Wood Green

by Sean Rabin

  Yes you do. Deep down inside you do. Remember the last time this happened? In 1992? Just after Foxtrot came out? It was in this very room. And before that in 1972? Not long after Lucian got back from Vietnam. The house might have been less furnished then, but I’m sure it was the same layout.

  How do you expect me to remember something from 1972? I wasn’t even born then.

  Born? You’re not born even now, my boy. Not really. But you soon will be. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we all come back to Tasmania. To this house and this mountain. To build a cocoon. Every twenty years. That’s what all this is for. Lucian moved his eyes around the room. To make a cocoon.

  Michael tired of trying to make Lucian talk sense and decided to play along. You’re planning on changing into a butterfly?

  Me? No, there’s little chance of that occurring. This body of mine is too weak and old to be transformed for a second time. The cocoon is not for me. The cocoon is for you.

  99.

  Jesus it’s cold, Carl grumbled to himself as he walked around the store. He had forgotten to get in wood and kindling the day before, and it had rained while he slept, so the fire in the pot-bellied stove was refusing to stay alight. He heard Maureen’s voice inside his head, explaining why he should do things and when, but it appeared so frequently throughout his day that Carl had stopped listening. He pulled back the bolts on the front door, which hardly seemed necessary in a place like Wood Green – South Africa, now there’s a place where you need security – and noticed he was standing on a piece of paper. An envelope containing money and a shopping list had been slipped beneath the door during the night. As he read the numbers beside the items, Carl assumed that Michael and Lucian were giving a party. He had not received an invitation but that was hardly surprising. Beyond Paul, he had made no friends in Wood Green. Penny was civil enough, although her son had a surly manner about him. And the rest of the community, well they could manage a good morning or a good afternoon if they needed a loaf of bread. But as for saying hello in the street, how are you, is the business doing well, anything you need to know just ask, would you like to come to dinner as a welcome to Wood Green – you could forget it. He had put an end to home deliveries. Petrol was too expensive, no one tipped, and if you got something wrong in the order then watch out because the whole world was about to collapse, and it was all your fault. But he was willing to make an exception for an order this large. No one could be expected to carry home so much shopping. And Maureen had explained that neither Lucian nor Michael knew how to drive. Which to Carl seemed insane. Like a self-imposed exile, he thought as he reread the list. It was going to use up nearly all of the shop’s fresh stock, and a good portion of its dried goods as well. Maybe he should take the opportunity, before he reordered, to close the place up and have a couple weeks off. To get his head straight. Figure out what exactly he wanted from Tasmania. From life. Though he checked his phone and computer every day, he still had seen no mention of his name in the newspapers back home. And increasingly it occurred to Carl that perhaps hiding was unnecessary. Of course returning to Johannesburg was out of the question. But there was a big world out there, bigger than Wood Green, and he still had his old passport. He could use some time away from Paul as well. There had been too many arguments of late. Carl knew he had a temper and that he could be impatient, but everything up here moved so slowly! Maybe it would be better if he just slipped away. Left a note on the shop’s front door. He could cancel his regular deliveries with a few phone calls. And it was not as if he was going to be losing much money. Carl suspected that closing for a couple of weeks might even make good business sense. And after that, well, who knew what he might do. The desire to sell the business continued to pester him no matter how many times he rationalised it as imprudent to both his getaway and his capital. But a loss of funds was inevitable whether he stayed or quit. Carl also knew there were degrees of loss, and time after time reminded himself of the things in life more important than money: conversation; cafés; nightclubs; clothes shopping; meeting new men; being able to use his phone beyond the range of his home wi-fi. And let’s face it, Paul and him were never going to make it. The pub owner was too passive for Carl’s taste, and a little too soft. Sure they had fun together, but it was not as if either of them believed it was true love. No one was playing that silly game. So why hang around? Carl began to go through the items on Lucian’s shopping list. Bread. Apples. Cheese. Biscuits. Flour. Meat. It was going to fill seven or eight boxes at least. If he did everything first – called the suppliers, threw away the remaining perishables, closed the upstairs windows – he could load the car, lock the front door, drive the boxes to Lucian’s house, then head straight off. Why not? He hankered to feel free. Liberated from Wood Green. And here was his chance. The fire in the stove had gone out again, but Carl decided he could put up with the cold for a few more hours. After that who knew where he might be. Maybe even someplace warm.

