Green

by Nick Earls

  ‘That’s right. I wanted you to be here for me getting this. This could be the start of something. I just get that feeling. Bloody flowers, hey? Things are looking up. Thanks, mate. Thanks for everything.’ She reaches out and shakes my hand firmly, then turns back to Frank. ‘Hey, where’s the bloody drink, bozo?’

  ‘Yeah, righto,’ he says, and pours her one.

  ‘Ta.’ She takes a mouthful, and dances off.

  ‘I thought she was only supposed to have one of those.’

  ‘So parental,’ he says. ‘And where has it got you?’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder.’

  ‘Hey, the shirt, Ness’s shirt. The lopping stuff. You did that, didn’t you?’

  ‘I was something to do with it. But it’s not like she was hiding her interest.’

  ‘Well, thanks. I hope it works out. She doesn’t need an awful lot of strength for it, I guess, but look at those skinny arms . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘No, she might just do it. And it beats me climbing for a few hours here and there, and Dad sitting on his arse most of the week. Things, to be honest, are marginal at best. Sometimes, you don’t know what you’ve got right in front of your nose, do you? He’s a dumb bugger. Not exactly like my seventeenth, though. I think, when I was about fourteen, Dad picked someone else’s name off an old shirt with his fingernail and told me to get up the bloody tree.’

  ‘Which didn’t exactly fill you with excitement, I imagine. As opposed to this, which was more like the footage of Charles becoming Prince of Wales.’

  ‘Sure. Got that on a plate somewhere. Can’t complain, though. It got me the car, doing weekends and holidays the last two years of school, and it wasn’t a question of saving for half the car either. Anyway, it’s all Ness’s now, if she wants it. Let’s get out of here, away from this table. It’s someone else’s turn.’

  He leads me through the party and out to the front balcony. It’s not as noisy here. He takes a mouthful of his drink and looks out across the street.

  He leans forward on the railing and says, almost as if it isn’t to me, ‘I’ve got to tell you straight. That money from Zel? I really wanted not to need it so much, but it was a relief to get it. You might have been calling it hooker money, but you’ve been drinking it tonight. My parents’d have to have a long conversation with the bank before splashing out on a bottle of tequila at the moment. And it got me a second-hand Beischer and Mackay.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. I didn’t know things were like that.’

  ‘No, well, it’s not the kind of thing you go round talking about, is it? And me bringing in a bit of extra cash looked like a better option than them selling things, their plates and stuff. I couldn’t make them do that. Anyway, It’ll get us through to the holidays, and after that maybe things’ll be working out with Ness and the lopping. She’s never liked that florist job, has she?’

  ‘No. And I think she’s right. I think she’s going to like this. I really think it’s going to work for her. And, just seeing her in there, it does kind of put us cynical bastards in our place a bit.’

  ‘You know something? Something about Zel, and all that? Zel Todd is what my parents have never managed to be. Look at them. Look at them in there. Are you thinking style file? It’ll never happen, will it? They’re still battling, and right now it’s worse than it used to be. I have to come home with a box of burgers every shift, and we pretend I don’t. We don’t say anything, but dad reheats them and has them for lunch the next day. And I wanted to be part of something better. Something less hard, that’s all.’ He shrugs, as if the story’s now told. ‘I know it didn’t fit into your moral world, all the Zel stuff, but I never said I would, did I?’

  ‘No. Would you do it again?’ I’m asking it straight, just as a question, and he knows that.

  He thinks about it for a while. ‘I doubt it. Too much in the way of consequences. It was all too hard on you. You poor fragile thing.’

  22

  We’ll never be the same, the two of us. I don’t usually have to be nose-diving towards consequences before I’ll notice them, and adjust my course. But, like anything else, it’s much more complicated than that. And I think we’re coming through the other side. We started off in different worlds and we’re still living in them now, even if I forget that sometimes. And even if my family circumstances aren’t quite as I’d once thought.

