by Stephen Orr
So, there I am, nine years old again, walking into the doctor’s front room, listening as the bells danced like prayer bells and time fell in line with the ticking of a station clock. The room was quiet, humming from an unseen cooler, smelling of liniment, filled with Doctor Gunn singing a wordless song.
‘It’s me,’ I called.
‘Morning, Henry, haven’t seen you for a few days.’ Doctor Gunn emerged from his back room, wiping his hands. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Goolwa.’
‘Goolwa. Lovely. You’ve got a tan.’ He touched my face and stroked my cheek. ‘Hey, I’ve got something for you.’ He reached into his desk drawer and produced a small, black resin statue of Buddha.
‘What is it?’ I asked, as he handed it to me.
‘The Buddha, the wise man of India.’
‘Thank you. Can I have it?’
‘Of course. I found it at a garage sale. I picked up boxes of good books last weekend.’ He opened the door to his library and showed me. ‘See.’ Then he started taking books out of the boxes. ‘Everything: Roman history, shorthand, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Honestly, some people just don’t know what they’ve got.’
I stared at my Buddha, more interested in who he was and how he was worshipped. I could just imagine a temple in an overgrown forest with a giant, jewel-encrusted Buddha at its centre, and thousands of semi-naked savages bowed down at His feet. I could see guards bringing in a human sacrifice – a young, red-lipped girl swooning and screaming like Fay Wray in King Kong.
Doctor Gunn soon had me working in his library. He was busy next door with a patient, so I unpacked the new books and started to shelve them. I wondered why he kept his library locked. I assumed he was going to open it to his patients when the shelves were fully stocked. Why, I couldn’t quite fathom. Dickens and bulging disks. Dislocated shoulders and West Australian wildflowers.
Eventually the doctor came in and sat in his chair in the corner. ‘So, tell me about Goolwa,’ he said.
‘We went with the Rileys.’
‘The Rileys?’
‘Janice, Anna and Gavin.’
‘Ah. And how old are they?’
I shrugged. ‘Janice is my age.’
He crossed his legs and started stroking his chin. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met Janice. You should bring her in. She could help you.’
‘No, she wouldn’t like . . . this. She just likes running around.’
‘A tomboy?’
‘Yeah.’
Doctor Gunn stood up and came over to me. He knelt down and started looking at the covers of books. ‘And what did you do at Goolwa?’
‘Fishing.’
‘Catch anything?’
‘Not really. Swimming, at Horseshoe Bay.’
‘You went swimming?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good.’
I stood up and took a few books over to the shelf. As I started shelving them Doctor Gunn came up behind me. ‘You forgot this one,’ he said, slipping it in its alphabetical spot.
As he reached he stood close behind me. He pressed me between his body and the shelf, and I could feel him: his stomach, big and soft, his legs, firm, and what I recognised without really knowing – something I’d never seen, spoken or even thought about, something that not even Dad had ever mentioned.
‘That’s it, slowly put them back,’ he said, starting to rub himself on me, on my pants and around the side of my body. I was frozen. I knew I should move, but where, how? What would he say, what would he do? Would he scream at me, hold me there? Would he make up stories to tell my parents? About how I stole from him and did things in the back of his shop too filthy and dirty to mention?
‘And when you went swimming, what did you wear?’ he asked.
I didn’t answer.
‘Bathers?’
‘Stop . . .’ I managed to whisper.
‘What . . . were they blue, or red, or did you go in without them?’
‘Please.’ I tried to move but couldn’t. The pressure of his body held me firmly in place.
‘Siddhartha Gautama, that’s the Buddha’s name,’ he continued. ‘The Buddha is all-seeing, all-powerful, Henry. Do you know what that means?’
The bell rang and the door opened. ‘Henry, you there?’
Doctor Gunn retreated to his chair, sitting, crossing his legs. ‘In here,’ he said.
Dad stepped into the library. ‘G’day, George,’ he said, as Doctor Gunn opened a book and pretended he’d been reading.
‘Hello, Bob, Henry’s been helping me.’
