Limestone Man

by Robert Minhinnick

  Hoi, Svengali! Cool down.

  I mean it, laughed Parry. They’re a couple with er, stylistic possibilities.

  First time I saw them together in the shop, I thought, yeah, that could work! Didn’t even know what I was looking for. Just that I was looking. For something.

  Yes, I like Glan’s sneer. Seemed a bit shifty on first acquaintance, okay. But combine that sneer with his vulnerability. His rock ‘n’ roll insouciance. Mix it up and you’ve discovered something. What everyone is looking for.

  He’s a hard little bastard, said Mina. I’ll say that about him. Maybe the girl’s all right. Yeah, great tits. And small waist. Lucky madam. But Glan is a user. And he’s using her. Plain as day.

  Maybe it is. Maybe he’s using me. Maybe Lulu was using me. Maybe I was using Lulu.

  Look, I used to tell Lulu what to wear. Just a skimpy top, I’d say. Flaunt those shoulders, I’d say. You know what I mean, Lu.

  Soon the boys were queuing for a gander. Their dads, too. This was Goolwa, remember. Not much else was happening. Farm boys who wrote their names on dirty pick ups? Older brothers who collected stamps? None of them with the Net. Remember that, the world without the Net? Stone Age. I was doing them all a favour.

  And here’s me thinking it was art, said Mina.

  Course it was art. It still is art. Everything’s art. I just helped the art along.

  And little Lulu cut the mustard in Goolwa?

  She was a natural. As to Oz, Hey Bulldog was only open eighteen months. Not long enough. It was still in the experimental stage. And now, years later, I’m trying again. One last throw of the dice.

  Was it expensive over there?

  Not really. I didn’t own the place, after all. Just a dusty little shop, wasn’t it? A shop with a garden we tried to use for unplugged nights.

  Paying the rent was the big expense. And the rates. Making sure most of the bills didn’t get out of hand. But there weren’t proper wages. I never drew a salary. Lulu had to organise her own tax, her own insurance.

  Then Parry smirked.

  As if! he said. It never occurred to me to talk to Lulu about tax. She just wasn’t that kind of person. Too young for a start. The whole idea would be … preposterous.

  IV

  How old was she really, and don’t lie.

  Sixteen.

  Sure?

  Well, yes. Call it sixteen. Maybe seventeen.

  You’re unconvincing.

  Maybe twenty-five.

  Oh yes. Who could ever believe you, mister? I never do. You’re dangerous, you are.

  Then call it seventeen. I think so. No, I know so.

  Sure?

  Believe me. She was. Sixteen. She was twenty. Might have been eighteen. Honestly. Not that it mattered. She was like … family. And I’ve never had a daughter, remember.

  Like me, you mean?

  Not having children is crucial, said Parry. Sometimes I wake up and I think I’m still in Oz. Must be summer, I think, I’m sweating so much. I’m clammy. Christ, I’m soaked.

  But it’s dread I’m feeling. Yes, a kind of sickening horror. And you know what it comes from? It’s not having a family. That’s what.

  But little Lulu was sort of … expendable? suggested Mina.

  Well … who isn’t? After what happened to me I know I am. But, yes, being honest again, she was expendable. Yet that’s not the word. Hey Bulldog was just an idea, remember. A conception. The trick is, always get others to do things for you. So they own that idea. And one day they’ll fight for that idea.

  But you liked her?

  I loved Lulu to pieces. Wonderful kid. Yeah, she slept in the shop. Amongst the stock. Wherever she curled up. In a nest on top of the tapes and posters. Sometimes in a hammock in the garden.

  And you miss that life? Don’t you?

  Too true. But it feels like a dream. I’ve entered the dream time, God help me. And there’s no coming out of that.

  Out of the Dreaming? That’s what they call it, isn’t it? Over there?

  Yeah. The Dreaming.

  So tell me about it, said Mina.

  Parry smiled. It was … the right thing. For a while.

  Or is that called hindsight? Look, I gave Lulu money. Of course I gave her money. Hey Bulldog didn’t cost too much, and I wasn’t really spending my salary.

