by Murray Bail
Indoctrinated by the mathematics of the streets and the general air of wide-openness Shadbolt became a ‘car maniac’. Others had their narrowing obsessions. At least a belief in something. It positioned a person within the endlessness. Cars suited Shadbolt's mechanical mind. The dense odour released by hot oil, aluminium and copper was French perfume to his nostrils. Other car maniacs his own age called for him with greasy hands, faces already endowed with pragmatism—knowing country faces. Outside the house they squatted like Aborigines around the dripping radiator of someone's Austin Seven stripped of mudguards, and standing they banged their post-adolescent buttocks against an unpàinted alloy bonnet held on with a leather strap. For hours they argued ponderously about specifications and the latest Formula One results, Shadbolt keeping one eye open for the usherette to appear in the front garden, or slowly enter the cul-de-sac after the last screening in town. At night they hurtled around corners on two wheels, converting right angles into curves.
Vern never inquired whether he was looking for work; enough that his presence remained in the house.
But for all his time spent with the maniacs it was the metal of the cars, not the maniacs, that held Shadbolt's interest. Realising this he studied the faces surrounding him and saw the distant, oblivious expressions as they argued. There was something temporary and unreliable about their repeated assertions which silenced him.
His loyalties remained with his uncle and their two best-friends. He listened, usually agreed and felt as one of them. In exchange for keeping the Wolseley spick and span, and mechanically A-l, Les offered him the car on Friday nights.
‘Aren't you going to say something?’
The familiar triumvirate nodded in the lounge room, a semicircle of approving aunts.
The boy's tongue—it should have been a man's by then— became tied. It was difficult to remain expressionless. To hand over the keys of a car: among the maniacs it represented the ultimate in friendship and trust. He'd do anything for these best-friends now! Grease and oilchange the car, run messages…
Some Friday nights he casually stayed home with Wheelright and Flies, and as they waited for Vern to stumble in from double-checking the entire Saturday edition he felt between his fingers the geometry of the Wolseley's keys—keys to an outer world of noise, speed and limitless space. Wheelright kept glancing at his watch as he tried concentrating on deciphering a pattern in his ‘preliminary findings’, while bolt upright in an armchair Les listened to the wireless, or merely studied the palms of his hands. Shadbolt turned the pages of the sea-mail edition of Autocar. Now and then one of them spoke.
‘Saw a strange tiling from the tram today,’ Flies usually began.
‘Oh, what was that?’…Wheelright asked, but remained staring at the Preliminary Findings. And gradually Shadbolt learnt more about his friends.
Flies, who saw life framed every day by the glass of his tram, casually mentioned he had every copy of Life magazine that had been printed. Stored in his bedroom the valuable pile ‘reached the ceiling’. And when Holden with a nostalgic lump rising in this throat announced from a partially digested proof that the national rain-seeding experiments were to cease, all the venomous frustrations of the hopelessly unreliable weather forecaster erupted as Wheelright banged his fist on the table.
‘I said at the time it'd never get off the ground.’
‘But, but…’ Shadbolt protested. It had always seemed like a good idea to him.
‘You can't frig around with nature,’ Flies joined in.
They turned to Vern for support. The various kinds of clouds were accordingly outlined. And what about the prevailing winds—did the rain-seeders ever think of that? You can't just turn nature off and on like a tap. Facing Shadbolt the three presented a united front, and with so many facts at their collective fingertips he back-pedalled, or rather, became confused. He changed the subject to one they were united on, the recent sightings of the usherette next door.
The diet that had grossly inflated his body growth and left him constipated imbued in him qualities of reliability. Twice daily he ‘chewed over information’. Nothing in the behaviour of men, or Amen, or the vagaries of nature, could surprise him, which is why he was hardly ever seen raising his eyebrows.
And then all thoughts of an obscure or unreliable type were systematically eliminated by his uncle—always there on red alert at his elbow to come down upon the slightest lapse, even before it formed in Shadbolt's mouth. Speaking in measured tones, and only when absolutely necessary, became a sign of reliability.