‘Good. Henry, Mum wants you home.’
I stood, trying not to pant, or show my fear. I was in shock. I could hear them talking but didn’t know what they were saying. He rubbed his . . . thing on me, I should’ve said, but didn’t know how – didn’t know whether I should say anything, should scream, or explode in fits of white-hot rage. I put the books I was still holding on a shelf, turned and looked at Dad. Doctor Gunn was looking at me but I didn’t acknowledge him. Dad clamped his big hand onto my shoulder and led me out of the library. ‘All the best, George,’ he said, shaking the doctor’s hand.
‘See you, Henry,’ Doctor Gunn half-sang. ‘Thank you for your help.’
I didn’t reply. Dad nudged me. ‘Henry.’
‘Goodbye,’ I managed.
We crossed the street to Don Eckert’s grocery shop. I felt myself walking, but not walking. My arms were lumps of lead that swung without rhythm. My feet and legs were clay, heavy to lift, slow to respond. And my body was dull, senseless. My face, I think, was like the Reichstag at the end of the war.
‘What’s wrong?’ Dad asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Nice of you to help him.’
I followed my dad into the shop and he bought a single onion for Mum’s stew. Mary-Anne Eckert served him and said, ‘Don’s not happy.’
‘Why?’ Dad asked.
‘Those Arthurson kids. They’ve stolen again.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t ask me. Don was funny last night. Said that you said you were gonna sort it out.’
‘I was. I am.’
‘Well, it’s happened again. Those two need lockin’ up.’
Dad shrugged. ‘They’re kids.’
‘So what?’
‘What I mean is, it’s a game to them. Doesn’t mean they’re gonna end up criminals.’
Mary-Anne gave Dad his change and folded her arms. ‘Wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘I’ll talk to them.’
‘I think you better. While you’re at it, bring them in to apologise and repay us. Either them or the parents.’
‘Okay, tell Don I’m onto it. Tell him I’m sorry about the delay.’
Mary-Anne lifted her eyebrows. ‘I’ll tell him.’
As we walked down Elizabeth Street, Dad shook his head. ‘Just because I’m a detective. Should tell them to pick up the phone. Why am I so agreeable, Henry?’
I looked up. ‘Sorry?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
I shrugged. ‘I think I’m sick of sorting books. Maybe I won’t go anymore.’
‘But you enjoy it.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Well, don’t go then. You can’t keep everybody happy. ’Specially Don bloody Eckert.’
‘I’ve got other interests,’ I said.
‘Good.’
I pulled the Buddha from my pocket and showed it to Dad. ‘He gave me this.’
Dad took it and looked at it. ‘The Buddha?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why’d he give it to you?’
‘For helping him. But he said the library’s just about done, so I don’t need to come anymore.’
‘Strange.’
‘Why?’
‘Thought he enjoyed your company.’
I had no reply. I took the Buddha back and slipped it into my pocket. ‘This makes it hard, doesn’t it?’ I said, trying to change the subject.
‘What?’
<
br /> ‘Talking to their dad, after what happened.’
‘Oh well. I’ll get their side first.’
‘Can I come?’
‘No.’
When we got home I went to my bedroom and stretched out on the floor, breathing deeply, trying to clear my head. Luckily I was in the position where I never had to see him again. But why did he do it, and what was he thinking? Why was he so sure I wouldn’t say anything? Was he convinced that no one would believe me, or that I wouldn’t shame myself? Or was it because he hadn’t had time to threaten me? Either way I felt scared. Like someone I admired had hit me in the face with a hammer, and now there was no way of undoing the damage.
I looked up and Janice was smiling at me, almost laughing. ‘He lay on the floor, dreaming of her, thinking what he’d say and how he’d take her in his arms and make passionate love to her . . .’
‘You’re peeling,’ I said, sitting up.
‘So are you. Wanna play cricket?’
‘Where?’
‘The MCG. Where do you reckon? On the street.’
