and Gary were notified (and guessed they’d produced a second John), and he’d been made to wear the sign.
‘You remember, don’t you, Clem?’ Vicky said.
‘Not really.’
And she just looked at me. ‘I gotta go he
lp Mum.’ And left, without a word.
A knock. I ran to the door, and he was there, again. ‘Wilf?’
‘How are you, Clem?’
‘Mum’s out again.’
‘She’s always out. Trying to avoid me?’
I could feel my heart racing, and imagined Mum pulling up, and the fireworks. ‘D’you wanna get an ice cream?’ I said.
‘I reckon.’
I locked the door and we walked all the way down Lanark, and he said, ‘Someone’s moved inta the Rosies’ place?’
‘They’re back.’
‘No?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve kept track.’
He was slender, a long neck leading up to a lean face with sunken cheeks, and what I guessed were my eyes peeping into the day. We went into Don’s, and Don said, ‘Hi, Wilf,’ and I wondered.
As we made our selection, I summarised my search, my Wilton odyssey, Bob, and the confetti of information that had rained down since our last meeting.
‘You were determined,’ Dad said.
‘I wanted to know, but Mum reckoned …’
‘Let me guess: he was a bad seed, drank, ran around with the wrong people … close?’ A half-smile. ‘Stole, got in trouble with the police?’
‘That’s pretty much it.’
‘That’s one version.’
We got our choc-tops, and Don said, ‘He’s been asking about you for years.’
We crossed onto the grass in front of the basketball stadium and sat at a smoking table, covered in burns. ‘You like writing?’ my father asked.
I wondered who’d told him. Don? Me watching him, making notes, him saying, ‘What cher doin’?’ Me saying, ‘They reckon you should write about what you know.’
I licked chocolate from my fingers. ‘I didn’t believe everything.’
‘Good. When me and yer mum first come here, all this was countryside.’ He indicated, with a sticky hand. ‘Everyone thought it was the future. Then we got building, and I helped Sid and Ernie, and they helped me, and it wasn’t long before we had a street.’
He said it like, I built it for you and Jen.
‘And that’s how it was at the start. Don built his shop a little while later, and he was the only place on this stretch of North East Road.’ As we watched the traffic pass.
‘He never talked to me that much.’
‘There was a reason.’
I got it. Don refusing to tell tales.
‘I just met a few dickheads,’ Dad said. ‘But that happens.’
‘I know a few.’
‘John?’
‘He ran off.’
‘I know all about it. He’s still around.’
‘And Curtis.’
‘You don’t always choose your friends, eh?’
I could hear Don: Hi, Wilf. Seen your boy, and this Curtis, the other day. Don’t want to talk, but he was smoking a cigarette.
‘So how you been, Clem?’
What could you say? There were too many years to summarise. ‘Gettin’ along.’
‘You always did that. You were placid. Jen’d cry and scream, but you’d just sit there watching everyone, like you were making your mind up.’
‘What’s Don told you?’
‘Enough. Every coupla weeks. In there for an hour sometimes. You came in once, and I just read a magazine.’
‘No. What’d I say?’
‘Nothing. Minimum chips. Didn’t even see me watchin’ you.’
The ice creams had collapsed, but we kept going.
‘Why’d you wait so long?’
He explained, the letters (which she’d burned), saying, No, I haven’t found anyone else, and maybe I could take them out someplace, and if it worked, move back with yers. ‘Did that for a coupla years,’ he said. ‘But it never made no difference.’
‘She knows how to hold a grudge,’ I said.
‘You’re telling me.’
‘She was pissed off when I went with Pop, on this trip.’
He almost laughed. ‘I told him, years ago, It’s a fake, but he wouldn’t listen. So, when yers left …’
‘You knew?’
‘Don said Pop’d bought a couple of pouches of tobacco, told him he wouldn’t be back for weeks.’
Providence wandered across the car park.
‘Long time,’ I said.
‘Sorry, Clem.’
‘I often wondered why you didn’t just stay.’
‘Bit hard when there’s a court order.’
Providence came over, wanting food.
‘Pop’s been doin’ a good job,’ I said.
‘I know.’
‘When I was in scouts, he came camping a few times, until he twisted his ankle, and that was that.’
‘The Cohen Cup?’
I realised he’d always been there, watching. Providence jumped on the table, sniffed it, licked some dry food, and jumped down.
‘Then there was this letter … some place called Callao …’
He grinned.
‘You …?’
‘I wrote it so she could get on with things, without worrying about me. She was friendly with some bloke. Harry … Don told me.’
