Time's Long Ruin

by Stephen Orr

  ‘Bob.’

  As they drove along Main North East Road, Bert said, ‘You’re gonna get yourself into trouble one of these days.’

  Dad almost laughed. ‘That slag? Did you see how clean that house was? She isn’t gonna risk paradise in Hillcrest Gardens.’

  ‘So why did she fuck Riley then?’

  Dad shrugged. ‘Ah, now there’s a mystery.’

  They returned to Semaphore and parked on the esplanade. Jim Clarke was sitting on the step of the van smoking a cigarette. Dad got out of the car and approached him. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Nothing. No one on the Croydon train saw them.’

  Bert came over and stood in the shade of the van. ‘Everyone’s back at work today.’

  Jim smiled. ‘One thing: Suburban Taxis have volunteered forty cars for the day. Apparently Bill used to work for them.’

  Dad looked surprised. ‘He never told me that.’

  ‘I’ve got them doing carparks, shopping centres, couple down at the wharves. Told them to look in the wool stores too. All them factories around Gillman, right through to Outer Harbour.’ He looked up at Dad. ‘Wondering whether we should ask to drain the Patawalonga?’

  ‘Wait. He would’ve taken them further.’

  They both looked at him. ‘He?’ asked Bert.

  ‘Where’s Bill?’ Dad asked.

  ‘On the beach,’ Jim replied.

  Dad and Bert found him staring out to sea. ‘You’re red,’ Dad said, trudging across the soft sand towards him, holding his shoes and socks in his hands.

  Bill felt his face and neck. ‘Am I?’

  ‘I’ll get some cream.’

  ‘No.’

  Dad stood beside him, looking out. ‘We’ve just been to Hillcrest Gardens,’ he said.

  Bill didn’t look surprised. ‘What did you think of her?’

  Dad smiled. ‘Not what I was expecting. Something out of an ad for Persil. How did you . . .?’

  ‘Bunch of us were at the pub. Someone was leaving to go to New Zealand. There was this group of birds, and they all looked young and single. She was tanked. One thing led to another.’

  Offering to drive her home. Pulling into the carpark of Scotty’s Motel, watched by a twenty-foot high concrete Scot wearing a kilt and playing bagpipes. As he heard a distant drone, and saw hips and a bum that still slipped comfortably into a miniskirt, a top with one too many buttons undone.

  ‘She was just trying to get back at you,’ Dad explained. ‘The husband never knew. He wasn’t a threat to anyone, judging from his picture.’

  ‘And his singlet,’ Bert smiled.

  Bill shook his head. ‘Little slut. Typical. Yes, I made a mistake, but she did too. But some women, they don’t think that way, eh, Bob?’

  ‘No. You’re lookin’ red, Bill.’

  ‘I’m fine. So there’s nothin’ there can help us?’

  ‘No. No criminal gangs in Hillcrest Gardens, Bill.’

  Bill was silent for a full minute. ‘Must have asked a hundred people,’ he whispered, eventually.

  ‘They’ve got forty taxis out, Bill. Half of Adelaide.’

  ‘At least it might have explained things, Bob.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘That bitch.’

  ‘No one else you can think of, Bill? No one you owed money to?’

  Bill looked at Dad. ‘Wouldn’t I have told you, Bob?’

  ‘Someone in our street?’

  ‘Con. Yeah, Con, I hate his guts.’

  ‘I’m just trying to help, Bill. When you drove a taxi?’

  ‘No, Bob, believe me, I haven’t made many enemies in this life. If I had . . .’ He fell silent.

  ‘Somethin’ will come up,’ Bert offered. ‘It always does.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Bill shot back, glaring at him. ‘What, you gonna tell me they got on the Gawler train? Janice? A girl that gets As for everything? “Dad,” she says, “we’re still doing grade three work. When are they gonna make it hard?” When are they gonna make it hard?’

  Bert turned to face the ocean. ‘Dunno, Bill, it’s got me. Wrackin’ my brain tryin’ to think.’

  But Bill’s thoughts were off in the distant breakers. Anna was floating there, in an inner tube, in a pool he’d improvised in his backyard: a large piece of plastic strung up between a fence post and three trees, filled with water, and kids. The twine broke and his pool emptied everywhere. Anna was carried off, across a Santa Anna ocean, left wallowing at the far end of the Semaphore jetty. ‘Remember when the Yangtzee flooded, last year?’ Bill whispered, standing motionless between Dad and Bert. ‘Ten thousand dead. And a week later everyone had forgotten.’

