A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘No. What did you say?’

  ‘A dog.’ I decided to keep my sentences short in the hope that the fewer the words, the foggier the meaning. Plus I mumbled. Maybe Mum would say ‘yes’ if she thought I was asking for a log. You want a log, Rob? Go for your life. Or a cog. Or a bog. Or a hog. Okay, maybe not a hog.

  ‘Are you insane?’ said Mum.

  ‘Is that a trick question?’ I replied.

  ‘Did you just ask for a dog?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You are insane!’

  I put the peeled carrot into a pan and picked up another. To be honest, I was very careful in my handling. Mum’s comments about vegetables had scared me a little. What if they did feel pain? What if this carrot was silently screaming, Please don’t strip off my skin with a sharp blade clearly designed for the purpose of torturing, not just me, but my friend the potato and other sundry tubers? What sick mind could design that implement? I gritted my teeth and continued peeling. Mum could top and tail them. That was, for me, a bridge too far.

  ‘It’s not really a dog,’ I said.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Dad. He was in charge of the gravy. ‘I thought you asked if you could have a dog. You know, a canine.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mum.

  We all chuckled at the misunderstanding.

  ‘I apologise,’ I said. ‘What I should have said was, can I please have a fluffy bundle of rubbish?’

  *

  Agnes asked if she could come with me on my after-school walk with Trixie and I was happy to agree. It was basically her dog, after all, and it’s not like I was a stranger to walking around town with an old person in tow.

  If I’d ever cared about street credibility (which I hadn’t), it’d been destroyed a long time ago.

  ‘You’ll have to stop regularly and let me catch my breath,’ she said. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be.’

  I scratched my head. ‘Neither am I,’ I said. ‘Do you know anyone who is?’

  ‘You’re like your grandfather,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Fair point.’

  We walked for an hour, but that included multiple stops while Agnes caught her breath. In a sense, we were lucky. It was that time of the afternoon between school finishing and people coming home from work, so there weren’t many dog-walkers on the streets. This pleased Trixie who, and I think I might have mentioned this before, took the presence of another dog as a personal insult.

  Trixie was at least an equal-opportunity bully. In the absence of dogs, she went for people. Anyone who came within snarling distance.

  ‘What’s her problem?’ I asked Agnes.

  ‘She’s a fluffy bundle of rubbish,’ Agnes replied. ‘To her, all the rest of the world is a problem.’ She stopped and fanned herself, even though it wasn’t very hot. ‘You know,’ she added, ‘I find that dog both annoying and adorable in turn.’

  I opened my mouth, but Agnes held up a hand.

  ‘Annoying, because … well.’ She sighed. ‘She finds everything irritating. I’m old, Rob, and I take pride in being irritable. I’ve earned the right over many years and no one is going to take it away from me. Everyone should have a hobby. But I can’t keep up constant irritation. It’s too exhausting.’

  ‘And adorable?’ I prompted.

  ‘Adorable, because she sees no limit on her power and ability. Look at her.’ I did. The dog was in one of her more frenzied states, possibly because a very large man was crossing the road half a kilometre ahead of us. He might have been a sumo wrestler and was therefore fair game for a terrier that wouldn’t tip five kilos on the scales. C’mon, coward, she seemed to be snarling. Give it your best shot, punk. I can take you.

  ‘She’s delusional,’ I said.

  Agnes started walking again.

  ‘Or a suffragette,’ she said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A suffragette,’ said Agnes. ‘You know what a suffragette is?’

  ‘Yes. We did a politics unit last semester. A suffragette was a woman who campaigned for equal rights, particularly getting the vote, at a time when women were thought to be second-class citizens.’

  Agnes was blowing pretty hard. She put a hand across her chest.

  ‘Do you mind if we sit on that bench for a while, Rob?’

  It took a couple of minutes before she could speak again.

  ‘Yes. That’s what a suffragette was. And some would say women are still considered second-class citizens. But you don’t understand the odds a suffragette faced back then. She had no power, no influence. No one cared what she thought, because the world was run by men. Still is, unfortunately. So no one was on her side, except some other women. Not all, I’m sad to say, but some. Yet, despite those massive handicaps, they changed the world.’

  I kept silent. This was interesting and, anyway, I got the impression Agnes was talking more to herself than anything.

  ‘That’s why I love this dog. She doesn’t care she has no power. She’s not the slightest bit bothered that the odds are stacked against her. She howls and gnashes against the status quo and who’s to say she won’t be successful in the long term?’

  ‘So Trixie’s a feminist?’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Agnes. ‘And feminists are the world’s best people.’

  ‘Trixie’s a dog,’ I pointed out.

  ‘You’re like your grandfather,’ said Agnes.

  ‘No need to insult me,’ I said.

  ‘He’s not all bad,’ said Agnes. ‘Where’s your respect?’

  I kept quiet. Sometimes it’s important to cut your losses when there’s no chance of winning an argument.

  ‘A fluffy bundle of rubbish?’ said Mum.

  ‘Or a feminist,’ I said. ‘Possibly a suffragette. Depends which definition you prefer.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  Grandad got up from the couch and straightened a picture on the wall. He cocked his head to check the angle, then sat down again. Even that small movement left him slightly breathless.

