Holden's Performance

by Murray Bail

  The first time Shadbolt took a bus into the city the harbour appeared to be never-ending. It filled the hollows and gaps, water finding its own level, it leaked into the corners of his eyes whichever way he turned. Deep! The lapping mass glittered and penetrated, lapping at the descending layers of terracotta houses, submerging the boards of the wooden jetties, slap-slapping sullenly at rocks, a heavy mass, narrowing the main road into an isthmus. Water everywhere. It shortened the side streets into dead ends. Shadbolt noticed it right and left and straight ahead, the road climbing to escape it, and doglegged, only to return to it at the next bend; and always he felt its cooling properties, caressing his cheeks.

  From the bus he saw British saloons pulled to one side, their bonnets yawning steam as though it were a cold day in Coventry. In other cars people ate meals; they read newspapers; a radio, compass and revolving electric fan had been fitted to one; a lady sat bawling her eyes out in a bottle-green Rover; others were fast asleep; a penis rose up like an obscene gear lever; a couple laughed and laughed. Births and deaths intersected in the front seats of cars. Every few yards a navy blue mechanic stood in the sunlight chewing an apple. The epidemic of car-maniacs was merely obscured here by the omnipresence of the harbour and the variety of the terrain.

  Approaching the centre the traffic came to a halt. Too many cars and motorcycles and pedestrians all heading in the one direction. For Shadbolt it briefly recalled the dark photographs of refugees in Europe, pushing prams and overloading commandeered Citroens and carts, fleeing the war. Only here in Sydney people didn't wear the black overcoat and lace-up boots. A thin man passed on stilts, some jug-eared schoolboys looked into the bus with periscopes.

  He turned to a passenger, ‘Is the traffic always this crook?’

  ‘Don't you read the papers? It's a public holiday.’

  Joining the pedestrians he allowed himself to be carried along, bumping into others, one foot in the gutter.

  They swept across Sydney Harbour Bridge.

  The streets in the city centre are named after British monarchs, a British prime minister, Pitt, and the various inbred brothers, uncles and even fathers of British monarchs. The oldest street is George (King George III: but wasn't he half-blind, obese and insane?), and the morning Shadbolt arrived people stood twenty to thirty deep both sides along its entire length. Policemen on pirouetting horses had a devil of a job keeping order.

  Shadbolt would become a connoisseur of crowds; but not yet. This was by far the largest he'd seen. A steady hum reverberated and merged with the surrounding buildings; it tended to blur people's swaying senses. More and more people pressed from behind, and as the hour passed an anticipatory restlessness, beginning with the schoolchildren and the cripples in wheelchairs lining the front, ran back in waves like a wind or fire along grass, before stopping against solid matter, and then shifted again the other way. Standing patiently Shadbolt had no trouble looking over the heads and up the swept-clean street towards the Town Hall; and he was among the first to see the glitter of the slowly approaching black car. Almost simultaneously a murmur rushed towards him turning all heads, a murmur overlapping into a chatter of higher exclamatory voices, more like a rattle, everybody shifting forward an inch, multiplying and erupting into a clapping, a hoarse yelling and a cheering, figures swaying holding their first borns aloft, waving hankies, miniature Union Jacks or just their arms and fingers. As Shadbolt tried to remain in the one spot the torrent surged forward and back, mercury rolling across a table, pausing and stretching the elastic leading edge where policemen gritted their teeth and turned purple in the face.

  Shadbolt had consumed coundess grey-and-white images of the young Queen, but as she drew level, seated well back in the open Daimler, he was hypnotised by her pinkness—she'd burn to a frazzle if she stayed in Austryha—set off by the clarity of her neck, pale blue hat and raised hand. The immaculate black coach-work threw such details into relief: cunningly clever choice in duco. By then the worker-bees surrounding him wanted to cluster around their queen, their ecstatic scribbled faces and sticky hands strained forward again, and Shadbolt found himself waving frantically too, smiling desperately for the pale face to turn in his direction, and for even a fraction of a second to acknowledge his presence. As she passed, the bod in front turned with shining amazed eyes, and his nose, an unusual bulbous nose, registered to Shadbolt as one that had enveloped a ball.

  It was then he heard the voice.