  ‘The search is just starting,’ Dad said.

  ‘“When are they gonna make it hard?” You reckon she got lost? Look at this place, you couldn’t get lost if you tried. She was reading novels in grade one. She’d read anything: Pollyanna, the gas bill.’

  Bert told him about the pasties and pie.

  ‘It just gets better,’ he replied. ‘So we should be lookin’ for this fella, eh, Bob?’

  ‘We are: tall and blond.’ He pointed to various people along the beach.

  A lifesaver walked in front of them. He wore black bathers and a red and yellow cap and carried a roll of orange bunting. Bill stepped towards him. ‘Eh, mate, were you here yesterday?’

  The lifesaver shook his head. ‘I’ve already been asked four times.’

  Bill took another step. ‘So what?’

  ‘I’m gonna put a sign around my neck: No, I haven’t seen the lost children.’

  ‘Listen, you little turd.’

  Dad and Bert held him back. The lifesaver had a Mr Atlas chest, caramel-coloured skin and snow-white hair sprouting from under his cap. He turned to face Bill. ‘You alright, mate?’

  Dad and Bert walked Bill towards the dunes. ‘Come on, there’s not much more to do here,’ Dad said. ‘Let’s head home and check on Liz.’

  They left the lifesaver alone on the beach. Heavy black clouds were gathering behind him, the wind starting to blow in off the Southern Ocean.

  And as the storm came, the beach emptied.

  Meanwhile, back at Thomas Street, I can imagine Liz sitting in the girls’ room with Janice’s desk drawer across her knees. The breeze comes in the window, and it’s fresh and cooling, lifting and dropping the curtain with the regularity of slow breathing. She picks up a pale-blue certificate and studies the handwriting.

  The Argonauts’ Club

  Before the sun and the night and the blue sea No 34 in the good ship Diogenes has stood faithfully by all that is brave and beautiful . . . has sought adventure, and has discovered much of wonder and delight, merriment and loveliness, and shared it freely with fellow members of the Argonauts’ Club.

  The Order of the Golden Fleece is awarded to a faithful rower: Janice Riley

  Liz felt herself crying again. She wiped tears from her face, held the certificate under her nose and smelt the cardboard. It was Janice. It smelt of love and merriment, of nutmeg, turmeric, coriander and a thousand other spices she’d discovered on her journeys in the Diogenes, as she crouched beneath the radio on the smoker’s stand, praying to God that they’d read the story she’d written and sent to the ABC. Shooshing Gavin and Anna. Telling her dad that Life with Dexter could wait.

  ‘And now, a story from Diogenes 34.’

  ‘That’s me! Gavin, run next door and get Henry.’

  A few minutes later Mum, Dad and I were in the Rileys’ living room, listening intently over the drone of Ron Houseman’s ‘Bonny at Morn’.

  ‘The good ship Diogenes broke in the swell and started to take water – goodness me, boys and girls – but Jane knew she could save her family. She jumped overboard and swam a mile in storm seas to the nearest port. Then she found a small boat and started rowing back towards Diogenes. Now, children, can’t you all imagine the storm? Jane was a very brave girl. Continuing . . .’

  Liz could still see us kids, lined up on our knees on th
e floor, our mouths wide open. She could hear the Argonaut’s theme, as mellow as ever, fading in her ears as a broken mast drifted out to sea. But we were all saved – all together, rowing back to shore. She smelt the certificate again. ‘Janice,’ she whispered, as the curtain brushed her cheek.

  She was looking for clues. Mum had suggested it: a phone number, a note promising to meet someone, a shop she might have detoured to visit. Liz had already found a scrap of paper with names and phone numbers and asked Mum to ring them.

  ‘Hello, Lisa, you’re one of Janice’s friends? I know, I know, that’s why I’ve rung. I was wondering if you’ve heard from her in the last few days . . . no, a friend of the family, dear . . . Missus Riley is too upset.’

