A Song Only I Can Hear

by Barry Jonsberg

  You could be arrested and thrown in jail. Gloom, destruction, end of life as we know it. Criminal history. Massive parental disappointment. Just for starters.

  Cool

  Why ‘cool’?

  Satday free not doin anything else

  You’re an idiot.

  Takes 1 to no 1

  That’s ‘know’, idiot.

  I no

  I hate you.

  I no

  ‘I went away to war,’ said Grandad. ‘And then, when I got back …’

  ‘Whoa,’ I said. ‘Hold on to those horses, Pop. Which war?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  ‘Oh, no. No, Rob. Trust me, it doesn’t.’ Grandad was fierce, even by his own standards. He pointed his bishop at me like a loaded gun before returning it to the board. ‘All wars are the same. People kill each other, then they go home, if they’re lucky enough to be alive, and try to forget all about it. Most times that’s impossible. In the meantime, politicians dream up the next war. And that’s only one of the reasons I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘But what did you say to Grandma when she asked where you’d been?’ Pop was agitated but I couldn’t let this go.

  ‘I just told you. I’d been away to war.’

  ‘Didn’t she ask you about it?’

  ‘Yes. And I told her I didn’t want to discuss it. She understood. People understood then. They don’t now. You should be ashamed of yourself, Rob, if you take a moment to think about it.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Do you want to know about your grandmother, or not?’

  I gazed at the chessboard. Even to my inexperienced eyes, it was clear I was in a hopeless position. A bit like the conversation I was having.

  ‘I do, Grandad,’ I said.

  She’d been waiting five years. Grandad, it seems, accepted this as a simple statement of fact. My first reaction would have been, why? But, as Pop pointed out to me, I have a well-developed sense of my own worthlessness. It seems, in 1967, Grandad didn’t suffer from the same problem. He was, on the surface at least, confident.

  ‘What did you look like back in 1967, Grandad?’ I asked.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, I do,’ I said, ‘or I wouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘My hair,’ said Pop, ‘reached down to below my shoulders. It was all layered and shiny. And I had a spectacular handlebar moustache.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A moustache that bent around the sides of my mouth and came down to my chin. Huge sideburns …’ He saw my puzzled expression and demonstrated at the side of his face. ‘Way past my ears and nearly reaching the ends of the handlebar moustache.’

  ‘Was there any part of you that wasn’t hairy?’ I said. It was difficult to get my head around the fact my grandfather was more wombat than human. Now, he was mostly shiny skin and deep lines.

  ‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘You should’ve seen me in bathers. I was ninety per cent Axminster rug.’

  ‘Way too much information,’ I said.

  ‘Told you, but you wouldn’t listen. I have photographs somewhere. Unless you behave yourself, I’ll get them out. And I haven’t even got round to the fashion of the time. Paisley shirts. Flared trousers. You’ve been warned, young Rob.’

  This was really exciting. Grandad as a young man. I wasn’t going to let that go, but I also sensed if I asked him to get out the old albums now, I’d never hear more about Grandma.

  ‘So Grandma told you she’d been waiting five years,’ I said. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I took her hand and said the wait had been worth it.’

  ‘You were a smooth talker, Pop.’

  ‘Check,’ said Grandad. Where did that come from? I gazed at the board. The position I was in was hopeless, but I couldn’t resign. We’d been here before. According to Grandad I had to fight to the bitter end. Never give up. ‘Australians never give up,’ he’d said. ‘It’s what makes us great as a nation.’ I moved my king to a safe square.

  ‘And then?’ I said.

  ‘And then I wooed her,’ said Grandad. ‘I wouldn’t let her forget me. Not that she would have. I think I knew that even then.’ His voice had taken on a distant quality, as if he’d travelled back in time and was living those moments once more. ‘She was so beautiful, Rob. The most beautiful woman I’d ever known. We married in 1969. Your father was born in 1972.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘To your father?’

  ‘No.’ I hated it when Grandad deliberately messed with my head. ‘To Grandma.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Grandad. He thought for a moment and then moved a bishop the length of the board. ‘Checkmate,’ he said.

