Regulars were hard to come by. He noted Jann was polishing glasses already clean. Then driving out a red hornet that had flown into the bar. Toon invited him to the greenhouse to look at a new cannabis plant hidden amongst the tomatoes.
V
He remembered arguing with his father. One June day, Jack Parry had complained that air pollution was killing their potato plants.
Yellowing already, he had protested, feigning outrage. Hardly in flower and the leaves failing. Can’t be blight. Or, if it is, it’s industrial. I blame The Works. Nothing can flourish while that bloody poison factory is open.
Do you mind? laughed Parry. My job starts next month. Handy money, you usually say.
Even killing the moss, said Jack Parry. Moss that’s been on the walls a thousand years.
But how, Parry asked himself in Goolwa, might he paint his limestone dreams? He wasn’t an artist. He hadn’t earned the right.
So instead of art, Parry brooded over the behaviour of his body. The treachery of his brain. Wryness, he was aware, became a new characteristic.
Maybe I’m growing up. At last. Hallelujah. This he muttered to himself one morning in the motel. He had been sipping from his green glass. That wineglass, an old rummer, would stand on the counter awaiting him, leaves of green tea, like seaweed, sunk to the bottom. He would take it to a window seat before beginning in Hey Bulldog.
At last what? asked Jann.
At last I’m convinced. I’m a genius.
Is that all? I thought you were already sure of that.
Neither Toon nor Jann inquired of Libby, whom both had met. They were gentle with him. Which worried Parry.
He wondered whether he gave people the impression of ruination, this thin man in a shaft of dusty light. But decided not, he had been struck down and was getting over it. That was all.
Sipping tea, Parry did not look unwell. He was lean enough under the Aussie tan.
The dreams continued. They were not unpleasant and he became convinced they were caused by his medication.
You’ll be on those tablets forever. That was how colleagues in school responded when they learned the medicines’ names.
Little blue jobs? Like Viagra? Get used to them, Ripper.
Yeah, forever and ever. That’s a prescription for life, Ripper.
Hey Ripper! What’s it like when you realise GlaxoSmith Kline owns your arse?
VI
One of the dreams Parry recalled was about the church next to the allotment.
This was a limestone fortress. Its pulpit was incised with the flagellation of Christ.
Parry had often viewed this artwork. He was convinced that the artist was local and had deliberately made Christ and his persecutors identifiable.
Jesus and his assailants would have been men of The Caib. Fishermen, boat caulkers, labourers from the quarry.
Part of the legend was that this Christ was not being assaulted with whips but sheaves of stinging nettles. Hard as he looked at the stonework, he could see no evidence for this.
Yet Parry accepted it. The power of local art, when there was so little of it, was considerable.
He had always felt a bond with the sculptor. And marvelled that this artist had flourished half a millennium before his own life. In his Adelaide school he had shown film images of the pulpit, the graveyard, and even the allotment.
Fearing the children’s reaction, dreading they would be bored, he was delighted with the response. But showing the films had disturbed Parry. There were strangers tilling his parents’ garden now. The raspberry canes had been rooted out. The blackcurrant bushes he had loved to smell in the rain, in misty rain, to breathe and savour and breathe again, had been transplanted.
Sometimes he had kept a pocketful of dried blackcurrant leaves with him in university. Or during his holiday labouring job at The Works. These leaf shreds became an indigo dust, fine as tobacco. Finally a turquoise smear like fountain-pen ink.
But some of Parry’s dreams shocked him. One morning he had woken in the Goolwa dawn and shed tears.
Yes, there was the pulpit, its stonework deeply chiselled. But the Christ represented was a scruffily bearded Parry himself, still a teenage schoolboy. Jesus Christ was Richard Parry, aged sixteen.
And the two figures who whipped him were Jack and Dora Parry. What had they used for the flogging? Parry could still feel the blows. As in the dream the welts appeared on his limestone skin.
Not stinging nettles. The weapons looked like the lotus flowers Parry had noticed on his visit with Libby to Botanic Park.