  I didn’t realise what it all meant to Frank. It seemed like simple bad behaviour, that’s how he told it at the time. A romp without a conscience, without anything else to it, without a second thought. And now he’s thinking of it as over, as if that means every part of it’s finalised. What happens to Ron and Zel and Sophie? I don’t know. But that’s up to Zel. I don’t know if she should tell and what she should tell, but I’m pretty sure that that bit of it isn’t up to me. I’m not pushing into this one again.

  My mother tells me to take the video camera to the party at the Todds, since I didn’t take it to Ness’s seventeenth. ‘I know you’re an avant-garde film-maker,’ she says, as I’m wondering how to tell her that parties are exactly not what I want a video camera for, ‘but why not have a practice with it? But don’t make a party video. Make it a documentary to show me what these people you work with are like.’

  And she’s bought me two blank tapes and charged the camera, so mid-afternoon I’m in town catching a Carindale bus with the airline carry bag over my shoulder.

  At the Todd’s house there are signs pointing round the side, and the front door is locked. We’re all welcome via the tradesman’s entrance today. Via a flagstone path that winds among fern enclaves and tan-bark garden beds to the side door of the downstairs bar.

  There’s half a besser block propping the door open, and it’s the rise-and-fall crowd noise saying darts, near miss, that comes out to meet me.

  It’s the Mowers crowd versus one version of the Chickens crowd, a couple of members of the other A team. No Frank yet, and no Sophie, as far as I can see. No Zel, either. The sliding doors are open and there’s a keg on the patio, with people lining up to refill jugs. Ron’s standing there chatting to the queue, benevolently proprietorial, with a half-full jug—but no glass—and a foam-dipped moustache.

  ‘I’ve got a plan,’ he says when he comes over. ‘Oh, wait, I should fix you up with a beer.’ He looks around for a glass, but not particularly hard. ‘I’ll get you one soon. Anyway, the plan. TV ad. Not straight away, but it’s something to work towards. You could star as the chicken and direct. It’d be like Woody Allen.’

  ‘Yeah.’ But, I’m thinking, not much like Woody Allen. There’s more noise from the darts. Someone’s just missed a triple twenty. ‘I think,’ I tell him while I work out what I think, ‘it’s a great idea, obviously. But I agree we shouldn’t do it straight away. Walk before you run, that kind of thing. And think how the Mowers crowd’d feel.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s a different market, different rules. And they’re nowhere near as visual. Have you noticed that? I have. So, as an actor, how would you take that on? How would you be the chicken?’

  ‘How would I be the chicken?’

  ‘How would you make the transition from roadside to film?’

  ‘We’d better get me that beer.’

  Out on the patio there are glasses, and Ron pours us one each.

  ‘I happen to have put a lot of time and thought into being the chicken,’ I tell him. ‘You’re talking to the right person. There’s a lot, I think, that would translate from one medium to the other.’

  ‘Is it that chicken head-space issue? Getting into the chicken head space?’

  ‘Partly. The problem is, it’s a very small head space. It doesn’t do to be too much like the chicken. There’s a story about the movie Marathon Man. Dustin Hoffman was running himself ragged to get ready for his part, to get into the role, and he was talking to Laurence Olivier, who was his co-star. And he said, “I’m running myself ragged so that I can get into the head space for this part. What do you do?” And Olivier
said, “I act”.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ron says slowly, as if a mystery’s revealed itself. And perhaps it has, but who knows which mystery? ‘Yes, I see. I knew you were the one to talk to.’

  It’s worse than small talk, and it doesn’t get better when Ron starts pressuring me about rounding up a newspaper to check session times for Desperately Seeking Susan. Or when he moves from that to a Zel update.

  ‘Progress on a lot of fronts,’ he says in a wink-wink, nudge-nudge kind of way that makes me long for small talk, or more on the subject of how an actor might be a chicken. ‘She’s at a hair expo right now, as a matter of fact. She’s getting back into the hair caper. You should have heard her talking about it, mate—side-parted bobs, corkscrew perms—buggered if I know what half of it’s about, but it’s good to see her enthusiastic. And then there’s the other fronts too, of course . . .’ Wink wink, nudge nudge. ‘I’ve got a plan up my sleeve. A bit of a romantic weekend at the Gold Coast in a couple of weeks. I put in some fast talking, scored us an upgrade to the honeymoon suite. Might even push it to three nights.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Yeah, doesn’t it? Of course, you only get the complimentary bottle of sparkling wine on the first night but, still, pretty bloody good, hey? Sophie’ll take charge of the various Worlds while we’re away. Her exams’ll be over by then. She might need to run a few things by you from time to time. That’d be okay, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Some time-out is rapidly becoming essential. I’m beginning to miss those tedious hours alone in my room with Beischer and Mackay.