  I examined the position. I don’t know why. It was obviously checkmate. I sighed and set up the board again.

  ‘She left me in 1975,’ Grandad said. ‘Went back to Italy. Was going to take your dad with her, but changed her mind at the last moment.’

  That news would take some processing. One decision taken or not taken over forty years ago determined whether I was born or not. I’d always known, intellectually, that life was a matter of chance, but I’d never felt it until now.

  ‘Why?’ I whispered.

  ‘I think she knew that if she’d taken your dad, I couldn’t survive. She loved me enough to save my life by giving up her son to me.’ He rubbed at the stubble peppering his chin. ‘I heard she died in 2001.’

  He moved a pawn a couple of places forward on the board. I followed suit, though I couldn’t concentrate. But when it came to digging out truths from Grandad’s past, I knew I had to plan my moves far ahead. And be patient. One fact at a time.

  ‘But why did she leave you?’ I said. My grandmother was dead. I didn’t really know how to feel. On the one hand, I hadn’t known her, so it wasn’t really a loss, as such. But a part of me shrivelled to know that she’d never be more than a name to me.

  It was sad. It was very sad.

  ‘She couldn’t deal with the ghosts,’ said Grandad.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She tried, but it was no good.’ Grandad rubbed at his mouth and moved his bishop, threatening my knight. ‘I came with ghosts, and although she gave it eight years of constant effort, she couldn’t really compete. In the end, she had to leave. I was glad she did, because it was no life for her.’

  ‘Ghosts?’ I moved my knight.

  ‘I came back to Sydney in 1967 with a whole company of ghosts.’ Grandad sighed. ‘They were with me constantly then.’ He looked over to the corner of the room. ‘And to be honest, they’re still with me, Rob. They’ve never really gone away.’

  I felt a chill, even though the evening was warm.

  ‘Those ghosts,’ he continued. ‘I can’t tell you how tempting it was back then to join them. But I had your dad to look after. To raise. In the end, it was your father who gave me a reason for living.’

  Grandad moved his rook.

  ‘Check,’ he said.

  If I’m honest, it’s not difficult to get on the front page of the local newspaper. A couple of weeks back someone managed it by claiming they’d found a potato that looked like the prime minister. The newspaper sent round not just a reporter, but a photographer too, who took shots of the spud from different angles. Now, I admit, a couple of blemishes on the potato’s skin did give the impression of eyes (if you were very imaginative), but other than that it looked … like a potato.

  The editor even put a photo of the PM next to the spud so readers could see for themselves. But it was never going to happen that someone would gaze at the pictures, scratching their head while muttering, ‘one of these is the leader of our nation and the other is the raw material for a packet of salt and vinegar chips, but I’m buggered if I know which is which’.

  Anyway, this story dominated not just the front page but spilled onto page two as well, where a reporter debated which of the two was best suited to
run the country (the potato narrowly lost on economic vision but won overwhelmingly on popular appeal).

  The point I’m making is that the newspaper isn’t known for investigative journalism. It’s more school fetes, gardening tips and cats stuck up trees. It shouldn’t, therefore, have been difficult to interest it in a local story, particularly one with huge moral implications. Turns out it was. Maybe I should have claimed I owned a carrot that could communicate with extraterrestrials. That would have turned into a three-page spread.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I said.

  Andrew and I had dropped round to the newspaper’s offices after school on Friday. If I’d been expecting a large, noisy office with dozens of reporters all on phones, with the occasional cry of ‘hold the front page’ ringing out, then I was disappointed. A young man with acne sat behind a desk, staring at a computer screen. In the dim reflection of a picture hanging on the wall behind him I could see the game he was playing. He didn’t reply, but after a minute or so, paused the game with an irritated clicking of his tongue (and his mouse).

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a tone suggesting it was unlikely.

  ‘We’d like to speak to a reporter,’ I said.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Andrew.

