Love, Ghosts, & Facial Hair

by Steven Herrick

BELIEVE anyone who votes Labor

  no one that stupid could lie

  don’t believe anyone who owns a Barry Manilow CD

  don’t believe anyone who owns a Guns & Roses CD

  to be safe, don’t believe anyone who owns a CD player

  and never, but never, believe doctors who say

  “everything will be all right”.

  The photo

  It’s the only photo I carry

  the four of us

  Dad with his arm around Mum’s waist

  both standing in the holiday fresh water

  Desiree and me pushing into the frame

  I’m pointing at Dad’s arm

  I’d never seen them stand that close

  Desiree is looking straight at the camera

  her chest out

  the pride of a one-piece swimsuit

  at thirteen, sunning in the attention.

  After the photo Mum and Dad

  lie on the sand

  they hold hands

  I keep kicking the ball their way

  like a troublesome dog with a stick

  no one wants to throw.

  Desiree is off talking to boys

  I kick the ball for the return of the waves

  and count how many times Mum and Dad kiss.

  Seven years ago

  on the beach

  Mum and Dad

  kissed

  twenty-four times

  and never once

  saw anyone else

  or thought of anyone else.

  Twenty-four times.

  It’s the only photo I carry

  it’s in my wallet.

  The family holiday

  I remember that last holiday with my wife,

  Jack and Desiree.

  Fish and chips, with no dishes to wash

  teaching Jack to bodysurf

  sand in our shorts

  Desiree talking to the boys at the shops

  looking to see if we could hear

  ice-cream for dessert

  kissing my wife on the beach

  the orange evening sky

  walking from headland to lighthouse

  Jack kicking the ball at seagulls

  the rain that only fell at night

  and cleared to summer at six am.

  The distant hum of Saturday sport

  everyone nodding “hello” down the main street

  Desiree and Jack sleeping till late

  my wife, my wife

  talking to me

  and I’m drinking it in.

  There’s a ghost in our house

  There’s a ghost in our house

  in a red evening dress

  black stockings

  and Mum’s slingback shoes

  her hair whispers

  over white shoulders

  as she dances through the rooms.

  In Desiree’s

  she cleans under the bed

  folds the five pairs of Levi’s

  Des wears for months without washing.

  In my room

  she flips through my poems

  to the one about Mum & Dad at the beach

  the poem glows as I sleep.

  In Dad’s room

  she sits at the dresser

  I can see her

  smiling at the mirror too scared

  to announce her presence.

  Once, when I stood to watch

  she winked

  like an over-excited schoolgirl

  the ghost winked at me.

  Annabel Browning

  Ms Curling

  and whatever future I’d planned

  disappeared

  in that moment of me and the ghost

  playing hide & seek

  breathing

  in the shadow of history

  retying a cord

  that should never have been cut.

  There’s a ghost in our house

  in Mum’s

  red evening dress.

  Shoes, socks, the lock on the bathroom door

  When I think of our house

  I think of shoes

  socks

  and the lock on the bathroom door.

  Dad’s golf shoes on the washing machine

  Desiree’s work shoes on her wardrobe

  her Baxter boots flung over the lounge

  with the rest of her attached.

  Dad’s socks, as he walks to the bathroom

  Dad’s socks, soaking in the sink

  Desiree’s stockings hanging from the shower rail

  the run in her black ones.

  My football boots, shiny, worn once

  in the garbage

  my Doc’s with the toe pushing through

  Dad’s brown shoes

  “brown shoes, brown personality” Desiree says.

  Desiree’s baby booties tied to her mirror

  pink, with pink bows, my Mum’s handiwork.

  My socks, the ones with Batman on them

  Dad’s idea of cool!

  my football socks, full of spare change

  sagging from a hook on the wall.

  The lock on the bathroom door

  when my Dad reads the paper.

  Desiree every morning in a rush.

  Me, when I eat too much

  or when I want to write and the TV’s on

  where I’m sitting now

  in the bath, writing this,

  thinking one day, to please Dad

  I’m going to have to wear

  those bloody Batman socks!

  Coooeee

  Me and Dad

  have nothing to do this Saturday

  so we go for a walk

  through the bush

  to our favourite spot

  “Jack’s Lookout”

  Dad named it

  on our first visit

  with Mum and Desiree

  when I was five.

