she says,
‘That’s something your father would say.’
The art of lawn mowing
There’s a can of two-stroke
in the plywood cupboard
at the back of Dad’s shed.
I shake the contents,
and judge that it’s enough for today
if I move quickly before the rain.
I fill the mower,
replace the cap,
set the throttle
and pull the cord.
The mower splutters to life
and I give it enough revs
to wake the dwarves on Mr Crewe’s fence.
When I was ten
Dad taught me
the art of lawn mowing.
He called it ‘Zen on Saturday’.
‘Start from the fence,
move forward and back
and keep your feet clear when turning,’ he’d say.
I remove the grass-catcher
because I want to walk through the clippings
kicking them as I go
to remember how I felt as a child
picking up piles and throwing them at Mum
who’d brought lemonade to the back step.
Mum would chase me around the yard
vowing to stuff grass down my shirt.
I’d escape her clutches,
so she’d turn and run towards Dad,
throwing herself into his arms.
They’d roll around together in the grass, laughing,
and I’d watch and wonder
how long before they realised I was there.
It seemed like forever.
Mr Crewe waves at me
and yells something over the fence.
I bet he’s suggesting I mow his lawn
when I’ve finished ours.
And I just might
because it’s never too late
to be ten years old again.
Business
My phone beeps.
I take it out of my pocket
to find a message from Manx.
It’s a photo of him
holding a fishing rod
with a mullet dancing on the line.
The message reads:
Third fish this morning,
I’m going into business.
I can’t help but smile.
He’s signed it:
Manx Inc.
I text back:
Meet you tomorrow
and we’ll double the catch.
I sign it:
The Fish Brothers.
I can see him now,
sitting beside the lake
laughing and swearing
and planning on selling
the extra fish to Mrs King,
the old lady who lives
a few doors down.
In the soft light
After spinach pie
and mashed potato,
with the rain echoing
on the corrugated roof,
and Dad somewhere
between here and Adelaide,
Mum sits at the kitchen table
with a small jar of red nail polish.
I watch as she files her nails
to a smooth round tip.
Delicate veins
thread along the back of her hands.
The fumes make my eyes water
as Mum applies a second coat
to the nails of her left hand
even though
she hasn’t touched the ones
on her right.
She carefully blows the polish dry,
then hands me the jar
and extends her right hand.
I dip the brush into the polish
and apply a thin smear
to her little finger.
We don’t speak
all my effort focused on her nails,
red and glowing,
in the soft light of the evening.
The end of the sentence
‘Jonah,’ Mum says
as I finish her thumbnail
with a deliberate flourish.
‘What would you think
if I went to stay with your auntie
at Balarang Bay?’
I screw the cap back on the nail polish.
‘Just until the car gets fixed.
My shift starts too early for the bus
and your dad and I need to
sort out a few things,’ she adds.
‘But you’ve been arguing for years,’ I say.
I try to remember
when it wasn’t like this.
When I was at primary school
and Mum didn’t work long shifts
and Dad didn’t drink anywhere near
what he does now.
She touches my wrist.
‘You can stay with me,’ she says.
I shake my head.
‘Auntie Trish looks at me like I’m Dad’s son.’
Mum sighs.
I thought they were meant to leave
one another –
not me.
‘I’ll borrow Trish’s car,’ Mum says.
‘And, when your dad’s not here,
I’ll come and cook you dinner.’
A vein throbs in my temple,
like my head is about to explode.
I know what she wants to hear,
but I struggle to get out the words.
‘I’ll be okay,’ I say.
Mum packs the nail polish back into her bag.
‘Just for a while,’ she says, ‘until …’
Both of us know there’s no
end to that sentence.
The line-up
In the darkness of my bedroom
I switch on the computer
and bring up photos
from my school online.
I find the class portrait of year ten
arranged on three tiers
in front of the Science block –
uniform-neat,
girls: knees together,
boys: collars down.
Manx and I are up the back
on the far left –
neither of us smiling.
Patrick is front and centre
between Rachel and Harriet.
Ella is in the middle row
her hair tied back,
her chin lifted just enough
to show she doesn’t approve
of this cattle call.