  So I started paying for Lulu’s clothes. For everything.

  There was this haberdashery in Goolwa high street. Real old-fashioned place. Corsets and stockings and petticoats. Used to be a girl in there I liked. By that I mean she had an interesting face. And, I wanted to rescue her.

  So I brought that girl into Hey Bulldog. She came in once, I think. Picked up a Miles Davis album and … giggled. Without hearing a note. ‘Bitches Brew’ I think it was. Bit different from The New Seekers, which was on the jukeboxes in town.

  And that was it. The girl must have had really ancient parents. You see, some people are doomed. Nothing can be done for them.

  It’s not their fault. It’s just life. Anyway, Lulu hated the shop that smelled of mothballs. So I took her to Gouger Street and let her choose whatever she wanted. Free rein.

  And I paid for it all. For Lulu’s soap and for Lulu’s shampoo and Lulu’s perfumes. Even for Lulu’s tampax. Which reminds me.

  Oh dear.

  Yeah, story coming up. Lulu was already friendly with an older girl. Another native girl. Another sweet face. Sucker, aren’t I?

  Once I came back from Gouger Street and found Lulu tipsy as a wallaby. I couldn’t believe it. Or, perhaps I could.

  Anyway, this other girl had recommended her party trick. You know, the alcoholic tampon trick. Soak your tampax in vodka, then tonic, then insert.

  But forget the tonic. Because tonic’s expensive. And Christ, it worked. Better than Lulu ever expected. I had to put her to bed. Again. After she was sick. Again.

  That’s nonsense, laughed Mina. It’s a bloody myth. But who’d be a parent?

  Not me, it seems. What was funny was her telling the tale. It all came out. You see, I found the tampax applicator in the bathroom. I even warned her about toxic shock. Now that really frightened her. And me.

  So who’d be a mother? said Mina.

  Not that the kid cost much. She wasn’t used to luxury.

  Lucky though, I’d say. Wasn’t she?

  Lulu made her own luck, said Parry. And boy, she had good luck coming to her after that rough time in Addy. Now, where was I?

  V

  You must think I’m naïve, said Mina. Look, you’re just a man. You’re alive. No need to apologise.

  Well, sorry anyway. And sometimes Lulu drank beer and sometimes Lulu drank peppermint schapps.

  Sometimes Lulu even smoked the Dutchies’ draw. That bloody head-spinning skunk the couple next door cultivated in their motel garden. Worse than white widow, that stuff. Once Lulu smoked so much skunk she was sick. Yeah, again. The kid slept for fifteen hours.

  After you encouraged her?

  That time I was really worried about her. Again. But Lulu was a force of nature. She pleased herself.

  And yes, Lulu told me about stars. We’d go out for walks down to the Murray. She’d peel off those old khaki keks she wore and dive in.

  Yes, it scared me. Before that she’d always say, look at this, look at this, Richard! And she’d put my hand on this line of black moles in the small of her back. Above the right hipbone. Her constellation, she called it. Like Orion’s belt, she used to say. But upside down. Her black stars. Above the scar.

  Ooh, do you think I’m a black star, Richard? she’d ask. Am I a black star to you? Or a brown star? Because people are like stars, aren’t they, Richard? Some stars become red and some become blue. But like people, most stars are in the middle. Yes, yellow stars.

  And Lulu would tell me the names of the stars in Orion. The stars I can never remember.

  Oh, she was a golden arrow, Lulu was then. Lulu who could just … vanish. And I was always sure she’d drown in the
Murray.

  So I’d wait and I’d wait until I couldn’t stand it any longer. And then I’d have to wait some more and wait some more before I heard this whoosh, this wonderful whooshing. Yeah, this swooshing sound.

  And there she’d be, Lulu spitting out the Murray’s red water. Lulu boasting about how long she had held her breath this time.

  Over two minutes! Richard. Two minutes fifteen. A record for the stinking old Murray with its waving weed.