‘You made up the story?’
‘Good one, eh? I knew she’d got it, cos Don said she’d told him I was dead.’
Neither of us spoke for a while. There didn’t seem any need. There were plenty of crows in the scribbly gums along the road. ‘So long,’ I said again.
‘I know. But I’s thinking, we could catch up a bit now?’
‘Without Mum knowing?’
‘I could try again, but I don’t reckon …’
The Datsun, in the car park, skidding to a stop. Mum got out, and waited to make sure.
‘Christ,’ Dad said.
She ran towards us, slowed, stopped. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Popped by to say hello.’
She glared at me. No words, but I knew. ‘Home.’ And she pointed.
‘We were just talking.’
‘Home!’
Dad said, ‘Go on, maybe we can catch up later?’
I walked away, hearing Mum saying, ‘Keep yer distance.’
‘I have … but he’s my son.’
My son. At last, I was someone’s son. It felt good, like everything was and always would be alright, cos my dad was back. I turned, watched them arguing, and felt like calling, See you, Dad, but knew I couldn’t.
When I walked in, Jen was there, and I said, ‘I just talked to Dad.’
‘What?’
I explained.
‘He came to the door?’
‘Yep.’
‘And you …?’
‘He’s arguing with Mum, down the stadium.’
She was torn between wanting to go and wanting to stay, to tell me I was a selfish prick. ‘What’s he look like?’
‘Me … you.’
‘Should I … would he still be there?’
‘Go look.’
But in the end, the girl was with Mum, and Mum was with the girl. You couldn’t separate them with a wrench.
Then Mum came in and said, ‘Clem, outside,’ and I went out and stood in the drive.
‘If he comes to the door, you tell him to go away.’
‘We were just talking.’
I could see Jen in the doorway, trying to decide.
‘You just do it,’ she said.
‘He seems okay.’
She shook her head, opened the Datsun and took out a bag of groceries. ‘Every day I done this, cos he hasn’t been here.’
She had a good point. She went in, and I followed. ‘I’m not saying any of that was right, but—’
‘Seventeen years.’ She dropped the groceries on the bench.
‘I know but—’
‘Clem,’ Jen said.
‘Get the other bag,’ she said to me.
‘Maybe it’s best to know.’
‘Now!’
‘Lik
e the letter … he wrote it so you could … with Harry. That was a good thing to do, eh?’
Jen looked confused.
Mum turned, went out to the car, and got the groceries. ‘I don’t ask a lot.’
‘He wrote it, Mum. He did it so you could start again.’
She threw the groceries to the ground, stormed down the drive, the street. Jen went after her. ‘You’re such a selfish prick.’
‘Here’s to our Jag,’ Peter said, filling two coffee mugs with his first vintage.
My first wine, although it didn’t seem right. It was bitter, sitting in my mouth like a dead dog.
Peter swilled, swallowed and said, ‘Not bad. What d’you reckon?’
‘Nice.’
‘What, you don’t like it?’
‘No, it’s nice.’
As we sat against the shed, in full sun, Peter in his overalls, me in my old T-shirt and shorts, both of us covered in putty dust.
‘Might need a bit longer,’ he conceded, examining the first of his bottles.
‘How many’d you make?’
‘Two dozen. I gave Doug a few.’
I tried again. There was no way I was gonna make it. ‘For a first go,’ I said.
‘You refine,’ he replied. ‘Like restoring a Jag, eh?’
‘I guess.’
Another few days we’d be there: a bumping hammer to take out the dents, holes fixed, rust sanded down, built up. Me and Pete (in the absence of Pop) using fine paper to smooth it, ready for the canary yellow I’d chosen. Pete had said, ‘I think you’ll regret it.’ I’d said, ‘No, it has to be yellow.’
I had another sip. ‘Maybe I’ll finish it later.’
‘You don’t like it, do you?’
‘Well …’
He emptied his cup onto the lawn. ‘It’s bloody awful, isn’t it?’
I knew he had his next lot brewing. Sauvignon, which, he explained, you couldn’t get wrong. ‘I’m gonna watch the pH this time,’ he said.
‘That helps?’
‘They reckon.’
Then he picked up my exam notes, and we started again. ‘Definition of GDP?’
‘The whole value of a country’s economy, including exports.’
‘GNP?’
And on it went, for another ten minutes. He was determined to get me through, and with good marks. ‘What about your essay?’
‘Keynes.’
‘Go on then.’
Again: the man, the theories, criticisms. As I talked, he took a tissue-wrapped object from his pocket and handed it to me. ‘Open it.’