  100.

  Michael lay on a couch in the sunroom sipping soup. It was all his digestive system could tolerate, and was no doubt why Lucian had instructed him to cook great vats of the stuff when the supplies from the general store had appeared on the verandah. In the two weeks since then Michael could hardly remember a single moment when his body had not felt like it was being broken apart and reassembled beneath his skin. He had hung a towel over the bathroom mirror. Inadvertent glimpses of his reflection while stepping out of the shower had become too distressing. The face he had seen was like a boxer’s after a title fight – bruised, swollen, slack, broken. Maybe the pot was playing tricks with him. Though he took aspirin with breakfast, aspirin with morning tea, aspirin with lunch, aspirin all fucking day long, it needed to be supplemented with large doses of marijuana. This made the task of writing problematic. When he woke in the morning his head was languid and foggy – his ideas colourless and unintelligible. Only walking outside, in the cold air, around the house, through the forest, with Sadie by his side, for at least thirty minutes, could awaken and sharpen his mind sufficiently to begin the day’s work. Michael left his office door open in case Lucian needed anything, and so he could hear the sound of a typewriter even as he slept. But by early afternoon the pain became too distracting and he would have to abandon his desk for his first spliff of the day. He would then sit in front of the open fire, or lie on a couch trying to ignore the strange bubbling in his stomach, the pulse throbbing in the side of his neck, his cracking joints, random nerve spasms, and the involuntary twitching of his muscles. Occasionally he threw up. Other times he wanted to but couldn’t. Twice a day Michael also had to apply moisturising cream to Lucian’s arms, legs and torso to prevent his skin from splitting. Keeping the old man hydrated with just drinking water was impossible. He was awake for only a few minutes each day, and even though Michael dedicated the entire time to encouraging liquid down Lucian’s throat, it appeared his body was drying out. By around 8pm Michael was exhausted, and would fall into bed praying for the painkillers to endure until morning. Yet even if such a wish were granted it was no guarantee of a restful night’s slumber. Just an opportunity to dream more confusing, terrifying, occasionally pornographic images from Lucian’s past. Sometimes to the accompaniment of typing and shouting from across the hall. On particularly dark nights, when the wind blew strong enough to tug at the roof and make the surrounding trees sacrifice branches to avoid being uprooted; when the rain hammered against the front door and found its way down the length of the chimney to hiss in the fireplace, Michael would dream that Lucian was calling out all manner of rogue phrases and dissonant ramblings. Lucian! Lucian! Free as a bird. That’s why the books are so different. You won’t fly scared anymore. Price to pay. Something about the biology. Not an exact science. No children. Far from an exact science. Metal in your thigh. Dark days ahead. I already see the resemblance. For you and me. Home again. Brought it back from Vietnam. To be. To be. Lucian at last. Book number five. Show Maureen. I can see it now. Don’t be shy. Get ’em ou
t. Get ’em out. You’re a lucky man. Give it a good name. Don’t inhale. Aches when it’s going to snow. A faultless barometer. The land. The sky. The sea. I’m taking it all. An apple isle. Beautiful Sadie. I’m not leaving. Time gentlemen. I’m not leaving. Rest with the others. I make three. Lucian makes four. Lucian the fourth! Lucian the fourth!

  Sometimes when Michael woke he found himself standing in the hall with Sadie at his side. The typewriter silent and Lucian in bed, asleep, illuminated by lightning flashing across the mountain. Mornings after such nights he would feel even worse than usual, yet he always made it to his desk on time. The book was almost done. All it needed was another week, two at most. Michael felt drained by its creation, but as he lay on the couch, sipping soup, it also seemed as if writing the novel was the only thing holding him together.