  The guy looked around the bare office in an exaggerated way, as if in search of hiding colleagues. ‘Maybe there’s someone else here, but he’s really good at camouflage,’ he said. ‘However, if you can’t spot him in the next couple of minutes, we’ll have to settle for me.’

  ‘Are the others out chasing leads?’ I said. It’s best to ignore sarcasm, in my humble opinion.

  ‘The other is out having an ingrown toenail removed,’ he said. ‘Now, I’m very busy here, so what can I do for you?’

  ‘I want to give you notice of a breaking story,’ I replied. ‘Tomorrow, at nine in the morning, the two of us will be chained to railings outside the shopping centre on Mitchell Street, protesting the sale of meat by both the supermarket and the local butcher. That meat is sourced from the scandal-plagued abattoir that’s been dominating the news in recent days.’ I was pleased with myself. I thought I’d summarised the story well.

  ‘You’re chaining yourself to railings?’ said the man. ‘I’m sorry. Why?’

  I sighed. Maybe my summary hadn’t been so good. Or maybe he simply hadn’t been listening. I explained again.

  ‘What scandal-plagued abattoir?’

  I reminded him about the video of the animals’ ill-treatment. He’d never heard of it. I had to get the story up on my phone. I even had to find the video so he could watch it. It was disturbing to discover our local newspaper was ignorant of important local news stories. Or maybe they only bothered with breaking potato newsflashes and left everything else to other agencies.

  ‘And what’s this to do with the shopping centre?’

  This time Andrew sighed. We were splitting up the sighing duties, even though we hadn’t planned this beforehand.

  ‘Because they get their meat from this abattoir. It’s tainted meat and that’s what we’re protesting about.’

  ‘By chaining yourself to railings?’

  ‘Jeez,’ said Andrew. He has a short temper, if truth be told. ‘I’m not presenting you with a riddle puzzling the greatest scientific minds around the world. Yes. Chains. Padlocks. Protesting the supermarket and butcher selling meat that has been obtained through appalling cruelty.’

  ‘Does it have to be nine?’ the man asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said nine in the morning. Can you chain yourselves up a bit later?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have a sleep-in on Saturdays,’ he said. ‘How about midday?’

  ‘Will you bring a photographer?’

  ‘I am the photographer. Well, if I remember to bring my mobile phone, which I’m pretty sure I will.’

  ‘Do you postpone all news stories so they don’t clash with your sleep-in?’ said Andrew.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know. Ringing up tsunamis to see if they wouldn’t mind waiting a couple of hours, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Oi, listen, you …’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. A battle of sarcasm was only going to end badly. ‘Midday it is. Don’t forget, now.’

  ‘Good point,’ the reporter said. ‘I’ll put an alarm on my phone.’

  I wasn’t convinced. When Andrew and I left the office he was playing his game again and swearing at the screen.

  Trixie was getting used to me and I was getting used to her. Agnes turned down the offer of a walk when I rocked up at the aged-care apartments, citing breathlessness and a visit from her daughter due that afternoon. I had a cunning plan, so that was fine by me.

  Well, it wasn’t really a plan and it certainly wasn’t cunning, so that’s a generous description. I had the crazy idea that if Mum and Dad actually saw Trixie, and understood she was the size of a cockroach, but slightly cuter, their reservations about adopting her as a pet would magically disappear. That was assuming Trixie didn’t dump a loaf on the kitchen floor (her bowels played up, I knew, when she was stressed) or try to bite Dad on the grounds he’s big and therefore asking for it.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained was my motto.

  But before taking her home, I wanted to give her a couple of circuits round the park, so she was tired and therefore (maybe) better behaved than normal.

  It wasn’t my intention to run into Destry Camberwick. It just happened that way.

  I sat at a park bench, watching people pass. It amuses me sometimes to people-watch; I guess their occupations – that one looks like a teacher, or maybe a bank worker. That one is almost certainly a nurse. I could make up entire stories around them. She was returning home to her partner who’d been critical of her dress-sense and the steely glint in her eye spoke volumes; she’d had enough and was giving him the old heave-ho. That man was going back to a lonely house, a microwave meal and an evening of watching The Bachelor.

