by Stephen Orr
‘Yes,’ Liz replied. ‘With Henry.’
‘Ah, yes, I can see the four of them, playing together. Henry, what games did you play?’
‘Cricket, chasey.’
‘Sehr gut. Your spirit’s drawn them here, Henry. They want to play with you.’
‘Do they?’
‘Yes. I can see them. There, Janice, looking shy, and Gavin, hiding around the corner. Anna is laughing at me. No, no, dear, I’m a friend.’
Stumpf passed on and I thought, fake. Bill came out and looked at me and said, ‘Don’t take any notice, Henry. Now the sharks are circling.’
‘The sharks?’
‘Luckily he’s flying out tomorrow.’ And what he couldn’t say, It’s a pity that Liz got sucked in but it’s understandable. There’s nothing left to hope for anymore. Nothing.
I watched Janice drawing, licking her fingers and then spitting.
They took him to Semaphore, I said to her, and he saw you playing on the beach.
I can’t believe Mum fell for that.
She misses you.
I know, but that just makes it worse.
Then they drove along the esplanade, I explained, and the Kraut says, ‘Stop!’ He gets out and runs into a salvage yard and says, ‘I feel them here’.
Janice was looking up, smiling. What a prick.
‘Ve must dig here!’ he says.
And your mum asks, ‘Where?’ ‘Here!’ he replies. And he points to where he’s standing.
So?
So your mum’s old boss hires an excavator and they dig down twenty feet.
And did they find us?
‘No,’ the Fritz says, ‘Perhaps to the right’, so off they go again. This goes on for a week. Meanwhile, Stumpf has flown back to Germany.
What was Mum thinking?
She saw him off at the airport. Gave him a fur purse made from kangaroo and said, ‘I wish I could pay you.’
‘You have insulted me!’ he replies. Ach, Seig heil!
Janice laughed so hard she rolled on the footpath, covering her clothes with red, yellow and blue chalk dust.
It was crazy, I explained. They had reporters and cameras following them everywhere. I think, afterwards, your mum felt let down. Your dad was on the news.
‘We have a police force to deal with these things’, he’d said. ‘I am glad, and I will say it again, that I don’t believe in clairvoyancy’.
It’s a pity you can’t say something, I said to her, knowing it was against the rules of our game. She just shrugged, looked up at me and said, He can’t see me. No one can, except you. And you won’t tell, will you?
No.
What else?
Ever been to a house at Malvern? I asked.
No.
A few weeks ago an old woman came forward and said she saw you in a deserted house.
Bullshit.
Said a man took you in there that afternoon, the day you went to the beach. She lived across the road. Said she saw Gavin running off down a laneway at teatime but this fella grabbed him and dragged him back.
Gavin appeared from behind the picket fence. Crap, he said. She’s makin’ it up.
Then she said the next morning she went over and knocked on the door but you were all gone.
Not even close, Janice smiled.
Just what someone said.
People are stupid.
Everyone reckons you’re dead. You’re not, eh?
She shook her head. Do I look dead?
They’re sending your mum and dad sympathy cards.
Stupid . . .
They got one from Kevin Johns the other day.
Janice looked up. Yeah?
Wrote a poem in it.
Bet he did, she said, returning to work.
I waited, listening to the sound of chalk scratching concrete. At last I said, Everyone misses you.
But she didn’t reply.
Especially me.
Don’t get soft.
It’s not just Croydon, or Adelaide, I explained. It’s the whole country.
She shook her head. People don’t care about someone they don’t know.
They seem to, I argued. There’s always letters to the papers, and bits on the news. You oughta see the statue down at Semaphore – there’s always fresh flowers on it, hundreds of them, and people light candles and leave ’em next to your picture.
People are stupid, she repeated.
Even in England, I continued. One night Dad got this call from Scotland Yard. ‘We’ve got some questions, about the Rileys,’ they said, and Dad puts on his posh voice, ‘Yes, Sir.’ Turns out there was this fella in England who kidnapped two girls your age. About a year ago. Witness said he was a tall, blond fella.