  101.

  Maureen knocked softly on the screen door at the back of the kitchen. Can I get fries with that?

  It’s you! Penny quickly wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door. What a lovely surprise. Come here and give me a kiss. You look wonderful. How have you been? Where have you been? Oh, hold on a second and let me finish these orders.

  Sorry. I thought the lunch trade would be done by now.

  It usually is, but there’s a retirement village in Hobart that’s discovered what a great pub this is, so now we’re getting a busload of pensioners three times a week. Penny plated two slices of lemon tart, then spooned a dollop of mascarpone beside them. I’ll be right back, she said and carried the desserts into the pub.

  You’re waiting as well?

  Penny shrugged. It’s the last order for the day. And Paul’s busy serving.

  He must be pleased with the extra business. I’m surprised he hasn’t hired someone to give you a hand.

  We’re definitely considering it. I can’t keep doing all this by myself for much longer. Matthew will be on holidays in a couple of weeks, but he’s still too young to go near anything hot.

  How’s he doing?

  Great. Taller every day.

  Tell him I said hi, will you?

  You’re not staying? He’ll be home in an hour. I’m sure he’d love to see you.

  I just popped in to say hello. I don’t want to get in your way.

  Don’t be silly. I can pack up and talk at the same time. I suppose you’ve seen our news.

  Yeah, where’s Carl gone? The sign on the door says he’ll be back in two weeks. Tim and I never took holidays like that. But maybe that was the problem.

  That sign has been up for over a month. Penny carried the rest of the lemon tart back into the cool room.

  You mean he just ran away? Maureen began loading plates into a dishwasher tray.

  Certainly looks that way. Bet it won’t be long before we see a For Sale sign going up.

  But what happened? He can’t have gone broke that quickly. Did something go wrong?

  Penny almost told Maureen to stop what she was doing, but then remembered that Matthew had soccer practice this afternoon and there was still prep to do for tomorrow. No one knows. Maybe he just decided he didn’t like it up here. Too cold perhaps. You certainly managed to avoid one hell of a winter.

  You mean it’s been colder than this?

  Today is a summer’s day compared to what we’ve been through. The roads have been closed four or five times since you and Tim left.

  I’m kind of sorry to have missed that. It must have looked beautiful.

  Penny stopped and smiled. Yeah, it did.

  Maureen slid the tray into the dishwasher and pressed the start button. So what has everyone been doing for bread and milk?

  Paul has set up a little emergency service until either Carl returns or someone else buys the shop. Don’t suppose you want to take it over again? I imagine it’s going for less than what you sold it.

  No thanks. Done that. Still, I’m surprised it went so bad for Carl so quickly.

  I’m not. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box. Or the nicest for that matter.

  I did get that impression. How’s Paul taking it?

  There were a couple of bumpy days to begin with. And every once in a while he still gets upset. But it’s hard to think fondly of someone who just leaves without saying goodbye.

  You’re kidding.

  Can you believe it? How mean is that? Just shot through without a word. Between you and me I’m glad to see the back of him. Paul is his old self again, sitting on his stool, and the pub has never done so well. But that’s enough about our dramas. I want to hear about what you’ve been up to.

  Nothing half as exciting. After Tim and I finalised everything I just went driving around Tasmania.

  And it took you that long?

  There wasn’t any reason to rush. Most of my time in Tasmania had been spent up here, so I wanted to see some more of the state. Did a few bushwalks. Climbed a mountain or two. Read a lot. Ate a lot. Slept a lot.

  Well it suits you. You look great.

  Thanks. So do you.

  Penny snapped lids onto the plastic containers arranged around the counter. I look the same as I always do. Any word from Tim?

  Yeah, he’s fine. Already has himself a girlfriend. Says they’re going to open up a frozen yoghurt shop in the city.

  Not Hobart?

  No. Melbourne.

  Thank God. I hate those things. So what are your plans?