  There were stories about how Janice could look after herself, how Mrs Riley shouldn’t worry, about the time Janice helped someone with this, or lent them that, or cheered someone up when their gran had died. So, see, she must be okay. I was gonna come see Mr and Mrs Riley but Mum said no, wait, they’d have too much on their mind . . .

  Mum had worked her way through the list, ticking each name, scribbling: No, last seen just before Christmas at Arndale shops.

  Liz pulled out another sheet of paper, neatly folded in half. She opened it and read.

  Little Women. Reviewed by Janice Riley 5C

  After reading this book, I now think it’s my favourite. It is set a hundred years ago in America in a town where it is always snowing and people are having fun throwing snowballs.

  Liz could remember being woken by a noise and walking into the girls’ room to find Janice beneath the sheets with a torch reading Milly Molly Mandy. She could remember pulling back the sheets and standing with her hands on her hips, saying, ‘This is why I can never get you up for school.’

  ‘Only four more pages.’

  ‘No.’

  The four sisters live with their mother. Their dad is off fighting in the Civil War – a little like my dad, off selling linen in Keith and Ceduna. But at least my dad comes home after a few days. Then he unloads the stuff he couldn’t sell from his boot and stores it in the back shed.

  Liz smiled. She could see them, a flannelette chain gang – Bill and their kids with their arms full of sheets and curtains and pillowcases, walking down the drive towards the back shed, as Bill whispered, ‘Now, don’t tell anyone I’m storing them here.’

  Anna asking, ‘Why not?’

  Bill smiling. ‘They’re gifts.’

  ‘For who?’

  As he put a finger on his lips. ‘Loose lips sink ships.’

  The story is by Louisa May Alcott, who was a lady writer when there weren’t many around. There are many more today but that’s a different story. I’d also like to be a writer, but I doubt I could write anything as good as this. I did have a story read on the ABC once. Dad says once you’ve been read on the ABC you can call yourself a professional.

  Liz smiled again, and then breathed deeply. She could see Janice at her desk, writing, throwing down her dictionary and then standing and dragging Gavin out of her room, saying, ‘Writers need quiet!’ She could see Gavin hitting the door and Janice opening it and screaming, ‘Go away!’

  She could remember saying, ‘Janice, there’s no need for that.’

  Liz folded and replaced the review under a few loose Lifesavers. This is where Janice kept them hidden, where she kept everything hidden from her family. She kept the drawer locked and hid the key under her mattress. But everyone knew where it was. Still, no one ever tried to have a nosy. No one dared. Maybe, even as a kid, there were parts of people’s lives you sensed you had to leave alone, names you couldn’t mention, topics you couldn’t discuss, emotions that shouldn’t, or couldn’t, be fathomed.

  Liz picked up another sheet of folded paper.

  Dear Henry,

  You are probably wondering why I’m writing you a letter, seeing how I see you every day (and all day, sometimes). Well, some things you can’t say out loud. It’s best to write them down. And if you write them down, or read them, that doesn’t mean you have to talk about them . . .

  And that was it.

  What could she have been going to say? Liz wondered. You’re my best friend? I really like you? I love you (what I mean is, like Beth loved Amy, and Jo loved Meg).

  No, she mused, Janice would never say that.

  And I can vouch for that. Janice wouldn’t even touch me, and if she did she’d wipe the affected area back onto me and say, Ugh, boy germs. She’d never smile too wishfully or say anything that could be taken the wrong way. Her way of being my sister was by being with me. She never let me know how she felt, at least not in so many words – she never told me about how she used to threaten kids she’d seen doing an imitation of my limp.

  So what could she have been going to write? Granted, it was a locked drawer, but Janice getting mushy?

  There were other things in Janice’s drawer – hair bands with long, brown hairs (Liz pulling them out and laying them across Janice’s communion certificate, placing them carefully, individually, equally spaced – until a breeze scattered them everywhere). A list of toys (Kathrin Whele, Stove set, Tipe writer, Cards, Lewdo, Bombars) and a recipe for chocolate crackles. There was a design for a billycart she’d always been talking about building, and some Cat’s Eyes and Tom Bowlers, a list of books she’d always been meaning to read (The Borrowers and What Katy Did), paperclips, a ruler with a hole in the middle so she could spin it like a helicopter, a page of mostly correct long division (from when she’d first worked it out, years before we did it at school), a list of pet names (Phantom, Chief and Paddle Pop – for the dog that Bill had been promising her for years), a melted Laxette, and a piece of paper that had been torn from a school reader: Possible gifts for Mum – Night at the Movies (I watch kids), Platters record, Diary, Foot powder, Egg timer, Apron.