  ‘Sheep, merino sheep! Look at you all. Grown-up people, making fools of yourselves. What are you all here for? Tell me that.’

  The push around Shadbolt hesitated.

  ‘That's right, you're all jungli, the lot of you. Wave to the Queen! Bow and scrape. She went thataway. Follow the leader. This mania for worship. Has anyone stopped to consider?’

  People began calling out and turning. It's a free country, but. Shadbolt felt the flow of the crowd dismantle into unpleasant elements. The way some grow indignant, others accept; Shadbolt glimpsed the force of the majority.

  ‘Why don't you pipe down? Etc. Who do you think you are? Don't go telling us what to do. So on. She's our Queen. Etc, etc. It's our Majesty you're talking about. One more word and—’

  The sea lining both sides of George Street had merged and surged towards the harbour, a steady mass from behind pressing against Shadbolt, knees and arms nudging him by degrees until without meaning to he faced the alien element: a small woman with glaring eyes. The twist of her neck and mouth reminded him of the woman he'd briefly seen in Manly looking over her shoulder, trying to park a car. Carried along against her will now, her chin merged with her throat, more in anger than fear. Tons of people inched forward from behind and she began to slip from view, barely an arm's length from Shadbolt.

  A face turned in mid-air, ‘Hold your horses, there's a lady here with a gammy leg.’

  Shadbolt felt something soft at his feet. Planting his legs apart he forced the flow to pass either side, a gum tree or a telegraph pole stemming a flood. And still the weight from behind gathered momentum, now causing people to trip forward on tiptoe, as if George Street ran downhill to the harbour, and he noticed panic opening people's faces, women screamed for their lost shoes and children; nevertheless, Shadbolt took his time and lifted the disabled woman by her elbow.

  To his surprise she hissed in his face.

  ‘Thank you, I can look after myself.’

  ‘What have you lost? I can get it.’

  ‘You're standing with your big foot on it.’

  A wheeling movement in the crowd made her hold onto his lapels. He and she became pressed together. In contrast to the frailty of her breasts and hips he felt—what's this?—the metal of a calliper against his leg.

  ‘What are you staring at?’

  ‘Are you all right?’ All he could do was concentrate on the part in her hair. ‘Don't worry. This won't last forever. It'll sort itself out.’

  Other castaways had accumulated on his elbows and coat tails. It took all his strength not to topple over, taking everybody with him.

  Then just as suddenly the pressure subsided; space appeared between people; hands let go of his clothing. Bending down he collected her rubber-heeled walking stick.

  ‘Everything OK? Or do you need a hand?’

  He saw her face consisted of a series of interlocking quadrants—nostrils, wide mouth, eyes—and the distortion below her waist had given extra strength of character, transmitting as obstinate curved surfaces.

  She wore sensible shoes and trousers.

  ‘Don't worry yourself about me. I know how to get home.’

  Then there was this slowly receding back view: polio-twisted legs and hips giving a carnal bulge to her buttocks and shoulder-blades. Shadbolt remained staring, ready to blow his nose or something in case she turned. If he had seen her somewhere before it must have been obscured or at mid-distance.

  On his return to Manly Shadbolt went over again the peaches-and-cream profile of Her Majesty, which had activ
ated the compression of hats and haircuts into an almost violent momentum of tiptoeing legs and elbows, and took no notice of his own exemplary behaviour—in what could have been a nasty situation.

  In separate accounts to the landlady and Vern he faithfully described the crippled woman behind him calling everybody ‘merino sheep’, but he downplayed his part in her downfall. Mrs Younghusband had a biological weakness for royalty. It showed in her habit of dangling most of her wealth on her wrists, fingers and ear-lobes (and there was that black diamond on her nose). Weighted down and jingling while peeling potatoes she hung on every word, interrupting only to ask the absolutely fundamental questions.

  ‘She's as white as a sheet,’ Shadbolt supplied a cosmetic point, ‘she wouldn't last five minutes on the beach.’ He added the proviso, Vern's training: ‘But I only saw her for a second.’

  Mrs Younghusband respected such demonstrations of reliability. A Manly boarding house becomes a catchment for all kinds of wreckage. Shadbolt's solemn naivety she found refreshing. And unlike the others this one seemed to like sitting down and listening to her. To let him know she was enjoying herself she broke into crystal-peals of laughter over nothing, and asked him questions when he made for the door. At meals she ostentatiously ladled extra helpings onto his plate, even though he didn't yet have a job.