Parry laughed through his tears. He found it hilarious but continued weeping. He was the only man in history to suffer whipping with golden lotuses.
VII
The next morning, Parry dreamed once again. He and Libby were outside. An immense plain stretched round them. There were tussocks of grass but overall the earth was outback red.
It was hotter than anything Parry had experienced in Goolwa. Hotter than the country he had visited west of Adelaide.
They were out in the desert, anxious with thirst. The sky was black and The Caib’s sulphuric moon hung in the sky. But Parry was resolute. There was a job to do and he had to see it through.
He and Libby were riding in a cart pulled by oxen. At least, Parry imagined these were the creatures. But he had never seen such huge-horned animals before.
There was a whip in his hand, this time a real whip. He used it to encourage the oxen further over the plain. Libby said nothing. She was coated in dust and wore her hair in a grey plait. She did not want to be there but did not protest.
The pair came to a red boulder. Parry jumped from the cart and walked around the stone. He was convinced at once it was made of iron.
The boulder belonged in the cart. All Parry knew was that he and Libby had been commissioned to take the iron stone into Adelaide. It was a meteorite and valuable, his headmaster was convinced. The money might make life comfortable. Or different.
All Parry had to do was lift the meteorite into the cart. Then transport it back to Adelaide. That was what the school had demanded. He saw himself stoop to raise the iron onto his back.
When he awoke he felt he was shivering with delirium. It was the coldest morning he had known in Goolwa. Outside he could sense the Murray sliding in olive-green sheets towards the sea. And in the room was a smell of smoke. Or maybe it was brakes on a train.
Parry lay wondering. If the smell was part of a dream, why was it there now he was awake?
VIII
‘The Backs’ had been the schoolyard name for the alleyways behind the fairground.
Most of the fair’s entrances were blocked. But there were one or two possible ways in. The alleys took the curious, or the lost, past a pub called The Catriona, with its abandoned extension. Then behind the ghost train, known as The Kingdom of Evil.
From there, was a path into an area of levelled dunes and blown sand. Then north into Vainquer Street.
As a boy, Parry had used the name ‘The Ghetto’ himself, not understanding why. All he knew of ghettos was the Presley song, one of his big comeback numbers. But ‘The Backs’ was clear.
Yes, Parry said, on returning to The Caib, and eventually joining the gang at the Paradise Club, the lanes were filthy.
The place was filled with rotting mattresses, with mud in frozen ruts or piles of garden waste, broken bicycles, children’s toys. And endless polystyrene trays.
Yet some of the Vainquer houses maintained a dilapidated charm. Many were now flats, or bed-and-breakfast businesses. Somehow the couples, or usually the widows who kept them, hung on.
And if you looked hard you’d notice the street retained evidence of the past. There were ornate finials, high garden walls. The few Vainquer shops made do with what trade there was. As did the pubs. Nothing is harder to break than habit.
But even in Goolwa, Parry had heard of the town’s problems. The Caib was the place where young people killed themselves. As simple as that. And as brut
al. The town of hopelessness, it was called.
There had been a Panorama programme shown on ABC which Libby and some of the Australian teachers had seen. Libby had even written to him at Hey Bulldog.
Isn’t that where you’re from? she asked. I’m so sorry!
Parry had shrugged it off.
Our turn, he had said to the parents of The Black Cockatoos, who mooched around the shop while their children rehearsed. The Cockatoos were a band created by schoolkids. They rehearsed in the evenings.
Yes, our turn to be famous. That’s our fifteen minutes. And already almost over. Who’s next?
IX
One night in The Paradise, Parry had asked Mina directly.
How can there be hopelessness here? It’s tough. But not that bad. Things don’t make sense.
Mina was frank.
Might as well blame the sand for blowing down Cato Street, she said. Or the sand for being sand. Look. Think of your parents. Were they hopeless? Course not. They were grafters. Had to be in those days. I remember your mother with her sunflowers that grew out of the dunes.