A sober view of the world was an asset, ‘it's as rare as hen's teeth,’ and when combined with the boy's diet-induced photographic memory it guaranteed him a place in the modern world. ‘You'll find that most people don't want to know the facts, they steer clear of them. And so they're never really believable. Be less like them and before you know it, manufacturers, etcetera, will come running after you, waving their cheque books.’ Again (Vern gesticulating among his statues): ‘Steer clear of other people's loose talk. Cut through the nonsense that's seen every day and spoken. Spare your words. There are already too many. The more you talk, the more errors you'll make. I say, is that a cicada on the wattle over there?’
With solid fact-particles as the foundation a person could grow and transmit knowledge and traffic opinions—and withstand the forces of criticism.
Waxing lyrical Vern appeared to speak on behalf of the silent statues. As Shadbolt ducked to avoid the ecstatic word-spray he fleetingly imagined the bronze arm of nearby Colonel Light moving to wipe its brow; such fanciful notions were precisely what his uncle preached against.
At the age of almost-nineteen and the golden horizon spread out before him he became aware of an encroaching, less definable world of softness and imprecision—the facts of life. His curiosity had turned towards girls developed into women, and vice versa, even when no girl-woman was in sight. He became conscious of the forms which existed beneath their words and vague clothing; and yet they eluded him. When the facts of life were revealed ceremonially he became still more confused; and he was attracted to the difficulty.
On a Friday night he'd been sliding the Wolseley sideways through the gorges in the Hills, the rock walls flickering in high-beam; almost had a head-on cutting a corner. Chastened, he dropped the other car maniacs off early. Entering the cul-de-sac he saw the usherette opening her gate. Fridays were her late night-shift. Unexpectedly, Vern's house was in complete darkness. Feeling for the switch inside his room a hand squashed his, ‘Shhhh’—Wheelright's instruction—and Vern's raincoated arm motioned to the chair. ‘Sit there.’ Les Flies could be made out, seated on the bed.
Almost simultaneously a light came on in the room facing them. They stared at the illuminated rectangle, as though waiting for the feature to start at the Regent. And that was a turn-up. For now—what's this?—the usherette moved into the frame and faced them, still in her turquoise uniform. Until then Holden didn't have a clue what they were doing there.
Without a flyscreen the figure was not fragmented. The flesh tones, eyes and mole on skin were clearly defined. The glass actually added a touch of moisture to the teeth and eyes. She began unpinning her hair. This was the signal for Vern. He moved to the window.
Les crossed his legs, Wheelright sighed and shifted in his chair.
The usherette had stepped out of her uniform. Next, her silvery slip formed a pool around her ankles. To Shadbolt she seemed to be removing bandages. Suddenly spilling out and spreading, her two soft things stabilised and held the boy in a liquid gaze. From then on, from whatever angle as she moved, they offered their intangible softness.
Barely above a whisper Vern nevertheless managed to lecture with characteristic enthusiasm. It could have been his vocation. He pointed with the ruler, a salesman of medical encyclopaedias occasionally turning to his audience.
‘The breasts of a fully developed woman… these, these… come in various sizes, are composed in the main of fatty tissue. These
here would be, I don't know—what would you say, Les?—above average size for the lass's weight and age? Right. They're common to all female mammals. Essentially they're there to manufacture and supply liquid nourishment to the offspring. What are these two brown, target-looking circles? If she'd just stop moving…there we are. We all have these in some form. They're even fitted to the chassis of cars. Am I right, Holden? These are a woman's nipples.’
Combing her hair the naked usherette had turned slightly. These nipples, Holden swallowed, looked nothing like the ones fitted at various points on cars.
‘Here's an interesting fact! You'll notice from this angle a woman's breast is comma-shaped. Why are they shaped like a comma? Everything in the world is connected to words. And the breasts of women, over the ages, have inspired words one after the other, strings of adjectives mostly.’ Vern mumbled, ‘That's the only reason I can think of.’