  It’s a granite rock

  high above Megalong Valley

  and on a sunny day

  you can see forever.

  I loved it there

  the parrots chimed through the gums

  a stream rippled below

  and I think of our first visit

  the picnic lunch

  and Dad, hands cupped, shouting

  “Coooooeeeee”

  across the cliffs

  their echo sounding once each

  for the four of us.

  At five years old, I thought Dad

  was shouting

  “do a wee”

  and kept asking him

  for one more echo

  A grown man telling the world

  about his toilet habits

  and his kids rolling on the rock

  saying

  “One more Dad, one more”

  and him, never understanding

  why we laughed the whole weekend.

  I’m sixteen now,

  I’m trying to decide

  as we walk this bush track

  whether to ask my Dad

  to shout once more

  and tell him about it

  or keep a secret

  between Des, and Mum, and me,

  and the family history.

  Dad writes poetry

  Jack, when I was sixteen

  I wanted to play football every day

  until I was old, thirty-five, or forty.

  And at forty

  I wanted to buy a house on a cliff

  wander to the beach

  make love in the sand

  then come home and drink all afternoon.

  This seemed a good plan for my life.

  My teacher said I was being unrealistic

  my Mother said I was being stupid

  my Dad said I wasn’t that good at football

  and my girlfriend didn’t say anything

  because I didn’t have one.

  So at sixteen

  I set off on my plan.

>   The first game of football

  I broke my arm

  the first time at the beach

  I nearly drowned

  the first time I drank lots of beer

  I puked

  and the first time I made love

  I’d rather not say.

  So I gave up football

  and swimming

  although I still occasionally practise drinking

  and alone at fifty

  making love is not such an issue

  although everyone says it should be.

  So Jack, when I look back

  the only thing that was worthwhile,

  apart from having you and Desiree

  and falling in love with your Mum,

  was writing poetry.

  At sixteen I thought poems were for old people

  and always about flowers, or death,

  or “ducks gliding gracefully across the millpond”

  but the only ducks I saw

  were in Chinese take-away shops

  so I guess I have learnt something

  even if it’s taken me

  half my life.

  The family team

  We wanted more children

  I planned a football team

  Desiree’s kick in your Mother’s stomach

  held promise

  a backyard of winners

  we had a long list of names

  ready, in the top drawer

  we saved your baby clothes

  we planned extra bedrooms

  we promised your Grandma

  (she held on for years)

  we had dreams of a farm

  we’d welcome each year with a child

  we’d fill the one-teacher-school with our own

  I was going to learn to milk a cow

  drive a tractor

  change a nappy

  all at the same time!

  we would never grow old

  with so many children

  but the cancer ripped our family

  and this heart

  that now only pumps blood

  we wanted more children

  we would never grow old

  now

  I want more children

  and your Mother will never grow old.

  The cubbyhouse

  Dad’s thinking of knocking down the cubbyhouse.

  It sits, weed lonely at the bottom of the yard

  home of rusted toys

  rain-soaked curtains

  and my initials carved inside the door.

  Dad says he could use the space

  and the wood.

  The last time any of us went inside

  was the night Des and I got locked out

  and needed somewhere to wait.

  So Dad and I

  hammer, saw, crowbar,

  circle the cubbyhouse

  neither wanting to swing the first blow

  and I check inside for my initials

  and show Dad

  and he fingers the hinge of the door

  and smells the scent of old timber

  and gets that faraway look in his eyes

  as he tells me how

  he built this

  the day of the 1986 Grand Final

  Dad in the backyard hammering nails

  as Parramatta hammered Canterbury

  and he tells me that

  Des and I climbed in

  as soon as the floor was up

  and we didn’t leave till dark

  and every night for two weeks

  Mum had to bring dinner down here

  and once, in summer,

  Des and I, and Dad,

  slept here all night

  and told stories to the wind.

  Dad and I pick up the tools

  and put them back in the shed.

  Dad takes one look at the untouched cubby

  and says he’s heading into town

  to the hardware

  for some paint.

  Wine

  He drinks red wine during the week

  one glass at dinner

  another for dessert

  he pats his stomach

  smiles, with perfect teeth

  and tells us

  he’s fighting ulcers and a heart condition

  the best way he knows.

  Desiree says

  at least red wine doesn’t smell,

  not like the bottle of Riesling

  he drinks for Saturday lunch

  and afterwards

  he tries to interest me

  in a game of cricket.