The usual batting order: Janice first. She used her old tennis racquet to hit a rubber ball all the way to the Greek church. Anna chased it and threw it back but missed and had to search through long grass and a hydrangea hedge to find it. Meanwhile, Janice ran back and forth between two fruit crates, counting, her runs shortening between the creases. ‘Hurry up,’ I called to Anna.
‘Did you see where it went?’
‘In there somewhere.’
She looked up at her brother. ‘Gavin, come and help, you’re meant to be fielding.’
But Gavin had other ideas. He was sitting on the gutter, spitting on ants. If they got free he’d spit on them again, until they got free again, at which point he’d either pardon them or step on them. He’d decided there was no point playing cricket – Janice wouldn’t let him bat or bowl.
‘But you can’t hit the ball,’ she’d say.
‘Can.’
And when he’d try to bowl, a similar problem, Janice groaning and shaking her head. ‘It’s going everywhere. I’d need rubber arms to hit that.’
‘So?’
‘You can field.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re the youngest.’
‘So?’
So there he was, sitting on the gutter, moping, his head between his knees. ‘Gavin, go help Anna,’ Janice called, but he didn’t reply. Janice smiled at me as she piled on the runs. ‘Thirty-one, thirty-two . . . Henry took her in his arms and kissed her but she turned away. No, no, she said, I am promised to someone else . . . thirty-three, thirty-four . . . Who, he asked. Andrew Arthurson, she replied – No, he screamed, No!’
Anna stood up. ‘Here it is.’ She threw the ball back and I caught it. Did you see that, I wanted to say, but guessed that no one would care.
Janice was getting cocky. She prepared for the next ball. ‘Come on, Page, at this rate I can crack a century before tea.’
I did my best underarm. I was no Neil Harvey – there was no run-up and no dramatic flair to my deliveries – but they did arrive at the right spot, slow enough for Janice to whack them the length of Thomas Street. Yes, she loved my bowling: she hit the ball full lob and it went flying, dropping and bouncing and rolling as far as Harriet Street. ‘Thirty-five, thirty-six . . . go on, Anna.’
‘Someone else’s turn.’
‘You’re fielding.’
‘Gavin?’
No reply.
Anna shrugged and ran after it, slowing to a trot, then a walk.
‘Thirty-seven, thirty-eight . . . But Henry wasn’t finished, he’d secretly been in love with Kate Arthurson for years.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah, right.’
‘That night he stood beneath her window . . .’
‘Maybe we should swap,’ I suggested.
‘It’s my turn batting.’
‘But it’s not very fair.’
‘Yeah,’ Gavin piped up, ‘you always bat.’
‘Because I can.’
‘We should play something else.’
‘What?’
He shrugged. ‘Chasey.’
‘Ah, grow up.’
He stood up. ‘I’m tellin’ Mum.’
‘Sook.’
He stormed off, throwing down a gum leaf he’d been tearing into strips.
‘Go and tell Mummy, baby. Forty-three, forty-four . . .’
Anna threw the ball back. She resumed her position beside Eric Hessian’s fence and asked, ‘Where’s Gavin?’
‘He had a tantrum,’ Janice said.
‘Well if he’s not playing . . .’
And she followed her brother inside.
‘Sook.’
‘Get stuffed.’
We were left alone in the middle of an almost-dark Thomas Street. We moved for a delivery van that seemed to speed up when it saw us. ‘Should we go in?’ I asked Janice.
‘No way, I’m on a roll.’
And so it continued, as the streetlights came on and we started to scratch mossie bites. ‘Fifty-one, fifty-two . . .’ Now I had to field as well, which meant, theoretically, that Janice could go on getting runs for days. It reminded me a bit too much of my time with the Croydon Primary Under 10s. Dad was roped in as our coach, not that he knew anything about cricket, or even liked it much. But I was very proud to have my detective dad running things. No one was going to question a man who packed a pistol.
I’d always get out within the first few balls. I saw out a season of ducks, and that was it, no more team sport for me. No more sport. Sport was for the organised, the neat, the well-groomed, for the fit and getting fitter, for people without faults or blemishes. Sport was for people with no imagination. Sport was the beginning and end of everything horrible. It was Adolf Hitler. It was the Black Death and the gulags. Luckily, at school, I got to sit it out. I had a very powerful note in my diary: To Whom it May Concern, Please be aware that Henry’s left foot is mostly immobile. This may affect his ability to play sport. Yrs, Ellen Page (Henry’s Mum).