I waited for a response. Janice screamed at her brother, Get off my picture, and Gavin moved and grinned at me.
Tall, blond, I repeated.
I heard, Janice replied. Still not close.
They found the girls’ bodies, I explained.
They should’ve been more careful.
I waited again, trying to see what she was drawing. At least you don’t have to go to school, I said.
She looked up. What do you mean? Don’t you think . . .? She bowed her head again. Is Allan still giving you trouble?
Doesn’t matter, I replied. I just go to the library these days.
Thought you were friends with Judy?
Ah, she was okay, but her friends were always saying, Why do we gotta have him?
Bitches.
And after I’d got ’em all books.
Better off by yourself.
I know.
As she was. Scribbling. Drawing outlines and colouring in small continents of colour in a long, grey sea that stretched the length of Thomas Street. All the way to the end of the world. Where it just stopped, and dropped into space.
What you gonna do about Allan? she asked.
I can deal with him.
You sure?
Yes.
You tell your dad, he’ll sort him out.
Nothing to sort out.
But she knew better. She was sitting at the front of the class, listening to Mr Meus, copying down notes on Ballarat, 1851. She was there in the yard and library, talking to me. She was standing beside the monkey-bars ready to catch Anna if she fell. She was in my room, and my hutch, sitting beside me on the tyres, composing another poem for the Argonauts as I started another book.
At last I stood up and walked over to her. And there we were, the four of us, in every chalk colour she had. She was leading us towards a giant yellow sun. We were all holding hands and singing.
Where are we going? I asked.
And she just smiled.
Dad always said that bad things happened in threes – which meant that Bill had had his serve for life. But things kept getting worse for Bill. There were some people, it seemed, who would only grant him so much time, so much grace.
It was already warm when Bill parked his car in the shade of a pepper tree on the edge of Adelaide University oval. He’d just driven back from Renmark, where he’d visited the usual places, pubs, clubs, cafeterias and bakeries. He’d sold some tablecloths and a few towels to a motel, but only because the owner had worked out who he was. Bill was hot and sweaty, still dressed in his suit pants and a business shirt. And he was tired. Tired of travelling. Of giving the same speech to the same people: ‘Feel these towels . . . we’ll be in a pine box before they need replacing.’ He was tired of the standard replies: ‘There’s a couple of years left in this lot, Bill’, the shrugs, the dismissals, the slapped shoulders, ‘We’ve all been thinkin’ about you, Bill, and prayin’ for your kiddies.’
He was tired of everything. What was the point of anything, of getting married and buying a house, of helping your neighbours and mowing the lawn, if there were no kids? Liz would never start again. Never. And maybe, he guessed, she was right.
Bill got out of his car and came around and sat on the bonnet. The engine was hot and the paint was covered in fi
ne, brown dust. He watched as his boss, Rob Polito, adjusted his grip on his bat and tapped it on the pitch, looking up expectantly for the next ball; as he shifted his weight, lifted his bat and struck at it; as he clipped it and forced it onto his wicket; as the other batters, standing on the boundary line, let out a hushed, Ahhh, watching as Rob walked off with his bat under his arm, peeling off his gloves, a finger at the time.
Bill stepped forward and waved. ‘Rob.’
The batsman saw him and looked surprised. Then he half-smiled, changed direction and headed towards him. Bill returned and sat on his bonnet and a small branch from the pepper tree brushed across his face. He grabbed it and pulled off a handful of the crimson berries. He crushed them in his hand and they broke into a thousand papery shards. Then he blew them and they scattered over the dead grass turned dirt. Lemon-scented gums, taller than the nearby mansions, dropped leaves into the gutters of the tractor shed.
‘How you going?’ Bill asked, as Rob came and sat beside him.
‘Out for a duck. How about you?’
Bill shrugged. ‘Same.’
Bill had been summoned via the telephone. When he’d got back to the pub the previous evening there’d been a note waiting: Bill, ring me at home, RP. He’d known what it was about. He hadn’t sold much since he’d returned to work six weeks earlier. He’d been to Clare and Burra and the Mount – but, as he explained to Rob, he had the tight-arse circuit, places that probably didn’t have spare cash for cuddly towels and lacy tablecloths.