And Angelo in the middle row
is deliberately cross-eyed,
tongue out –
the class gargoyle.
I stare at the faces as
a storm bird calls in the garden
and is answered by thunder.
I count off the students
with only one parent at home:
six out of thirty,
including Manx
and Rachel.
I close the screen
and decide
it’s the only time
I don’t want to be like my friends.
Sunday for leaving
I shrug into a jacket, jeans
and shoes without socks
because I can’t find a clean pair.
Mum is already in the kitchen,
her suitcase beside the back door.
She looks away when I walk in.
I don’t feel like breakfast.
‘Trish will be here in a few minutes,’ Mum says.
I take a deep breath.
‘I might visit Manx.’
Mum reaches out her arms
and we embrace.
My head rests on her shoulder;
I smell lilac soap
and nail polish.
I close my eyes.
‘I’ve left enough money
for bus fares and food
until your dad gets back,’ Mum says.
I step away,
suddenly a
ngry.
‘He has a name, you know.’
I stomp out the back door
and Mum calls after me,
but I don’t stop.
I leap over the fence,
run towards the track
and up to the top of Sattlers Hill.
Auntie Trish’s car turns the corner.
Mum walks to the footpath
and tosses her suitcase into the back seat,
but doesn’t get into the car.
She says something to Trish,
then runs back inside.
She’s gone for a few minutes
until Trish sounds the horn.
Mum hops in the front seat.
The car rumbles down the street.
The sailor’s museum
I sit against the smooth stone wall of the museum,
closed ten years ago.
I try hard to think of something –
anything –
other than Mum leaving home.
From here I can see all of Turon
scattered around the west side of the lake.
To the north is a row of lakeside mansions
at Tipping Point where Patrick lives
bordering the National Park
separated from the rest of us
by a swampy creek
and a million dollars.
Patrick’s dad has planted a
FOR SALE sign near the driveway
that lists ocean views,
a landmark setting
and a price tag
that makes my eyes water.
Manx’s dad lobbied
the council
to reopen the museum,
but all they wanted was a quick sale
and money in the bank.
Mr Lloyd-Davis
gets a bonus if he sells it
within the next six months.
As if he needs the extra money.
Three words
A slow line of coal ships head north.
On the rocks at low tide,
a lone figure casts into the ocean.
Mr Huth fishes, rain or shine.
He lives in a shabby van
the shape of a teardrop.
If it wasn’t for fishing, he’d starve,
although rumour says
he keeps his money hidden in the van.
I walk to the leeward side
of the museum
where the cemetery stumbles downhill.
I pick my way through the headstones
until I find Grandpa’s grave.
Charles Douglas
IN LOVING MEMORY
Three words to decorate seventy-two years.
Dad visited for the first month,
but too many long hauls
left the fireweed covering Grandpa.
I think of the empty house
waiting for me
and, without knowing why,
I grab a weed and pull hard.
It comes up easily.
I toss it behind the headstone
and keep working,
one fireweed at a time.
I don’t stop until Grandpa
has a clear view all the way
down the hill to his old town.
Fine specks of dust
Opposite the cemetery,
the town church
is next on Mr Lloyd-Davis’s list
of places to sell.
It’s been given a lick of paint,
a few garden beds, freshly planted,
and a hardwood fence
that preaches home, not God.
Mr Lloyd-Davis bought it cheap,
paid for the renovation
and is now looking to double his money.
I leap the fence
to admire the stained glass window
of Jesus among a flock of sheep,
the distant hills of waving grain.
I wonder how long before
the new owners –
spooked by Jesus looking down on them
as they drink wine,
eat lamb and have sex –
replace the window
with double glazing and curtains.
What do you do
with a second-hand pulpit
and long wooden pews
that haven’t been used in years?
On a woodpile under the church
is an uprooted sign
that lists Sunday services
and Easter celebrations,
the paint flaking,
the words hollow.
I’ve been to this church once –
for Grandpa’s funeral
when I was nine years old.
His coffin was draped in a fisherman’s net
and carried inside by my dad
and his rarely seen uncles.