  On the pretext of putting my bag out of the way—whatever that means—I escape the party and go upstairs into the house. Sophie’s in the kitchen, by herself, leaning against a bench and drinking a glass of Diet Coke.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, obviously not expecting to be interrupted.

  ‘Hi, I just . . . I just needed a break actually, so I said I had to find somewhere for this bag. No, wait, I think you’ve seen one of these before. I was looking for someone to play the Star Trek drinking game with.’ She laughs, and that’s something I haven’t heard for a while. ‘How are the exams going?’

  ‘Pretty badly.’

  ‘Is Clinton coming along today?’

  ‘I don’t expect so. How about Phoebe? Or Jacinta?’

  I’m over lying, but I can’t immediately come out with anything better, so I make a kind of Hmmm noise, as if the whole thing is best left alone.

  ‘Hmmm? What’s hmmm?’ Or, in this case, not left alone. ‘What’s the story with them, really?’

  ‘Really? Okay, the last person I was involved with was Jacinta. We saw each other three times. Two of those times went so badly they’d make the Star Trek drinking game look like a night out you could have as a prize in a raffle. I crashed and burned weeks ago and it’s definitely for the best.’

  ‘Oh, right. And Phoebe? Where did she . . .?’ She looks at me, then looks away, at the bottles on the counter. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ What am I supposed to say? I can’t tell her I invented Phoebe. Imaginary friends haven’t served me well lately. ‘Do you want a drink? I’ve got rum in this Diet Coke. I can get you some.’

  ‘No, I’m fine thanks. I’ve got a beer somewhere.’

  ‘What do you really have in the bag? If it’s Star Trek printouts don’t tell me.’ She takes another mouthful of her drink. ‘Okay, tell me.’

  ‘It’s a video camera.’

  ‘You got one?’

  ‘Well, it’s on loan. My mother had the idea that I might use it here, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘No. It doesn’t really need to be recorded, does it? Your mother probably wasn’t thinking of watching a lot of darts. I’d be happy never to go back down there, actually. I should get you a drink. No, you’ve got one. That’s right. Sorry.’ She starts spinning a tissue box on the granite bench top. There’s an awkwardness right now that we didn’t used to have. ‘I should probably go,’ she says. ‘Serve some stuff. Food, you know?’ She picks the box up and puts it on her head. ‘Do you ever do this? Just to check if you can balance it?’

  ‘I know someone who used to do something like that as a posture test, and I’ve never felt good about posture.’

  ‘Right.’ Suddenly, she looks as embarrassed as a person with a tissue box on their head might be, as though it must have been put there by someone else, but it’s her problem now.

  ‘But that was just my mother, with the posture test. And, um, you balance it pretty well. And on the subject of my mother, and, um, other people called Phoebe, well, I can’t remember the first time we—you and I—talked about that but I’m pretty sure some wires got crossed . . .’ At the moment, I might even settle for listening to Ron talking about having sex with Zel. It’s a topic that’ll come up some time in the next few weeks, after all, and it won’t be worse than this.

  ‘I could help you with that bag. You could put it in the pantry. It’ll be safe there.’

  ‘That’d be very useful. Thank you. And I was also going to look for a bathroom.’

  ‘Oh, sure. Everything’s upstairs. There’s a toilet just off the bar downstairs, but if I were you I’d go upstairs. Mum’s got this rule about people keeping to Dad’s areas of the house at these parties but, for you, we can probably make an exception. It’s the last door on the left.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She puts down the tissue box and takes my bag. The transaction—since that’s what it seems to have become—is done. She should have given me a ticket or a number, in case someone else was looking after bags when I came back for mine later. I want to get even more out of here than before. Hide and kill time and then go.