  ‘This one's got his whole life ahead of him,’ she explained to herself and others.

  In a few weeks, Manly by the sea assumed the worn appearance of familiarity; and Shadbolt turned more to the Epic Theatre. Inside there it was a real pleasure to settle back in the warmth of a delicately creaking bucket seat. It felt like driving the Wolseley at night, his thoughts channelled into the illuminated road in front. And unlike Manly which had stabilised into solid architectural details, the screened images flickering before him were constantly changing, each one revealing a powerful story. Even after a dozen times there was always something interesting to see: expressions, postures, many varieties of small movements to scrutinise.

  Besides, he felt drawn to the master of ceremonies, Screech. In the semi-dark his luminous legs could be seen wading back up the aisle after he'd directed patrons to their seats, or else he'd be in the glass booth selling tickets, and tearing them in halves at the door. He told Shadbolt he did all his own maintenance, including plaster work and light-bulb replacement. Keeping the show on the road was almost too much for one man. ‘Lift your eyes for a second. Consider the height of my bloody ceilings.’

  Appearing on stage on the hour he spoke without notes or nervousness, taking as a starting point an item he'd read in the morning's papers. Among the favoured topics: what can we learn from Germany; me-tooism; why a PM should never be ahead (get it?) of his time; and always weaved into this the central notion that every man, woman and child were part of an ongoing epic. He also had strong views on the electric chair, beards and the merits of listening to arias in the dark. So softly did he talk, people had to sit perfectly still to catch his pearls. He gave an impression of not standing there on stage, but leaning on the mantelpiece of every Tom, Dick and Harry's loungeroom, and the opinions he peddled were the most natural in the world. Curious combination—horizontal voice from a nondescript figure with socks down around the ankles: it gave his words a force out of all proportion. When ordinariness becomes extreme it can be attractive.

  The years of operating in semi-darkness had left Alex Screech flour-skinned. The closest comparison would have to be the Queen with her peaches-and-cream in the Austrylian light; but with Screech the burdens of office had introduced a shadow line, roughly dividing his face down the middle. If Shadbolt needed a mnemonic it was a misfitting sump gasket. The vertical division gave Screech a slightly untidy appearance. Bisecting his mouth it targeted his words, audio-visually, and so made his sentences seem even more horizontal. Otherwise, it was a more or less ordinary face.

  All this showed in close-up in the foyer where daylight angled in through the glass doors, and faded a large block of carpet. Strands of hair fell across Screech's forehead as scratches. He ran his tongue over his lips. He hitched up his wrinkled shorts on his hips. And when the proprietor began making a habit of talking to him, singling him out, Shadbolt felt an onrush of irrational obedience. No one else in Manly had taken much notice of him.

  Shadbolt developed a habit of standing at Screech's elbow as he took the tickets, and if he spotted the Movietone truck double-parked out the front he'd help the bloke lug in the collaged canisters of film; Shadbolt had plenty of time on his hands. He became so comfortable in the Epic Theatre he felt he didn't have to say anything.

  On days when the newsreels were changed, or during some world-shattering event, and on Thursdays, when people cashed their pension cheques, the stalls became more than half-full. On Saturdays tilings could even get out of hand, what with the influx of out-of-towners, bored or half-drunk out of their minds, often a combination of two.

  One Thursday afternoon Screech said with his mouth full, ‘I've been watching you, I've been keeping my eyes open. And I like what I see. It's your attitude. There's no mucking about with you. You get on with it. That's good, that's good. I'm a judge of character, I can depend on you. You're not one of those slack bodgie types who leave chewing gum on the seats and who've never done a fucking day's work in their lives. (If I ever catch one of them at it I'll boot him right up the arse.) I'd like you to help me more. Could you give me a hand? I know, I know. You already are. And I'm bloody well grateful. But it's time you were put on the payroll.’

  All in the slow, quiet voice, muffled as he took another bite. Turning to his man he had to look up.

  He took another bite.