The light through the Jesus window
shone on the pulpit;
fine specks of dust
flickered in its beam.
The priest offered blessings
for the dead.
And ill-conceived promises
for the rest of us.
Grandpa’s wake
While Mr Crewe helped Mum
clear the discarded glasses and plates
of Grandpa’s wake,
Dad got two fishing rods
from the shed
and placed one in my hands.
He carried the bait box,
while I walked alongside,
all the way to the lake pier
as the evening light faded.
Dad baited the hook
and watched my nervous hands cast.
The lure landed barely metres away.
He smiled
and deliberately cast close to mine –
two bobbing floaters
in the shallows.
We sat like that for hours
listening to the slap of water
against the pier.
By the light of a half-moon,
I watched my dad’s face
unpack the meaning
of being a son
without a father.
That was enough
I remember my head tilted forward,
and I would have fallen into the water
except for Dad’s firm hand on my shoulder.
I woke and saw the fishing rod beside me,
the dark lake and my father’s smile.
I asked him if we’d caught anything,
and he said,
‘A large mullet.’
I looked around for the fish,
but on the boards of the pier
there was nothing but an empty beer bottle.
Dad said,
‘Your grandpa taught me,
no matter how desperate I was,
no matter how hungry,
the first-caught fish
should always be returned.’
It didn’t make sense
and I said so.
Dad replied,
‘That fish took a risk –
bit something it wasn’t sure of –
and deserves a second chance.
Like we all do.’
‘But didn’t the next fish
also take a risk
and the one after that?’
I asked.
Dad laughed.
‘A father’s rules
aren’t always wise,
but it’s how we remember
and judge a man.’
He reeled in his line
and helped me to my feet.
We hadn’t caught a fish,
but I’d spent a few hours
with my father,
and that was enough.
Grandpa’s town
When we returned from the lake,
my father hugged his uncles
and walked them to their cars.
But, instead of waving goodbye,
they sat on t
he fence
and told stories
into the night.
Grandpa and the outboard motor.
Grandpa and the volunteer fire brigade.
Grandpa and the scar he wore like a badge
above his right eye.
He told everyone it was from a pub fight,
but it was really a plate thrown by Grandma.
She was smart enough to die
before Grandpa did,
just to prove how much he’d miss her,
lost in the big house
they rented for cheap –
spooking the verandahs,
wandering the gardens,
baffled in the kitchen …
without her.
Grandpa spent his last years
wishing he was dodging flying crockery
rather than waiting for the inevitable.
I sat listening to these stories
from my bedroom window
and saw the lines of memory
creasing my father’s brow,
while he talked his uncles
into being sober enough
to drive away from Grandpa’s town.
The colour of rich
Manx is sitting on his front steps,
a fishing rod at his feet
as he works on threading a line
through a hook.
‘You’ll go cross-eyed doing that,’ I warn.
He tosses me the rod,
runs into the house
and comes back carrying an esky.
‘Full of ice and beer,’ he says.
‘You’re hoping,’ I answer.
‘I caught six yesterday
and sold four to Mrs King,’ he says,
spitting between the gap in his teeth.
We walk along the curve of sand
to our favourite spot under the swamp oak.
Manx casts a line into the lake,
the twirling reel imitating the wind.
The yellow floater bobs on the
ti-tree burnished surface.
‘I’ve been thinking, Jonah,’ he says.
‘Does it hurt?’
‘You wanna hear my idea or not?’
‘Always, Manx.’
He stares across the lake
to the row of double-storey houses
at Tipping Point.
Counting them off, he says,
‘Rich, rich, for sale, Patrick’s palace, rich,
old man Beattie, rich, rich.’
He frowns. ‘Some of those places
are only used on school holidays.’
Manx narrows his eyes and grins.
‘They’re vacant,’
he waits a few seconds before adding, ‘now.’
Then he points to the weatherboard mansion
at the end of Tipping Point and asks,
‘What colour is that, Jonah?’
‘Salmon pink,’ I say,
‘or delicate rose with an autumn-mist trim.’
‘I’d call it erect nipple with a baby-poo highlight.’
Another Night in Mullet Town Page 3