Shadbolt stared with his mouth open at the pale expanse: how the body before him was weighted and balanced differently to those of men seen only the other day on the semicircular beach. Faintly now he understood the function of high-heeled shoes. She had a snub nose and wide nostrils. Combing her hair she appeared to be smiling.
Tissue, muscle, glands, ducts and other technical terms went over Shadbolt's head. He wasn't listening.
The wand briefly touched on the navel.
Vern then pointed to the narrow waist and the wide hips.
‘We now enter the most unusual region. I don't think there can be any dispute about this. It's the distinguishing mark of the opposite sex. You know quite well what you and I have between our legs. Something solid. But here you'll notice there's nothing, at least nothing on the surface. This makes women…difficult to understand. You never know exactly where you stand with them.’ An embarrassed laugh. Hoarsely he said, ‘The spitting image of Tasmania.’
Shadbolt could not take his eyes off the powerful tangle which nevertheless revealed so little of itself. Wielding the ruler Vern had launched into the reproduction process: ‘There's a hole so narrow you can't see it. The male enters there, like so. Unfortunately, we don't have the woman's young friend here tonight…’
Shadbolt was amazed at the casual way she remained naked for so long.
‘The woman's legs are like parenthesis,’ the proofreader went on. There was the pudenda, the vagina, the cervix. And yet to Shadbolt, as he listened, the words seemed to describe something altogether separate. The softness remained untouched. As he stared and tried to work this out he felt the lump in his throat move down to his trousers.
From that moment on Shadbolt had an inordinate, irrational respect for women, all women, everywhere. When the light suddenly went out he felt stranded. He kept seeing the usherette although she was no longer there.
Removing his raincoat Vern said there were plenty of other facts of life he hadn't covered. They nodded, almost grimly. It would have to wait until next Friday night. Everyone agreed.
So Holden developed.
‘He's making a big name for himself, all right.’
‘One of these days I'm afraid he's going to come a cropper,’ Vern squinted up too. ‘He's never had his feet properly on the ground.’
‘With so many airlines in the future, the sky isn't going to be big enough,’ Wheelright predicted.
Angles of chance, lines of force…
The early fifties in Adelaide would long be remembered for the daily displays of sky-writing. It was all started by…Frank McBee. He figured it would be at least another ten years before every home had its television receiver. In the meantime, he had this hankering need to direct audio-visual messages to a captive population. The sky became his screen. There was this former flight sergeant with a toothbrush moustache and only one leg. Funny little chap. He only felt at home at high altitudes; down at earth he'd suffered a succession of broken marriages. McBee had slapped him on the back and bought him a drink to ease the pain at a bar near the aerodrome where the ashtrays were made out of pistons. ‘I say, old boy, spelling's not my strong point,’ was brushed aside. McBee shelled out for the conversion of a consumptive Tiger Moth. Within weeks the daredevil pilot became a household name, the precursor to the conventional TV star.
A clear sky was the first requirement. And no wind. Otherwise, a person's name or the brand-name of a washing machine could surreptitiously drift into that of the competitor's or, as once happened over the Easter weekend, Latin obscenities. Each morning the sky-writer phoned the Weather Bureau. Often Wheelright himself took the calls. ‘He sounded shy, surprisingly for that kind of maniac.’
The plane's petrol engine could be heard faintly rising and falling as it printed QUALITY USED CARS three miles wide followed by McBee's extroverted signature. Everybody in Adelaide enjoyed reading the white writing. Frank McBee wasn't so crass as to advertise himself only. Important sporting results were announced, and the first the population knew of Stalin's death, and the incredible conquest of Everest, in 1953, was when they gazed up and saw the ecstatic adjectives in the sky, courtesy F. McBee. Traffic came to a standstill, pedestrians kept colliding with each other. Which is why the infamous law banning any writing above the sacred geometry of Adelaide was rushed through by the ruling party, supported by the press and the small shopkeeping class.
