The Nest

by Paul Jennings

  Not long after that she says, ‘I’m going to buy you a watch for your birthday. That old diving watch is real cheap and it has the brass showing through.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘That’s real nice of you.’ She was kind that way, she was.

  ‘What sort would you like?’ she says.

  ‘Well, an explorer’s watch with three or four small dials showing the altitude and the diving depth and which way’s north. It can tell the time too, if you want,’ I added for a joke. ‘But don’t get gold. I don’t go for gold on men.’

  Soon after that Emily goes, ‘Why don’t you get some pointy shoes? Italian. All the guys are wearing them. Those boots aren’t cool these days.’

  ‘Give me a break,’ I say. ‘I’m in a rock band.’

  ‘Just for special occasions,’ she goes. ‘When you take me out.’

  Well, I can tell you they weren’t cheap, those shoes. And they weren’t comfy. But I bought them because I didn’t want her going off me, like. I mean, if she dropped me and started going with that Michael guy, I would have died.

  Not too long after this we’re at the beach. ‘You know, Gordon,’ she says, ‘your shoulders are a bit hairy. You should get them waxed.’

  ‘Waxed?’

  ‘Yes, you’ll be nice and smooth,’ she says. ‘I admire that in a man. Michael is smooth.’

  So there I am as embarrassed as hell lying on a bench in a beauty salon. This sheila all dressed in white is tearing at my shoulders with a strip of cloth covered in some sort of hot goo. Gawd, this time it did hurt. Not that I’m a wimp, mind you.

  But anyways, not to worry. It was my birthday and when I got home Emily presents me with my lovely watch. It was flat and thin with a single dial and a case made of gold. Must have cost a packet. She was generous that way was Emily.

  Well, by now you are getting the picture. It’s not long before I have a slick haircut. And a business shirt and tie.

  ‘You look great,’ says Emily. ‘Michael is younger than you but you’re much more handsome than him with that new haircut.’

  It’s funny but every time she mentioned his name I got jealous. I couldn’t help it. But I didn’t say anything because she would crack the sads.

  All this happened over about six months. I was gradually changing into someone else. Maybe I was turning into a guy who works in an office. But I didn’t care that much. I was crazy about Emily. It was worth it to look how she wanted me to. And I mean, that guy, Michael – he was always in the back of my mind. Emily kept on telling me how great he was. Even if nothing ‘physical’ was happening.

  Finally I’m getting around to the big one. You guys must have seen it coming.

  ‘I’ve been invited to a wedding,’ says Emily. ‘One of my friends. I want you to take me.’

  ‘No worries,’ I say.

  ‘But you’ll have to get a suit,’ says Emily. ‘Otherwise I’ll ask Michael to take me. You understand, don’t you? You couldn’t go to a Toorak wedding in that old bomber jacket. I’d be so embarrassed.’

  I hung my head. ‘I could hire a suit, I suppose,’ I said.

  Emily shook her head. Gawd, she had lovely hair. ‘Buy one,’ she said. ‘Then you can wear it when we go out. All the guys have got pin-striped suits. It’s the look.’

  Oh man, I suffered. Oh shit, I agonised. It was awful. I didn’t want to let her down but I couldn’t afford a suit. On the other hand I couldn’t stand the thought of that wimp Michael taking her to the wedding. I couldn’t borrow that much dough either. And I didn’t have a thing I could sell. Well, that ain’t quite true. In the end I went to a second-hand shop. I couldn’t believe the words that was coming out of my cakehole.

  ‘How much will ya give me for the jacket?’

  ‘Well, look,’ goes the guy in the shop. ‘It’s well worn. And old. But these bomber jackets are sought after these days. I could go a hundred bucks.’

  So that’s how me and my old bomber jacket were parted. I bought meself a pin-striped suit to go with my smooth shoulders and slick haircut and the pointy shoes and the gold watch and the business shirt and tie. But it was worth it for Emily. Wasn’t it?

  I looked at myself in the mirror. Ya couldn’t pick me from a real business executive.