  I don’t have any at the moment. I’d like to stay in Tasmania if I can, but I’ll need to find some work eventually. I’d prefer just to sit at home and read books, but I’ve checked the papers and there was nothing advertised.

  Yeah, not many jobs like that around I suspect. You could always come and work with me for a while if you’ve got nothing better to do.

  Maureen glanced about the kitchen and smelled fennel, salad dressing and the oil in the fryer. You’re serious?

  Of course I am. I know you can cook. And you’re sane…sort of. Penny carried her plastic containers into the cool room.

  But I’ve never worked in a proper kitchen before. I’ve always just done my own thing in my own house.

  I can show you how it works. It’s not very hard. This was my first commercial kitchen as well, you know.

  But wouldn’t it seem weird for me to come back after leaving so recently?

  Penny began to wipe down the benches. More like you’ve made an intelligent decision. I wouldn’t leave Wood Green for the world. And I bet Paul would love the idea. You could rent one of his rooms upstairs. Or stay with me and Matthew. We’ve got a spare bedroom. And you already know everybody in town. Why wouldn’t you do it? It’s not as if it’s going to be a lot of work. You won’t get rich. But I can guarantee there’ll be plenty of time for you to read.

  Maureen stared out the screen door. I’m not sure everyone would be glad about me coming back.

  Don’t worry about Lucian. He never comes in here for lunch anyway. I haven’t seen him in ages.

  Maureen was surprised that Penny knew about her affair, but when she thought about it for a moment longer it made sense that other people would know.

  He’s probably finishing his latest book. I was going to drop by and say hello. We never really said a proper goodbye to each other. But it sounds as though he’s busy. Maybe I shouldn’t disturb him.

  Of course you should. It’ll give me time to have a word with Paul. The two of us working together is a fantastic idea. We could make this place great. Maybe even open up for dinner. You watch. Together we’ll put this pub on the map.

  102.

  Michael woke struggling for air, as if something or someone had been sitting on his chest while he slept. He raised himself up, coughed clear his throat, reached for the box of aspirin on the floor beside the daybed, and was about to wash down his morning dose when he realised he was not in pain. For a moment he refused to trust the message his body was giving. Ache and discomfort had been present so long that their absence seemed false. And Michael braced himself for the hurt to suddenly emerge with a
brutal vengeance. But when it remained absent for one minute, two, and then five, he raised himself out of bed and started to attend to Lucian.

  Michael was able to stay at his desk all day. Working on his novel so deeply that at times it felt as if he was nothing more than a conduit for ideas to be conveyed onto the page. There was a cramp in his hand but he could not stop it from moving. His back ached but he refused to stand up from his chair. Hunger could be attended to later. His bladder would just have to wait. Michael had acquired a momentum that he would allow nothing to impede. He felt the influence of his circumstances guiding his thoughts. The story of the young writer’s life as a husband, father and successful author had taken over the majority of the narrative, while the menace of the established writer lurked in the background, as if waiting for the perfect opportunity to reveal the coup de grâce of his betrayal. Except nothing was going to happen. The novel was almost done and the moment had arrived for its readers to understand that the established author’s encouragement for a life beyond monastic clichés was the most altruistic guidance he could have given the aspiring writer. And that the only ulterior motives had been those brought by the readers themselves.

  Michael’s pen hovered over the page. He had thought there was more to do; more to say. But as he reread his last sentence he recognised it as the most fitting place for the story to end. He leaned back in his chair and felt a grief invade his heart. Unlike the completion of an essay or thesis, this was a deliberate severing with characters he had brought to life. Grown to know and love. And it involved a sense of bereavement. A lament for the world he was closing a door on. The feeling persisted over the next hour as Michael typed the final pages of his manuscript. All it needed now was a title. He had hoped that one would appear once the story was complete, but as he placed a blank sheet of paper on top of page one his imagination felt insubstantial. What it suggested seemed either too modest or too consciously obtuse. He wanted distinction, but quiet distinction.