You know, she added, we used to live by the allotments in those days. And I’d spy on you from my bedroom window, twti-ing down behind the curtain.
Great tall sunflowers they were, some of them orange. But mostly the yellowest things you could imagine.
Then, in the dark, when I was sure you wouldn’t come, I made dens. And yes, I’d pick the sunflower seeds off the ground. I remember one year your mother planted this especially long row. Sunflower Street, you called it yourself. A real street!
Yes, Mina added, I had a den in the kidney beans. Could squeeze right in. Because it was the sand I loved. When it was still hot. Hot sand’s the best feeling in the world.
You’re right, laughed Parry. I used to cycle down to the gardens through the fairground. Watch Hal and the others outside The Cat, if it was a warm night. Just smoking, chewing the fat. With the last of the gamblers having a final try.
And, you know, I’d wish my father would go out for a drink. To break the mould. Give my mother a break. Like other men. Stop … hanging around. He could be a teensy bit tragic, could my dad. But he never tried it.
And then I’d move on to the allotment. Sometimes it would be gone midnight when I was watering. Couldn’t see, but I knew the water was rolling like mercury over that hot sand.
Yeah, that water in lines of mercury. Silver in the dark. Just the sound of the crickets and the water on the bean leaves. Then the water on the rough old corn.
And I’d have this other den, said Mina. A den amongst those red flowers. Big red plumes, they were.
Amaranths.
Whatever.
Yes. Amaranths. Immortal amaranths. Ever read Paradise Lost? I never did. Beautiful they were. My mother won a prize, once, for amaranths. Boring vegetable, though. Bit like spinach.
And I had dens too, Parry added. Yeah, tried in the sweet corn. But those leaves were rougher than sunflowers. Like sandpaper. Brutal.
But I remember the hot evenings when the bats were out. And those great green crickets. Four inches long, those crickets were. You must have seen the crickets if you lived by the allotments. Famous for crickets, those gardens.
Can’t remember, said Mina. But you seemed a happy family. With your dad on the road selling paper knickers.
Well, she added, we had to laugh. And God knows what else. Your dad once sold coffee to my mother, by the way. It was horrible. Packets and packets of the muck. Still got it, I think. And that special dried milk. Which was worse. But what about you? Why have you turned out so well?
Have I? smiled Parry.
No, love. Just joking. You’re a fucking disaster. But hopelessness doesn’t come into it. And it never did.
Then why…?
Are they killing themselves? Well, Professor, remember what you said. It’s all a failure of imagination.
How?
Because they can’t imagine what it means not to exist. To be extinct. Look, you said that. These kids think they’re going to wake up from a hangover. But they’re not. Death’s not being drunk. Death ain’t no dream.
My daughter used to have a Greenpeace sticker on her window, Mina smiled. Took ages to scrape it off. Extinction is forever, it said. And all of us have to learn that. Not easy. But we have to do it.
X
Look, said Parry. My dad…
What?
My dad never sold paper knickers. Admittedly, he tried. It was a possibility. But it didn’t work out.
Your dad earned his crust. He made us laugh. And you’re seeing him soon, aren’t you? Season of good will and all?
Yeah. I have to. Have to.
Then Parry kissed Mina on the brow and poured her the dregs of the Paradise red.
To sleep, he toasted. Maybe tonight.
And maybe not, said Mina.
How are you?
Not great. Didn’t sleep at all, last night, Or was it the night before. Nights tend to blend into one. I think I dozed about dawn. You know, I’ve regularly had this trouble. But maybe it’s something else.
Parry looked at her. Yes? he asked.
Well what’s happening to you? Soon?
Death?
No. Sooner.
Enfeeblement? laughed Parry. What a great word that is.
Jesus, never heard it used before, said Mina. What about decrepitude? There’s another beauty. No, something sooner. Happening to you. That you can’t escape.
Don’t know. But go on. Sicken me.
Mina finished her wine.
You’re going to be sixty, lover. Sweet sixty.