  ‘What? After I saw your grandmother for the first time?’

  ‘Yes. Pop! You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Well, I picked up her groceries and helped her re-pack them. Then I believe I tipped my hat to her and wished her a good morning. She thanked me. At least I think she thanked me, but it was half a century ago so my memory could be playing tricks.’

  Granddad got up again and opened a door in the cabinet that housed his television. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen the TV on, but he must watch it sometimes. Granddad knows more about what’s going on in the world than anyone I know. He reached into the cabinet and pulled out the chess set. ‘Fancy a game, Rob?’ he said.

  ‘Only if you let me win,’ I said. We’d now played many times and I’d never won a game. Not once. Not even close. This isn’t really surprising because I’m thirteen, Pop is older than God’s dog and therefore has a massive advantage. When he was growing up he probably only had chess to play. My generation has computers. I should challenge him to a first-person shooter game on my console. Then again, knowing Granddad’s competitive streak, he’d probably beat me.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ said Granddad.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You need to understand one thing,’ said Pop, returning to the settee and setting up the board. ‘I will never, ever let you beat me at chess. You could be dying of leukaemia, as bald as your father, with an hour left to live and I wouldn’t let you win. I’d crush you. And then I’d taunt you about it while you took your dying breath.’

  ‘Fine words, Grandad,’ I said. ‘You’re making me tear up.’

  ‘You wouldn’t want me to let you win,’ said Pop.

  ‘Yes, I would,’ I said. ‘I just told you that.’

  ‘And what would such
a victory be worth? Tell me that, young Rob.’

  ‘It would mean I’d beaten you for once.’ I placed my white queen on the white space at the back of the board. ‘That’s important to me now. If I was about to take my last breath it would mean even more.’

  ‘No,’ said Grandad.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  The board was set up and I moved my king’s pawn a couple of spaces forward. Grandad mirrored my move.

  ‘You remember your soccer game?’ he said.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What if I told you every member of that opposition team deliberately didn’t try? That I had been in touch with them before the game and offered them fifty bucks each not to try.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you?’ You could never tell with Grandad.

  He waved a hand.

  ‘Of course not. But answer my question.’

  I didn’t want to because I knew where the conversation was going. Achievements aren’t worthy of the name unless they’re a genuine result of talent and commitment. Undeserved victory would taste like ashes in the mouth. I knew all this, even as I moved a knight forward and took another step towards inevitable defeat.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Answer my question. When did you see my grandmother next?’

  Grandad saw Bella again in late 1967. He was walking through Darling Harbour with a couple of mates – the first time he’d been back in those intervening years, he said – when he saw a woman on the other side of the street. Maybe it was because she wasn’t moving and everything else was, but his eyes were drawn to her.

  Or maybe it was destiny.

  He stopped. His mates kept going. Pop gazed at Bella and the world went about its business without either of them. For a while, neither moved. Then he walked over; she stayed still. Even when he stood a matter of centimetres from her, she didn’t react.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She didn’t smile. She shifted her weight onto her right hip and cocked her head to one side. Grandad thought she cocked her head, but he couldn’t be one hundred per cent certain. But he remembered her next words exactly.

  ‘I’ve waited five years,’ she said. ‘Where have you been, you mongrel?’

  ‘Checkmate,’ said Pop.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said. ‘You’ve crushed a thirteen-year-old and I hope you’re proud of yourself.’

  ‘I am,’ he said. ‘I beat you in twenty-five moves, which I think is my best result against you.’

  ‘If I was taking my last breath, your victory would be even sweeter,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Rob,’ said Grandad. ‘Don’t be childish.’

  ‘I am a child,’ I said.

  ‘Doesn’t mean you have to behave like one.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. I set up the pieces for a new game. I didn’t really care about losing because I was, despite Pop’s words, getting better. I was beginning to see the patterns, and how a move might have ripples across time.

  Like Pop and Bella meeting in a street in Sydney in 1967.

  ‘Tell me your answer,’ I continued.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To Grandma’s question. Where had you been in those five years, you mongrel?’

  I’m not sure why people bother to cook. I mean, I know why cooking is necessary. Without it, we’d all starve to death and I don’t think I’m being too controversial when I say that would be a shame.

  But it’s so hard!

  I watched a couple of daytime cooking shows on the television. There it seems easy. Celebrity chefs laugh, make interesting asides, all the while adding a pinch of this, a teaspoon of that and a smidgeon of the other. No mess. Paintwork glistens, kitchen surfaces gleam and then, suddenly, a magnificent dish appears as guests drool, studio audiences cheer and credits roll.

  No food preparation (those diced onions appear as if by magic).

  No washing up.

  Trust me: the real world is very different.

  I mention this because I got into an argument with Dad that went something along the lines of:

  Him: Vegetarian food is rubbish.

  Me: No, it’s not.

  Him: Tofu and quinoa salad. That’s not for human consumption. It’s rabbit food and I wouldn’t even wish it on a rabbit. Even if that rabbit was my worst enemy.

  Me: Dad, you’re talking rubbish. You don’t know any rabbits, friendly or otherwise.