  Liz stopped to think. Janice had never given her any of these. Maybe she’d changed her mind. Maybe these ideas had been superseded by the brooch she’d given her for her birthday – green, blue and white glass forming a picture of Mount Kosciusko.

  I remember going with her to buy it, walking all the way to the jewellery shop at Arndale one rainy Friday afternoon, Janice asking the jeweller, How much for this, and how much for that, eventually just getting out her money and saying, What can I get with this?

  A glass Kosciusko.

  Janice clutched it in her hand as we walked home, wet from the rain, preparing to get in trouble for being nice.

  Liz could remember meeting us at the front door. She could remember throwing open the flyscreen and growling at her daughter, ‘Now you’ll get a cold, and you’ll be off school for a week, and who’ll look after you?’ She could remember Janice producing a red satin bag with a gold drawstring, and grinning, and saying, ‘Happy birthday, Mum.’ She could remember Janice’s victorious expression. Then (yes, it was all coming back to her) she sighed and let her shoulders drop, and Janice said, ‘Mum, you’re only a kid once, and for a very short time.’

  Liz heard singing. She placed the drawer on Janice’s bed and went to the window. Looking across the road she saw Rosa kneeling beneath the healing tree singing ‘Ave Maria’, her head bowed, her hand resting on the altar.

  The music continued, not with words (Rosa couldn’t remember many) but in a sort of throaty vocalise. There was a soft, long roll of thunder that receded towards the west and faded. And again, Rosa’s voice, howling, falling quiet and becoming loud, growling, breaking, stopping short of notes she couldn’t reach.

  And then Mum was beside Liz, putting her arm around her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ she said, smiling.

  They walked in step over the dry grass and crossed the road. Then they went into the Pedavolis’ yard and knelt beside Rosa. She looked up, momentarily, and then took Liz’s hand. Mum took her other hand. As for me, I wasn’t budging from the lounge room. It was bad enough you had to sing along at church. An old woman in a smocked frock walked past carrying a string bag full of shopping. She
stopped at Rosa’s gate and watched them. Then she put her shopping down and walked into the yard – kneeling beside Liz, touching her on the shoulder and bowing her head.

  It was a melody in four different keys, but it didn’t matter. Everyone knew the tune, and that was enough. As the others continued humming and singing, Rosa started talking over them. ‘Lord, keep the children safe,’ she said. ‘Return them to their mother. Tell them to hold each other, and protect each other, and smile and laugh and sing, wherever they are. Keep them together . . . in your arms.’

  The thunder was getting louder. Liz stopped singing and started crying. Mum and the stranger tried to hold her.

  Rosa continued invoking names. ‘Janice and Anna and Gavin, Alex and Kevin, Maureen and Sally and Beverley . . .’ Children that none of us had met but maybe, she supposed, needed our blessing; children who fell from the branches of her healing tree, twisting and turning in the breeze and eventually settling on her path.

  ‘Hail Mary, full of grace,’ she began, and they all joined in as best they could. Even me, getting it down pat by the fifth round.

  ‘Now and at the hour of our death.’

  Dad and Bert pulled up outside 7A. I could see Bill in the back, sitting forward, looking over towards the healing tree. Before Dad had the handbrake on Bill was out, storming across the road in bare feet, his pants still rolled up, his face red and angry and tough like old mutton.

  ‘What good’s that gonna do?’ he asked, looking at Liz.

  She looked up. ‘Have they found anything?’

  ‘What do you think? There’s hundreds out lookin’ and what are you doin’?’

  Dad, leaving his door open, walked over to Bill and said, ‘Come on, let’s go in and get cleaned up.’ He touched Bill’s arm but he shook it loose.

  ‘Why’d you let them go?’ he asked.

  Liz couldn’t answer. She stood up, faced him and held out her hands. ‘Sonja was in the hospital, Bill.’

  ‘So what? So bloody what? You got any sense? What were you thinking?’

  ‘Bill . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to see your lousy bloody face. All you had to say was, No, you’re not going. How hard’s that? You’re their mother.’