  The stairs are near the front door and the corridor on the second floor runs the length of the house, ending in an arched window that overlooks the back garden. I try the handle of the last door on the left, but it’s locked. Inside, someone clears their throat. Obviously I’m not the only one with upstairs toilet privileges.

  From the window I can see the edge of the patio and therefore the edge of the party and, over to one side, a feature that was out of view before, a large rectangular area covered with gravel and displaying concrete renderings of several famous statues. It looks as though I haven’t had the full tour after all.

  I walk back along the corridor, towards the stairs. It’s better to pace than to crowd whoever’s in the bathroom. Through one half-open door—I’m guessing Sophie’s—I can see a single bed with Holly Hobby sheets, a brown vinyl beanbag and clothes strewn everywhere.

  I turn at the stairs and there’s still no sign that the last door on the left might be about to open.

  It’s not a long corridor, so I’m back at the window quickly and turning again. Turning, and catching a glimpse of a very regal shade of purple through the door opposite the bathroom, which isn’t quite closed. I give it a nudge and it opens, and there’s a purple heart-shaped bed, with a jacuzzi fitted along the border of the right ventricle and mirrors on the ceiling above, also making the shape of a large heart. I’m sure the only sheets you can get for that bed come with a bunny logo.

  It’s eerie, being this close to the scene of Frank and Zel’s encounters, the lair of the Evil Ddotnor. I can even see the phone Frank called me on, next to the bed. It’s ceramic and brass, and the ceramic parts are decorated with little blue flowers.

  I can also see the door to the ensuite. And that guy in the bathroom across the hall seems to have taken up permanent residence. Okay, no contest. I’ve waited enough. The ensuite is mine.

  I’m just about to flush when I hear voices—completely unfamiliar voices—coming into the bedroom, and then the sound of water thundering into the empty jacuzzi. All I can do is close the lid as quietly as I can, and sit down. The tub fills noisily, and more slowly than I’d like it to, then the hum of the engine and whoosh of the jets drowns out the words but not the giggling. Giggling and, within minutes, moaning. Two types of moaning—sharp panting moaning and a
kind of deep buffalo moaning and what am I doing that I keep getting stuck in toilets? First the Paradise, now this.

  It’s the detail I don’t like. This’d make a great story on Monday, or after my exams. The ‘who did what with whom in the jacuzzi at the party’ story. I’m always up for those, but listening to the actual doing part is something I could really skip. I stick my fingers in my ears and think about amniotic fluid, but the sounds of cattle and panic will always win. Would you please get this dreadful bovine sex over with and leave?

  One last moo and it’s done.

  I hear the slop of a large body coming out of the tub and the pad-pad of heavy feet on the floor. On their way, dammit, to the ensuite. The door swings open, and a big nude bald man from the Mowers darts team jolts to a halt.

  I smile, shrug, as if it’s just one of those things.

  ‘Towels,’ he mouths and does a jiggly demonstration of drying. In case I ever doubted it, there’s the evidence: the international symbol for towels is best not done nude, at least by men. Not unless you also need to signal the international symbol for pendulum.

  I open a cupboard and, fortunately, it does have towels in it. I pull out a couple and toss them over. He winks, and shuts the door. There’s a different tone to the murmured talk now, and it’s mainly him speaking. Then the jacuzzi is turned off.

  How does this kind of scene happen? Who is it who goes, mid-party, ‘Hey, why don’t we go put one away in Ron and Zel’s tub? That’d be a lark.’ Or perhaps it’s the darts victory ritual. The Chickens people were looking very much like the B team when I last saw the score.

  They talk in whispers and I’m trying not to listen to their dressing noises. The towels hit the laundry basket, feet pad-pad away across the thick carpet, the door to the corridor clicks shut. The last of the water gurgles down the plughole.

  I give them ten seconds, then another ten. I flush and I leave the ensuite. I cross the scene of the cliché and, when I open the bedroom door, the bathroom door on the other side of the corridor is open too.