  I made up me mind to go and wait for Emily outside her work. To surprise her with my new suit and stuff. On the way I met Possum. He plays lead guitar in our band.

  His eyes nearly popped out when he saw me in my new gear. Then he looked sad. ‘Listen man,’ he said. ‘The guys have asked me to talk to you. It’s about the band. You’re losing your touch. You’re not playing wild any more. We was wondering whether you still wanted to play with us. Like … well, you know …’

  His voice trailed off. I caught sight of meself in the window of a bank. Some other guy stared back at me – Bank Man. I felt as if I’d got stones in my pockets and was sinking to the bottom of a deep well.

  I gave Possum a rough shove. ‘Come and have a drink, mate,’ I said.

  We walked over the road to The Pig and Whistle and I ordered two beers. Right at that moment I caught sight of someone I thought I recognised. A wild-looking guy in jeans and boots with scruffy hair. For a sec I thought it was me. He was wearing an old diving watch and … and … wait for it … my bomber jacket!

  I couldn’t believe it. Who was this guy? I knew I’d seen him before.

  ‘Michael!’ I yelled.

  ‘Gordon!’ he screamed.

  ‘What are ya dressed up like that for?’ I asked.

  ‘Trying to keep up with you, old son. Emily wanted to go to a rock concert. Told me that if I wouldn’t look the part, she’d get you to take her. I was as jealous as hell. Even though she told me you were just a friend. Nothing …’

  ‘Physical?’ I said.

  He nodded.

  Knowingly.

  We just stood there looking at each other for a few seconds. Guys in the pub started to gather around. They could sense a fight.

  ‘Same for me,’ I said. ‘Only it was a wedding.’

  ‘You look like an idiot in that suit, old chap,’ he said.

  ‘And you’re a total dork in that bomber jacket, mate. Where did ya get it?’

  ‘Emily found it in a second-hand shop. I was planning to buy a new one but she came up with this.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ I said.

  We stared at each other like two boxers squaring up. But each of us was thinking. Big thoughts.

  Suddenly he bent down and pulled off his boots. He threw them at me. One hit me in the chest. ‘You can have these, old sport,’ he yelled.

  I ripped off the pointy Italian shoes. ‘And you can have these, mate.’ I threw them at him. He caught both of ’em easily.

  I started to pull down the pin-striped pants. Everyone in the bar gaped. They thought it was hilarious. I dropped me pants and threw them at his feet. He grinned and had the jeans off in half a second. The whole pub roared as we began to strip.

  ‘You can have the pin-striped pants,’ I yelled.

  ‘And you can have the jeans.’

  ‘You can have the bloody gold watch.’

  ‘And you can have the ratty old diving monstrosity.’

  ‘You can have the coloured shirt and tie.’

  ‘And you can have the black T-shirt.’

  Then came the big one.

  ‘You can have the pin-striped suit coat.’

  There was no pause at all.

  ‘And you can have this worn-out bomber jacket.’

  In no time at all we were dressed as we should be.

  He was himself. And so was I.

  There was only one thing more. We both yelled exactly the same words at each other at exactly the same time.

  ‘And you can have Emily!’

  Oh, how we laughed.

  You should have been there. It was so good, mate. So good.

  I just can’t tell ya.

  THE NEST

  5

  Dad’s already in the worksh
op when I return from putting the story under Verushka’s door. He has a lot of work due out today and he’s getting an early start. I suddenly remember I didn’t put Mum’s hairbrush away before I went out. Oh, hell, what if he went in my room? It’s the sort of thing he does. Snooping. I race upstairs to look for it. It’s gone. I rush down and find Dad sitting at his desk in the workshop.

  ‘Where’s Mum’s hairbrush?’ I shout at him.

  He turns around on his swivel chair and looks at me with steely eyes. He reaches into a drawer, takes out the brush and hands it to me. I snatch it back and though I have it safe and sound something’s changed – the strands of Mum’s hair have gone. What’s wrong with him? Why on earth did he take the brush and clean it and then give it straight back?

  ‘Do you hate her so much that you have to get rid of every trace?’ I yell.

  ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that,’ he says in a low, menacing voice.

  I’m left feeling foolish. I almost apologise for shouting at him but some instinct tells me that I’ve been wronged and that it’s he who owes me an apology. And an explanation. I’m sick of him shutting down every time I mention my mother. I’m entitled to know. She is my mother.

  I take a breath and try to sound normal. ‘Why doesn’t Mum ever send me a birthday present or even a card? She could be dead for all I know.’

  ‘Not this again,’ he moans. ‘I’ve told you a hundred times: don’t ask about the past. What’s gone is gone.’

  ‘I want to find her. Dad, I know it hurts you but I have a right. I’m old enough to handle the truth.’

  ‘If she cared about you she’d have contacted you by now. Don’t go on about it.’

  ‘Where did she go? She must have told you where she is now.’

  ‘How would I know? I looked everywhere for the bitch. She’s with another man probably. She was a … flirt.’

  Bitch. Flirt. I’m stung by his words and I let him see it.

  ‘She went because you’re a cold-hearted bastard.’

  His voice is controlled and his words deliberate. ‘I told you. It wasn’t me she left, Robin. It was you. Crying and screaming every night. It got her down. She was always tired and miserable. She couldn’t hack it. She wanted the good life. She was in the Polar Bare Club all the time. She didn’t want a child.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ I shout. ‘She loved me.’

  I know that he knows he’s gone too far.

  ‘Don’t go on about her, Robin. It just brings it all back. She really hurt me. She left me. She left you. Some people are just hopeless and she’s one of them. If she came back you wouldn’t like her. If you really care about me you’ll never mention her name again.’

  I feel as if I’m tumbling down a dark, deep hole.

  ‘I think you drove her away,’ I say more quietly now. ‘You told her to go.’

  I’m expecting rage. I’m expecting shouting. Maybe he’ll hit me. He never has but who knows what he could do if he snapped? I must get my own violence from somewhere. Finally he says, ‘Okay, you asked for it.’

  He walks back to the little nook where he hid the hairbrush, pulls a bunch of keys out of his pocket and slides up the lid of his rolltop desk. Inside are papers and cheque books and a carved wooden box. He unlocks the box, takes out a faded envelope and extracts a letter. It’s a single page, folded once. He hands it to me and I stare at the elegant handwriting.

  All this time he’s had a letter from her and he’s kept it from me! These words on the paper are her words. Her fingers held the pen that traced out every letter. Her hand made the fold. I tremble as I read the short message from the past:

  Alan,

  It’s all too much. I’m leaving you. Don’t try to find us because I have taken steps to make sure you can’t. I’ll contact you when we’re settled. You will be much happier without me. There is nothing more to say except goodbye.

  Miranda

  ‘See,’ I cry. ‘She says it’s all too much. You’re her husband. You’re the guilty one.’ I’m trembling because this is something concrete, something to latch on to. And because it makes mention of me.

  ‘It says “us. Don’t try to find us”. She wouldn’t leave me with you. She took me with her.’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he says. ‘Listen to what I’m saying. I’ve been trying to protect you. She went off with another man, Robin. She left us for one of her boyfriends. I didn’t want to tell you. But you just had to know the truth. And now you do. I came home one day to find that note. All her things were gone.’

  Another man? I don’t believe him. He’s a liar. I don’t trust him at all. She wouldn’t leave me for a lover.

  ‘It says “I will contact you”,’ I tell him.

  ‘Well, she hasn’t, has she? That says it all. She doesn’t give a sparrow’s fart about either of us.’

  ‘I’m going to find her and then we’ll see.’ My voice is rising again. So is his.

  ‘Just stop for a minute, Robin. Think. Who feeds you? Who’s here for you? Who pays the bills? Who’s slaving away night and day? What about me? What about giving something back to me? What’s she ever done for you? She’s a tramp. She abandoned you.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ I yell. I pick up a screwdriver and wave it at him.

  His face turns white and little veins stand out on his nose. For a second I think he might burst a blood vessel. Or I will. He draws a breath as if he’s about to rush into battle but then he pauses. ‘What are you going to do with that? Stab me?’ He gives a scornful laugh.