  At sixteen years of age

  I realise how regular

  adults need humouring

  Desiree tells him to act his age

  Dad and I ignore her

  as I tap the cricket bat

  in front of the stumps

  and Dad walks back to his mark

  a glass in one hand

  ball in the other

  and for the past five years

  I’ve watched him bowl his gangly

  leg-spin

  and never once

  spill a drop.

  Signature

  Ezra is my friend

  he’s finishing school soon

  moving straight to work

  and his father’s designs.

  I’ll miss him

  we sit against the fence

  he takes a poem he’s written

  out of the sling for his broken arm

  I read it

  his parents arguing down the page.

  Ezra looks across the oval

  tapping his fingers

  on the plaster cast

  I can see the poem hurt more than the arm

  he’s waiting for me

  to lie

  or tear it up

  or tell him to change the last line.

  And I can’t help thinking

  that the poem and the arm

  happened in the same place

  and which came first

  which will last longer

  and then I know what to do

  I give him back the poem

  smile

  and ask if I can sign my name

  on his plaster cast.

  Katoomba

  This is the only school assignment I’ve enjoyed.

  I’ve been looking through a book of

  Aboriginal Place Names

  for a study of our suburb

  whose name means

  “place where waters tumble over hill”

  now this may have been accurate before 1813

  but today I’d say it’s either

  “place where Japanese tourists tumble over hill”

  or

  “place where polluted water stagnates”.

  If I had a choice I’d call it

  Cobba-da-mana

  meaning “caught by the head”

  and I know a few Year 9s that name suits perfectly.

  Or this one, in honour of our

  Physical Education teacher:

  Barnawather . . . “deaf and dumb”

  or Desiree’s favourite:

  Pugonda, meaning “fight”.

  I love the way you can spit these words out.

  I’m glad I come from Katoomba

  not “Kensington Gardens” or “Pacific Vista”.

  Maybe we can also change the names of our States?

  For Victoria (named after some dead Queen)

  give me Pullabooka

  for Tasmania — Murrumba

  South Australia — Kameruka

  New South Wales — Cudgewa

  for Queensland — Bulla Bulla

  and for Western Australia how about

  “People who play stupid football!”

  no, OK, how about Wanbi,

  meaning “wild dogs” —

  I think that says it all.

  The new teacher

  He must teach Science

  see ho
w he squints

  and looks at his lunch

  like a failed experiment.

  Or Maths!

  the grey of his shorts

  the expanse of his ears

  the lovely floral tie & check shirt

  all add up.

  He couldn’t teach English

  because he’s always reading

  and he seems able to string a few words together

  and, as yet,

  he hasn’t misspelt his own name.

  He’s too old to teach History

  and the neat way he packs his briefcase

  implies a sense of place —

  maybe Geography?

  No. Well, definitely not Physical Education

  because he doesn’t have a moustache

  and he hasn’t called anyone “mate” yet

  so by class consensus

  we all agree on Industrial Arts

  the fine style of his wig

  gives it away —

  that, and his spotless four-wheel drive

  with the “Eat beef, you bastards” sticker

  we’re sure he’ll fit into this school

  like a burger into a bun.

  Shiver

  Sometimes in winter

  when the mist buries our suburb

  Desiree and I

  walk to the golf course

  (scene of Dad’s weekend despair)

  we crawl through the fence

  and wander the fairways

  gleaming wet and dark

  in the chill evening.

  We sit on the roof of the halfway hut.

  I tell Desiree about my poems

  or school

  and try not to mention boys

  or else I’ll set Des off!

  Desiree talks about her work

  Dad, her clothes

  our house.

  But tonight

  with the mist closing down

  and dripping heavy from trees

  Des tells me of talking to Mum

  just before she died

  she tells me of

  the calm woman who held her hand

  and how her eyes never seemed to blink

  as she told Des

  that we were the painkillers of her night

  and she refused all regrets

  in the time she had left

  to brush Desiree’s hair back

  and tell her what she felt

  the day the doctor diagnosed

  and that day was the middle of a heatwave

  but she shivered

  as she stepped from the surgery

  and saw Dad waiting in the car

  and both of us

  waving from the back seat.

  But as we drove home

  Des and I told her of our school day

  and she knew

  the doctor, the heatwave

  or this death

  couldn’t touch her