  And let’s go and have a cold beer, Richard. Let’s get a Dr Tim’s out of that fridge of yours. It’s been there for two days now. Should be cold enough, Richard. Even for a hot old Pom like you.

  So let’s have a Dr Tim’s in the garden and I’ll test you on your Arabic stars. Yes, I’ll test the schoolteacher. I’ll give the schoolteacher marks out of ten.

  And then you can give me a cuddle, Richard, because maybe I’m missing my mother tonight, Richard. Maybe I’m missing my mum.

  Mina shook her head. You just make it up. Admit it. You could say anything and we’d have to believe you. Because who’s going to check up. On you, Mr Parry? How could we ever find out?

  True, I suppose. But doesn’t everyone? Make stuff up? And believe me, the kid needed comforting. You’re a mother. You know.

  Yes, said Mina quietly. I know.

  Once, I went in too. Dived in the Murray. Scared me, the water was so murky. But warm after the first shock. Cloudy as blood, it was. Sticky as spunk.

  Mina shook her head.

  That river came out of the heart of Oz. The parched red heart. It was like an old sclerotic artery. And I was part of the bloodstream. Couldn’t be more different from here. You ever swim in The Chasm?

  No way. I’d have to be crazy.

  But in the sea?

  Not for years.

  Yes, swimming’s hard to imagine in this mist, said Parry. But look, there’s a silver light out there now. Over the sea. Isn’t that strange?

  But we all used to go in the sea together. The whole gang. Especially Sev. But even Fflinty. And that was in the dark, too. Skinnydipping up at The Horns. We must have been mad.

  Don’t think I ever dared, said Mina.

  But your daughter paints those wrecks, doesn’t she? The ships that sank around The Caib?

  Used to. Paint that is.

  She’s talented, said Parry. If traditional. All that titanium white for seafoam. But I like The Vainquer in your front room. And The Cato’s pretty … dramatic. Yeah, all these storms. The whole coast’s a graveyard.

  That’s what they say, said Mina. A shipwreck every year, it used to be. So my dad told me.

  Where does she live?

  Alys? asked Mina.

  Yes. Your artistic daughter.

  Followed her father, didn’t she.

  While you’re working in Basement Booze? said Parry. And living in a flat over the shop.

  That’s me. Smuggling vodka and fags up the back stairs. Wanting to do the accounts by hand when it’s got to be spreadsheets and pricy accounting packages now. Tragic, aren’t I?

  You’re a heroine, laughed Parry.

  Can’t compete with the supermarkets, can we? There’s talk of a three-month extension. But it’ll be a miracle if we’re saved.

  Testing times, said Parry.

  And here’s you opening a business, selling, exactly … what?

  Dreams, laughed Parry. Believe me, I am. No, to be truthful, old records and CDs. But dreams are the real niche market.

  Romantic, aren’t you.

  Look, Badfinger’s giving people something cool. It’s just an experiment. And, like I said, it’s tough all round. My pension’s paying for it.

  Pension? laughed Mina. Christ, what’s that? I deal in real life, honey. While you’re still dreaming. Yes, you’re still in the dream time.

  I’m as real as you, said Parry. Look, I’m not a philanthropist.

  See that display? asked Mina. That bottle of red wine on top costs fifty quid. Been here since I arrived. Before we close, when it’s even harder to make a living, I’m going to smash that bottle. Or pretend to. Then you can come over to celebrate. I’ll do a bolognaise.

  It’s a date. And Alys has talent. Tell her from me. Remember, I used to teach art.

  And you can tell a story, said Mina. But that Lulu girl had you round her little finger. Didn’t she?

  Parry looked away.

  So you’ll have to finish the story. About what happened. Because something happened over there. Didn’t it? Something that scared you home.

  Look, if everything’s a story, said Parry, the best stories are the ones you work out yourself. But the very best stories never run in straight lines. Don’t you agree?

  Course I do. But with stories like yours I’ve just no idea what to believe.

  Believe it all, said Parry, grimacing at the coffee. Every word.