For a while, Rob and the other directors let it go. After all he’d been through, the business could carry him for a while. But then the petrol and room bills started to add up. People started talking, in hallways and carparks, at barbecues they didn’t invite him to because, after all, what would you say?
‘I’ve had the boss in my ear,’ Rob said, watching the match, following the progress of a far better batsman.
Bill knew straight away. ‘Thommo?’
‘It doesn’t matter. The market’s changed. We’re not selling enough to justify a full-time rep in the country. Was a time we had someone for the South-East, the Peninsula, the Mid-North, but things have changed.’
‘And I’m not sellin’ enough?’
‘You can’t sell what people won’t buy.’
Bill heard the thump of a ball and looked up. The batsman sprinted up and down the pitch as a dozen or so people in the grandstand stood and applauded.
‘So?’ Bill asked.
Rob wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘We’re gonna stock through the haberdashery stores.’
Bill shook his head. ‘Not a good idea.’
‘Why?’
‘How often’s your average publican go in there?’
‘When they need something.’
‘Rob, they never think they need it, you gotta convince them.’
And who was the best at that? He was. Bringing a touch of the Tivoli to Tintinara. Telling a few stories and feeding a few gags. Putting the purchase in perspective. ‘This lot will cost you the same as a keg of beer, but when the beer’s gone, what are you left with?’
‘Money in the till.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
‘Nonetheless,’ Rob explained, ‘it’s been decided.’
Bill shook his head. ‘Those shops will stock the cheap crap. You’ll lose your market.’
‘What market?’
‘It’s a lull, Rob. It’ll pick up.’
‘No it won’t. It’s the way things are going. Buy cheap and mark it up to buggery. You understand?’
Bill shook his head. ‘I understand. I’m not sellin’ enough. And you reckon it’s because of the kids.’
‘No.’
‘It is.’
‘Well, truth be told . . .’ Rob thought better of it.
‘Go on.’
‘I wanted you to go to KI last week – “No, I’m not feelin’ up to it” – And then Port Pirie. I’m not criticising, I understand, but you can’t sell linen if you’re not there.’
Bill stared ahead. ‘Well, you’re right.’
‘Bill.’
‘Do you want me to quit?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve only been thinkin’ of Liz.’
Rob slowly spelt it out. ‘We all understand. We’ve got kids too. They leave me with the dirty work. Talk to Bill, they say. Christ, you know what? I’d keep you on the payroll forever. Talk to Bill, they say. Fuck.’ He paused. ‘And they’re sayin’, What’s the point of driving around the country for no reason?’
But to Bill, there was a reason. It gave him the chance to talk. About linen, yes, but then when the subject changed, to pull out a photo of the kids and show people and ask, Do you think you could put it up in your window, with a note?
‘So where’s that leave me?’ Bill asked Rob.
‘I had two thoughts. We could put you in the warehouse, or maybe you could convince Arthur to share the western suburbs. That’d be easier for you, eh?’
‘Would he agree?’
‘Always says he’s run off his feet.’
Bill looked at Rob. Like most people, he was decent. But like most, Bill guessed, he wasn’t sure what to say to a man who’d lost three children.
‘Could you mention it to Arthur?’
‘Of course.’ Rob looked at him, smiled and said, ‘Every time I bat, a duck. Every time.’
Bill drove home along War Memorial Drive, under fig trees heavy with over-ripe fruit, their branches sagging like long, sunburnt fingers. He pulled up in his driveway and his house looked different. He stepped out and stood with his arms on his hips and tried to work it out. Of course! The garden beds had been weeded, the bushes and shrubs pruned and the lawns mowed. He followed a trail of freshly cut grass down his drive, along the footpath and into the Housemans’ side gate. And there it was, a hot, dusty mower, cooling in full sun beside a concrete frog.
Amazing, he thought. Not a word when the kids disappeared – no time to help, to cook a few goddamn scones. And now, five months later . . . He went up to their front door and knocked, hard, three times. Eventually it opened and Kazz stood smiling at him.