I had a teacher in grade three who wouldn’t accept this. She used to say, If there’s a will there’s a way, whatever that meant. Her name was Mrs Underwood. Vanessa Underwood. Bill used to call her Vanessa the Undresser. Once, Janice repeated this in class and Mrs Underwood had her taken to the principal’s office. Bill was called in. He explained that Vanessa the Undresser was an act he used to support. Very classy, too. Simulated nudity. But it didn’t do Janice any good. She got a week of detentions. Meanwhile, I was made to line up with the soccer balls for dribbling practise. Dribbling. Like a baby. My ball headed across the playground, under the monkey bars and through the gate onto the road.
Still, she’d been warned.
She wasn’t going to give up that easy. Where there’s a will there’s a way. She made me stand in front of the other kids and held my leg as she showed them how to kick a ball. That is my memory of sport: Stalin in stockings, filling the world with fear and perspiration.
As a thousand books went unread in our library.
‘Sixty-one, sixty-two . . .’
‘Janice, I’m going in,’ I said.
‘But you’re next.’
‘Well don’t hit them down the street. Do little ones.’
The little ones weren’t much better: two blocks instead of four. And as I hobbled after the ball I remembered fielding for Croydon Primary, chasing the ball as every Under 10 and their parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, orange-cutter and groundsman screamed, ‘Hurry up, come on!’ As another kid decided he could do better, and ran past me, scooping up the ball and throwing it back to a collective sigh of relief. As I stopped and looked at Dad – who was waving and giving the victory sign – and returned to my spot.
‘Sixty-nine, seventy . . .’
‘Janice, let’s go in.’
‘Oh alright, but I start again at seventy tomorrow.’
I heard our front door close and saw Dad walking down our gravel drive. He passed with
in a few feet but didn’t see us standing in the dark under a bloodwood. He pulled on a jacket, turned up the collar and started off towards Henry Street.
‘Where’s he going?’ Janice asked.
I smiled. ‘I bet it’s the Arthursons.’
‘Why?’
‘Remember what I said, about them stealing from Mister Eckert?’
‘So?’
‘Dad promised him he’d sort it out.’
Janice’s eyes lit up. ‘I don’t want to miss this.’
‘I’ve gotta go in.’
‘Come on.’
She left the racquet and ball under the tree and dragged me off. We kept our distance, about a block back, following Dad as he turned into Henry Street and made for the Arthurson’s house. At one point he stopped and looked back. We stood motionless and he continued. Soon he turned into their drive, almost skipped up to the front door and rang the bell.
The Arthurson’s house was one half of a semi-detached villa, split neatly down the middle by an exposed firewall. It was a neat home – simple, but schizophrenic, like one of a pair of Siamese twins who’d stopped talking to each other. The brick on their side was rendered and painted white, the other side had been left unaltered; their gutters and trims were brown and their neighbour’s were grey; their garden was cottage and their neighbour’s was modern – all gravel, succulents and cacti. The result was a two-headed hydra – neighbours who shared the same structure but lived on entirely different planets.
Janice and I approached the house under cover of darkness and hid behind a hedge. We watched as the porch light came on and the front door opened. We heard words but they were unclear. ‘Come on,’ Janice said, and she led me through a hole in the hedge, pushing me down beneath a lemon tree in the Arthurson’s front yard.
‘It’s just what Don said,’ Dad explained.
‘He’s full of shit,’ a familiar voice replied, from inside the house.
‘Maybe we could ask the kids,’ Dad continued
‘No need for that. My kids wouldn’t steal. Listen, Mister Detective, you wanna get all the facts. That fella’s a nuisance. What is he, a Yugoslav?’
‘German, but that’s beside the – ’
‘It isn’t. It’s their way, to cause trouble. They like starting wars.’