  Him: But if I did, if I knew the worst rabbit in the world, the evil genius of the rabbit kingdom, the master rabbit terrorist, I wouldn’t wish tofu and quinoa salad on it.

  Me: I can’t believe the garbage you’re talking.

  Him: I know. I’m having difficulty believing it myself. But answer me this: if humanity was meant to eat lettuce, why weren’t we given teeth like tombstones and long, floppy ears?

  Me: Dad, I’m thirteen and you’re … old. Can we both start acting our ages? Vegetarian food is tasty, delicious and good for the planet. Anyway, your ears are a bit floppy.

  Him: Eating meat is part of human nature. Vegetarian food might be good for the planet. I’ll give you that. But it is disgusting and that’s why you don’t have vegetarian drive-throughs. Can I super-size your lettuce? Would you like pulses with that? Get real, Rob.

  Me: I’ll prove you wrong, Dad. I’ll cook you a delicious vegetarian meal tonight, something so amazing you’ll probably give up steak forever.

  Him: You’re on. Tell you something, Rob. With a claim like that, the steaks couldn’t be higher! Geddit? Steaks? Stakes?

  Me: That’s it. You’re banned from computer games for the rest of the day.

  Mum gave me money to get the ingredients from the supermarket, but she didn’t offer me a lift there. Instead, she muttered something about learning what it’s like to run a small part of the household without any help. Or thanks. I believe she was in something of a grumpy mood, so I avoided arguing.

  Instead, I looked up a recipe on the internet, jotted down the ingredients, walked ten minutes to the supermarket, and spent thirty minutes tracking down the stuff I needed. (If you don’t know your way around a supermarket, it can be a scary business. There are probably people who went in there for a kohlrabi and never emerged again. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find a human skeleton in among the frozen peas.) Then I walked fifteen minutes home (the bags were heavy and slowed me considerably), unpacked, and spread out the recipe on the kitchen counter.

  To be honest I was exhausted already, but now was not the time to give up. I mean, how hard could it be? Just follow the recipe. It couldn’t be rocket surgery. Or even brain science. I had this under control.

  Did you know that if you don’t spread a thin layer of salt over sliced eggplant, the vegetable will taste bitter? The salt draws out moisture, so you have to keep it draining on kitchen towels. Unfortunately, we were out, so I used toilet paper. Not a good choice. The paper basically dissolved. Have you ever spent an hour picking small pieces of toilet paper off sliced eggplant? Of course you haven’t. You’d have to be an idiot.

  I wish to draw a veil over the next three hours. At one point Mum came into the kitchen and asked if it was my mission to use every single pot and pan in the household. I would’ve got angry at her sarcasm, but looking around it was obvious I had used every single pot and pan in the household. It hadn’t exactly been my mission, though.

  At seven o’clock I put a casserole on the dining table and called Mum and Dad. They sat and examined the dish. Dad prodded it with a spoon.

  ‘Is that toilet paper?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘It’s vegetarian lasagne.’

  ‘It looks like charred toilet paper on the top.’

  ‘C’mon, Dad,’ I said. ‘That’s a secret ingredient. And, anyway, who in their right mind could identify toilet paper, charred or otherwise, in a casserole? You’d have to be some kind of sick person.’

  I spooned out a good helping for each of us. Breaking the crust of the lasagne was something of a challenge, and when I did it produced a strange smell, wh
ich I tried to ignore.

  ‘Enjoy,’ I said.

  We each took a small bite. Three spoons clinked against three bowls. Dad stood and reached for his car keys.

  ‘A veggie-burger with large fries for me,’ I said. ‘Maybe an apple pie for dessert.’

  I think I might have mentioned that I rarely watch television news. There’s seldom any good news and if I want to depress myself, I’ll just read a maths textbook instead.

  But sometimes it’s on and sometimes a word or two reels me in.

  This time the words were ‘local abattoir’ and ‘cruelty’. I put my book down (not maths) and paid attention, but the story was finishing and I didn’t get all the information. So I pulled out my phone and searched. Didn’t take long.

  Local abattoir’s management professes ignorance of cruel practices filmed by employee

  Shocking footage has emerged of animals being ill-treated as they are led to slaughter in a local abattoir. A YouTube video of the cruelty has been posted and shows sheep being brutally stabbed with an electric stunning device, while others are killed without being stunned properly, in contravention of regulations governing humane treatment of animals in Australia’s processing plants. A management representative said the footage was posted by a disgruntled employee with an axe to grind. He said the company trained its workers in the correct procedures and that the disturbing images demonstrated that ‘rogue’ workers were operating within the establishment. ‘We will root out these bad apples,’ he said. ‘We take the humane care of our animals very seriously.’

  I didn’t want to, but I found the video on YouTube and forced myself to watch it. Then I went to the toilet and threw up. Afterwards I did some more research.

  I need your help, Andrew, I texted.

  Wot 4

  Fancy being on the front page of the local newspaper for chaining yourself to a supermarket’s railings to protest animal cruelty?

  Sure y not

  You say that like I’ve asked you to go skateboarding. Don’t you have any questions?

  No k maybe when

  What?

  When

  Saturday.

  Sure