  Okay. Stop being judgemental. We’re all weird in some way or other.

  I think.

  ‘Hello, Rob.’

  I looked up. It was Destry Camberwick and she wasn’t alone. The Hound of the Baskervilles hunched at her side, glancing down at Trixie and drooling slightly. For once, Trixie was not frothing at the mouth with hatred. Maybe she’d woken up and smelled the canine coffee. Maybe she was just tired of being macho.

  Destry Camberwick wasn’t alone, but Destry Camberwick and her dog weren’t alone either. A boy stood next to her; a boy I didn’t recognise from school, and I know nearly everyone enrolled at Milltown, by sight if not by name. He was good looking in a way that everyone would recognise, regardless of gender. Girls would say he was gorgeous. Boys would know he was gorgeous even if they wouldn’t say it out loud.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. Even in pressure situations, Rob Fitzgerald finds exactly the right word.

  ‘How are you?’ she said.

  ‘Good. And you?’ I don’t think I’d ever hit such heights of brilliant conversation. It should be on YouTube.

  ‘This is Justin,’ she said, indicating the piece of gorgeousness next to her. ‘Justin, this is Rob. We’re at school together.’

  I stood and shook Justin by the hand. Justin? Of course his name was Justin. I’d bet his last name was something double-barrelled. ‘Justin Freakin-Thyme’ or ‘Justin a’Different-League’.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

  ‘Likewise,’ he said. ‘Destry has told me a lot about you.’ He turned to Destry. ‘This is the Rob you’ve been going on about?’

  Destry smiled. ‘The very one.’

  Why would Destry talk about me, especially to gorgeous Justin? You’d think they’d spend all their time gazing into gorgeous eyes, locking gorgeous lips, wrapped up in their own gorgeousness. It was a mystery. Luckily Justin de-mystified it quickly.

  ‘Destry told me about your canteen protest,’ he said. ‘That’s great. Standing u
p for what you believe in. Suspended, right?’ I nodded. ‘And then something about a talent contest and you gave this really individual performance.’

  I was starting to like Justin, despite the fact he obviously liked Destry.

  ‘What else?’ He turned to Destry.

  ‘Rob is a brilliant goalkeeper, it seems,’ she said. ‘I missed the game, but I heard all about it.’

  I shrugged in what I think was a hopeless attempt at modesty. I could feel myself blushing.

  ‘It’s great to meet you,’ said Justin.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Destry. ‘We’ve got to go. See you Monday, yeah?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. And then I couldn’t resist it. Maybe my ego was so stoked I had to fan it some more. ‘Maybe I’ll see you guys tomorrow if you happen to be walking down Mitchell Street at midday.’ I tried for a casual tone and then upped the stakes into a dramatic pause. ‘I’ll be the one chained to the railings,’ I added.

  Mum and Dad didn’t fall in love with Trixie.

  But they didn’t hate her either.

  She didn’t try to rip Dad’s throat out and she didn’t take a dump on the kitchen floor. These were huge bonuses and, all in all, I was pleased.

  Dad watched as she sniffed around the kitchen. He rubbed his chin.

  ‘She could be a useful addition to the household,’ he said.

  My heart leaped.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I said. ‘As a guard dog?’

  ‘No,’ said Dad. ‘But you could stick your hand up her bum and she’d make a great oven glove.’

  I hate Dad sometimes.

  ‘That’s animal cruelty,’ I sniffed.

  *

  ‘Grandad?’ I said. I’d dropped Trixie off at Agnes’s apartment and then popped in to see him before I went home for dinner.

  He grunted.

  ‘I’m protesting animal cruelty in the town centre tomorrow.’

  I’m not sure why I told him. I hadn’t intended to. But I was inexperienced in these matters – Pop wasn’t. I suspected he’d been involved in countless protests on issues of conscience. I don’t know why I thought this either. When it comes to discussing his past, Grandad is tighter than an octopus’s bumhole. But I felt better after I told him.