  ‘You're not like everybody else, I knew it the minute I saw you. You've got a relaxed attitude to darkness and light. That's unusual. It's a completely black-and-white world in here. Most people can't handle it. It's like being in a coal mine with a football crowd. There's a slope on the floor. A man's got to watch his step. It's not everybody's cup of tea. But you're at home there. Have you ever considered that? I also think you believe in what I'm doing here. Here's your first week's wages.’

  Unable to talk, Shadbolt appeared to need a shove in the right direction. That was always his trouble; the problem.

  ‘We trust each other, that's the main thing. And take a look at yourself: Christ Almighty, you're built like a Sherman tank. I want you here as a bouncer. That's what I want out of you. The direction this god-forsaken society of ours is heading means there's going to be trouble—disturbances, and the like—in the near-future. I can feel it in my bones. Everybody's got too much confidence. Besides, the cricket season finishes next weekend and whole mobs of ratbags'll be coming from the bush for their usual shindig. It happened last year. At the first sign of hooliganism, smart alecks giving lip when I'm public-speaking, or anyone eating meat pies in the stalls, or not standing up for our national anthem, I want you to march down the aisle and turf the bastards out. Here's your torch.

  ‘I want you to keep your eyes open for pervs. Only the other day some Errol Flynn-type had a young redhead in G row with both her tits hanging out. I had my own hands full, I couldn't do a bloody thing. She just smiled at me. What's the world coming to? Some people like to bring their animals in. I don't want to see a single pooch in the theatre. Before you know it they'll lay a turd on the carpets. In the afternoons you'll find old codgers falling asleep, and snoring even. They must think this is a bloody library or something. Take it easy with them, but I want you to lead them out.’

  Shadbolt nodded. The job sounded a breeze.

  ‘When you go down the aisle you'll have to crouch, otherwise your skull will show on the screen. You did tell me, but what's your first name again? Good. Put it here. Call me Alex from now on.

  Shadbolt stood there blinking. To actually be paid to be inside the pleasure-palace where he wanted to be anyway; to have the apparent friendship of the proprietor and the news of the world running non-stop in front of him, for free. He couldn't
believe his ears.

  The next day he put on a narrow bow tie and an electric-blue blazer, which matched the carpet (‘so they won't see you coming’), and in the footsteps of the Adelaide usherette embarked on his career with such solemn application he was told at mid-morning by Screech, who let out a laugh of disbelief, to take it easy. The spectre of Shadbolt slinking about like Lon Chaney almost on all fours gave members of the audience a start, especially the incontinent septuagenarians who monopolised the aisle seats.

  In daylight hours the audience accurately reflected the demography of Manly. That's to say, it consisted of pensioners—Screech offered them cut rates—and there was little to attract the eagle eye of the bouncer. Shadbolt found then he could take time off to carry our minor repairs, such as replacing dud 40-watt globes in the mauve sign, EXIT, and constantly tightening the screws in an irritating seat which creaked under the slightest weight, reminding him of a certain floorboard outside his mother's bedroom in Adelaide. And whenever he glanced up he saw the enlarged image of a public figure in some foreign city, and—he would never get used to his height—the silhouette of his own head and shoulders which produced hisses and catcalls from the cranky old audience. He made tea and handed a mug through the plywood door to the invisible projectionist; Screech drank his out of the saucer on the run.

  When things were quiet they shared a ham sandwich in the office, the proprietor sticking his feet up on the desk in an excessive display of informality. It encouraged trust. Sinking his teeth into the sandwich Screech recalled some of the bloody women he had known. Even here he managed to sheet back his experiences to the all-embracing term, Epic, because ‘Every Prick Is Cuntstruck’. He had little trouble triggering in Shadbolt a feathery grinning inside, almost blurting out laughter—barely containing it—at Screech's oblivious rolling on of rubbery words, and his deployment of swear words.

  The slightest sign of familiarity turned Shadbolt clumsy. He usually got around it by fixing his eye on the circular ashtray made by the manufacturer of car tyres. But in allowing Screech every extremity Shadbolt became implicated. It was the old story. He found himself nodding, too eagerly. And there was nothing he could do about it. Alex needed an audience. He talked about anything that came into his head. He revealed his operational secrets, ‘I screen my projectionists very carefully. So many are practising anarchists. They sit alone in their little rooms and see the world in terms of shadows. I've had the buggers trying to sabotage my programmes. I never trust a projectionist. I keep tabs on them.’