  The world is spinning. My hands are trembling. I throw the screwdriver to the ground as if it’s a live snake and charge out into the fresh, clean air of a beautiful mountain morning.

  And bump straight into Verushka. She’s holding my manuscript. She takes three or four pages of my story, rips them in half and then throws them into the air. The torn pages fall to the ground like dead butterflies. She throws down the remaining pages and stamps them into the snow.

  ‘You creep,’ she screams. She turns and sweeps off across the slope.

  After the exchange with my father, her rage seems nothing at all. It’s strange really. I start to laugh. I laugh and laugh until my stomach hurts. I’m hysterical. The story did the trick for me – it put Verushka into perspective. Writing is the only thing that seems to save me from going crazy.

  I rush back up to my room, turn on the computer and begin to write. I don’t know what the story will be about but something will come. My fingers start tapping and the words The Birds appear on the screen.

  Over the next two weeks, Dad seems even more distant than usual. In fact he’s acting really weird. He’s been closing the workshop every day. When I get home from school it’s always locked up. He comes home late on the Ski-Doo and he’s evasive about where he’s been.

  But what’s he up to? I’m intrigued. I learn a little more the next time I walk across the slope to fetch the mail. The post office consists of one tiny window at the back of the ski-hire business, which is quite handy because it’s open on weekends. Lovely old Mary and Don Baker handle all the mail on the mountain, and it’s Mary who lets me into a bit of the mystery.

  ‘Is your dad off birdwatching again?’ she asks.

  ‘What?’ I say. ‘He’s not the slightest bit interested in birds. He wouldn’t care if every single one disappeared from the face of the earth.’

  ‘Well, according to Don, he’s been up near the mine looking for swallows.’

  ‘Really? In the snow?’

  ‘That’s what he said when they bumped into each other in the forest. They had a discussion about birds and the best sort of binoculars for spotting them.’

  I’m at a loss. I don’t like the sound of it. I try to laugh it off. ‘He must be turning into a greenie,’ I say.

  ‘Like you,’ she laughs. ‘And your friend Charlie.’

  Mrs Baker’s always calling me a greenie because I once signed a petition to keep snowmobiles out of the state forest even though my
part-time job is helping Dad repair them. My stomach contracts at the sound of Charlie’s name. She’s a real greenie.

  Mrs Baker hands me a bundle of letters. ‘None for you, Robin. Mostly bills by the look of it. Hey, are you okay? You look worried.’

  I shove the letters into my pocket. ‘I’m fine, Mrs B. Just trying to imagine my dad birdwatching, that’s all.’

  Back home in my room I put the last touches to my story. It just needs a little editing, so I’m soon finished with it. When I get a spare moment I’ll take it to some quiet place in the bush and read over it. I slip the printed manuscript into a plastic sleeve, fold it and put it in my parka pocket. The letters from the post office are still there. I take them out and shuffle through them. They’re all windowpane envelopes except for one sealed letter. It’s addressed to my father. I turn it over and read the name of the sender: George and Sanderson Pathology Laboratory, 22/530 Spring Street, Mowbray.

  Goosebumps form on my arms as I take in the word ‘pathology’. Is my dad ill? Is that why he gave me that hug? What if he has cancer or some other dreadful disease? Is that why he’s off on the Ski-Doo, living it up on his last few days?

  Outside, I hear the workshop door open and slam closed again. He’s returned. I take the stairs two at a time and hurry to the workshop with the letters.

  ‘You packed up early,’ he says accusingly. ‘As soon as I’m out of sight …’

  ‘Mail,’ I say, interrupting him and shoving the letters towards him.

  He takes the mail to his desk to read and I trail behind. ‘What’s that one?’ I say as he opens the letter from the pathology laboratory.

  He turns ashen as he reads it.

  ‘It’s personal,’ he grunts.

  ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No.’

  He puts the letter in the wooden box where he keeps his documents and locks it in the rolltop desk.

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’ he says, closing the conversation for good.