Oh, so…
So this might be what’s keeping me awake. Because…
Because you are too. You’re sixty, Mina. But I knew that. Everybody knows that. Mina’s going to hit the big six. Congratulations. When’s it happening?
Two months. February 24.
Oh, another one soon. Fflint is too. He’s sixty in March. And Gil coming up. They detest the idea. Say so on Facebook. Then there’s…
Who?
Never mind.
No, who?
Dizzy. That’s Lizzy. She would have been sixty on April 10th.
Yeah, well I’m another, the woman shrugged.
It’s not so bad. Can it be that terrible? You’re not seventy.
Sixty’s old.
And you never thought at twenty it could happen to you?
Sort of.
Then don’t worry. You look great. No, I’m serious…
Mina raised her eyes. Forget how I fucking look. Christ, men… No, it’s, it’s … Alys. Listen, I just know she’s going to ignore it. The whole event. So the next two months is a kind of counting down…
Will she remember, you mean? said Parry. Will she care?
Yes. And here I am. Ticking off the days till Basement Booze shuts up shop. Ticking off the days till my birthday, the days till the next quarter for the rent is due. And sometimes I wonder, what kind of life is this?
Parry looked around. What about Alys’ father?
That’s the problem. Alys sees more of him these days. I know she stays over there sometimes. Look, she’s met his new partner. And she’s younger, she’s…
It’s up to Alys, said Parry firmly. To do the decent thing.
But how would you know that?
How would I know when I’ve never had children, you mean? Look, anyone would think that. Anyone. Kids or not. Alys has to do what she has to do. Like the rest of us. Simple as that.
XI
Parry stood on the corner of Nuestra Senhora del Carmen Street. He thought the cold was in his veins. In his marrow. In his pocket the tips of his fingers felt dead. The air was as cloudy as the seabed.
A cat crossed the road in front of him. A black cat with fog in its mouth.
He looked closer. No, a white bird. A white bird still alive. The cat ran into a gwli.
XII
He rubbed the mist on his brow. Then tried to shrug the blac
k frost from his shoulders. He’d been talking to Mina in Basement Booze, but was now back at Badfinger.
He looked around.
He had unpacked the photo of The Easybeats, but knew he couldn’t use it. Too obscure. Not even the singer, Stevie Wright, could expect to be famous now.
But, so what? he asked himself. Maybe he was tired. Repeating himself. Maybe Hey Bulldog had been a success because no one recognised the bands, no matter who it was Parry decided deserved attention.
It wasn’t the scene itself. No, the idea of that scene. That’s what Parry needed to sell.
Yes, market Badfinger in the right ways, and people would start to call in. As surely some already had. And maybe Glan and Serene could help it become what was needed.
The rent required was affordable. At least for the next coming year. Parry had signed a year’s contract on the lease of the shop and was told he was lucky to get that.
Originally, the tenancy had to last five years. He knew the owners didn’t want short-term usage. But he imagined any client was better than none.
Because The Caib now seemed inert. Both Caib and Cato streets were full of empty premises. It seemed unlikely the fairground could reopen.
In the fog it was impossible to imagine crowds on the sand. Or the fragments of funfair music that had once blown across town.
Parry always remembered Jean Michel Jarre’s Oxygene as a segment of that soundtrack. Its first five notes were seared into his history.
Hard to think, Parry thought, that The Ziggurat might reopen. Even when he was a child it used to rattle like scrap iron. Perhaps there was more hope for The Kingdom of Evil.
But Parry knew he should never write off The Caib. The fair had flourished since the war. Its absence come next summer would be unthinkable.
Despite the weather, there were still drinkers at The Cat. Today he knew there would be smokers outside the pub, hunched against the saline dew, sharing rollies. Their silhouettes would be grey within the pollen of the fret.
Yes, their sandy footprints should still be numerous enough. The Salamander and The Ritzy had closed, people said.Pozzo’swas surely on the way out. But it didn’t take much to reopen a club. The Caib still lived.
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