Vern, the proofreader, stared critically now as the pilot shot an enormous javelin on McBee's behalf through a pulsating aerial heart, and alongside it lazily wrote ‘F. McB’ and—no, no!—misspelt the single syllable Christian-name of Shadbolt's mother. That hour happened to be the anniversary of the moment the unknown corporal had opened the flyscreen door of the widow's house. ‘There's a man of true feeling for you.’ Motorists and women hanging out the washing smiled: it could only be Frank McBee. And it did his business no harm at all.
Because he had taken to chewing gum McBee now had the lackadaisical look of someone permanently grinning. That's how he appeared the following morning, on the front page: ‘CAR DEALER FLIPS OVER SWEETHEART’.
Seated in front in the open cockpit the moustachioed pilot sheepishly wore the leather helmet and a necklace of war-disposal goggles, and looked slightly away.
No prizes for guessing who tipped off the waiting photographers.
‘You boys ever been in one of these fresh-air machines? It's like a motorbike that leaves the ground. You should have felt my guts turn turtle as we did the old loop and barrel-rolls. It felt the same—yes, sir, it was the same feeling in the pit of my stomach— as when I first set eyes on the lady of my life. And you can quote me on that.’
While the subject of Frank McBee acquired a special clarity to the population it became more confusing to Shadbolt.
Ever since he had seen with his own two eyes the facts of life he looked at Karen differently; he actually wondered how she shared the small house with Frank McBee. ‘He's the most active man in the Southern Hemisphere,’ their mother had answered a reporter through the screen door. ‘He's always on the move. I'm in the dark. I never know what he's up to from one day to the next, or what's on his mind.’ Mmmm.
Shadbolt noticed how his sister had grown tall and longlegged: and her legs kept scissoring violently as she sat on chairs or leaned against fenders under the street light. Some of McBee's restlessness had rubbed off. But when he casually asked questions about him Karen became dismissive. Her brother noticed too how she liked to hang around his car-maniac friends, the only girl there, and as they repeated their tall stories of speed and close shaves, she watched their lips with exaggerated interest, laughing and widening her eyes at just the right moment. When she wrist-wresded with one in particular, a lanky mechanic sporting nicotine on an index finger, Shadbolt to one side remained stone-faced.
Late at night he drove the Wolseley through the deserted streets to the gaping Hills, the little car responding well under his carbuncular wrists, now sprouting windswept hairs, while behind him on the slippery leather a talkative girl in a humid skirt submitted to the hectic experiments of one or somet
imes two of his mechanically minded friends, their muffled breathing and rustlings, snapping of elastic, sending the barometric lump in his throat down once again to his trousers. Hedges, intersections, painted fence posts. It was here while acting as chauffeur that Shadbolt first saw his sister bare chested. She was with the elongated mechanic. A passing tram strobed the back seat, and Shadbolt involuntarily glancing in the mirror saw her smeared face as she sat up, blouse open and peeled off the shoulders. Her body had the startled luminosity of a person caught by an usherette's torch; only, with such an expanse of paleness it seemed as if his sister was a light source herself.
Shadbolt kept his eye on the road as his thoughts rushed back to the usherette. The fuller nudity of the older woman eclipsed his sister's part-nakedness, her tentative breasts made fragile by car shadows. And when he glanced in the mirror to double-check she had disappeared again.
The Wolseley may have looked like any other car travelling along the road, Shadbolt thought, but there was plenty going on inside. He changed back to second. Elsewhere in the world, copulation, birth, marriage, death, and other educations, take place on the streets. While in Adelaide auto-eroticism…
With his newly acquired facts of life Shadbolt kept meeting the usherette in the mouth of the cul-de-sac, where there was no escape, or bumping into her at the tram stop. Since regularly seeing her at the window his distance from her had unaccountably, uncomfortably, shortened to mere arm's length.