‘I didn’t ask you to,’ Bill said.
Ron appeared behind her. ‘G’day, Bill.’
Bill tried to stay angry. ‘I was just sayin’ . . .’ But stopped, seeing the face of Rob, of Bob and Ellen, of Jim Clarke and a thousand others who had only wanted to help. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘You could’ve at least done the edges,’ he smiled.
A few minutes later he was sitting at their kitchen table, a beer in his hand. Ron was showing him his pipe-band photos. ‘See, that’s me there, out of step.’
Kazz sat down with them, cupping a coffee in her hands. She looked at Bill as he looked at the photos and then said, ‘Ron’s been trying to keep the noise down, in case it disturbed you.’
Bill looked up at her. ‘No, it doesn’t worry me.’
‘Thought that’s the last thing you’d want to deal with – a noisy neighbour.’
Ron smiled. ‘I am improving.’
‘No,’ Bill said, drinking, ‘it’s something to listen to.’
There was a long silence. Eventually Kazz said, ‘It must be quiet?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’s just sayin’ to Ron, we miss their voices, screamin’ around the backyard.’
‘I know.’
‘We thought you were angry with us.’
Bill bowed his head.
‘We miss them too, Bill. It’s the worst thing . . . but we didn’t want you ending up hating us.’
‘I don’t hate you. Don’t hate no one anymore. What’s the use of that?’ He looked up, and then bowed his head again. ‘I apologise for going off at yers. I can see things clearer now, I realise it’s not just me.’ He smiled. ‘Like that thing Janice used to recite: No man is an island, entire of itself . . .’
Liz was trying to face life again. I can see her now, getting off the city train at Croydon station. She wal
ks down the ramp, and Con, opening the gates, says, ‘Over here.’ She follows him to his gatehouse and he hands her a lettuce, wrapped in newspaper and secured with a rubber band. ‘Greenhouse,’ he says. ‘My uncle.’
‘He has a greenhouse?’
‘Imported it from Germany. Very soon everyone will want greenhouse lettuces. He’s going to import two more, but he needs investors. Do you think Bill would be interested?’
‘I think he’ll stick to linen.
Con stands back and looks at Liz, somehow thinner, smarter and younger in her John Martin’s uniform – a black dress, falling around her knees in two-inch wide pleats, a lacy collar and gold ‘Big Store’ buttons tracing her midriff like runway lights
‘And you?’ Con asks.
‘I’ll stick to fabric.’
Two shifts a week at the Big Store in Rundle Street. Third floor, the hum of fluoros and air-conditioning always ten degrees too warm or cold. Fine dust from rolls of cotton, nylon and polyester fabric, thousands of them standing like a lopped forest. There was tartan and floral, Tropicana and oversized toucans in banana palms. Scissors glided across fabric tables and register bells tingled as little dollar signs popped up in anticipation. Five pound notes were flattened out and pennies dropped into sweaty hands smelling of musk and the ink from bus tickets. All of this as Liz lost herself in a world of muslin and calico, time cards and over-cooked pasties eaten on the job. And sometimes, in the middle of all this, Liz would sit on a stool in the storeroom and think, Well, there’s an hour I haven’t thought of them . . .
Bill didn’t argue when she told him she had an interview, after all, Joe Skurray’s wife had been at the Big Store for twenty years. He supposed it was better than her sitting around playing the same pieces on the piano and endlessly re-tidying the kid’s rooms.
So now there were two realities: Indian cotton at 7/6 a yard, or 7A Thomas Street. She’d got past needing to be there all the time in case they returned. If they were dropped at the gate, Janice knew the key was in the meter box. And if they caught the train home, there was always Con, or maybe, she dreamed, Janice would go straight to school and walk into her class – and imagine everyone’s face, just imagine. She’d staged these scenes a hundred times – her out front watering the roses, three kids walking towards her, and her dropping the hose, and collapsing, trembling, before summoning the energy to stand and open her arms like a flowering camellia.