  VI

  In summer, cycling was difficult in the fair. There were too many distracted visitors. Often, Parry had to dismount.

  But winters were different. He remembered one ride clearly. It was a freezing day in the first week of December. He passed the Kingdom of Evil and the Ritzy. Then took the sandy road into the aisles of caravans. Even dog walkers were scarce.

  But predictably, the allotments were busy. Parry had decided upon one job only. Cutting down the sunflowers, then burning them.

  That summer there had been a remarkable crop. Twenty had survived, the latest version of the Parrys’ Sunflower Street.

  The tallest of the flowers had originally been twelve foot high. Now they were laid low in ruin. Seedheads in rotten honeycombs.

  When he arrived he noted a rat climbing the tallest stem. Sunflower season was over in barely six weeks. But decline extended months.

  Parry opened the allotment toolbox, never locked. He decided on an antique machete for cutting the stems. Then a caib for digging out rootballs.

  It was satisfactory work. Lopping, cutting, hacking. The sunflowers were dry now, and soon their faces were restored to a final corona. The pyre released a barrage of sparks.

  And hadn’t someone come over? To complain about the sunflower fire? Yes, a stranger. Parry couldn’t remember seeing him before.

  There’s laws about fires, the man had said. Think of all the pollution you’re causing.

  Sorry, smiled Parry. But if I put them on the compost they’ll never rot down. And if I left these alone they’d be here next summer.

  Black skeletons, he thought. Sunflower ghosts. So all in all, he added, sunflowers are a bit of a problem.

  Don’t belong, do they? the man had said.

  Oh, we love them, said Parry. Especially my mother. She’s the guilty party here.

  To me, they’re aliens, the man had said. South of France? Fine. Put a spell on old Van Gogh, didn’t they? But too exotic for The Caib.

  Doesn’t your heart lift? When you see a sunflower? Mine does. Spuds and beans get predictable, I think. And we can’t grow caulis. Peas are unreliable, too.

  The man had paused.

  When you put it like that, he considered.

  Every one’s a miracle, said Parry. Twelve feet, fifteen almost, these sunflowers. They shouldn’t be here. But every May, they begin. And from about now, my mother collects the seeds. To plant the next generation.

  Parry kept smiling. There was sunflower ash on his brow. One of his shoes showed sparks from where he had rearranged the blaze.

  Watch it, don’t set yourself afire, the man had said. Parry noted that word. It wasn’t local.

  Thanks, said Parry. But I’d be sorry to see them go.

  Seen you in The Works, haven’t I? the man asked. Over in the sheds?

  That’s it.

  Lonely place, out there, said the man.

  I’m used to it now, said Parry. Where no one bothers you.

  FIFTEEN

  I

  I always thought, said Parry, that they looked like tears.

  He pointed close to the quartz. Then stroked the r
ock.

  Or maybe drops of milk, he added. Yeah, stone milk. But become crystal. So crystal milk. Looks like milk, doesn’t it?

  Someone, years ago it must have been, had scratched a crude eye into the limestone. The graffiti had faded but was still distinct.

  The quartz was cool under his fingers.

  I remember the boy who claimed he wasn’t guilty. Of doing that. But I was there when the deed was done. Always getting into some kind of trouble, was Sev. Hard to believe that was over forty years ago.

  Glan too touched the quartz tears. They were a series of white eruptions. Eyelets of ice.

  This is part of a walk I always used to take, Parry said. Reminds me of going to the allotments on my bike. Through the fair, across the badlands, and into the caravan park.

  On that walk I try to pass all the fossils we have around here. While remembering they were once alive. Which, of course, isn’t easy to do.

  Stone’s not alive, said Glan.

  Isn’t it?

  How could stone be alive?

  You know, I always regret not doing geology in college, said Parry.

  But how could stone be alive?

  Because it was once … vital. That’s how. Molten, unstable. That’s stone. And different stones have different tastes. Different smells.

  I can’t smell stone, said Glan.

  Go into the dunes. The highest crest. Break open one of the grey stones on top. Then breathe it in. Yes, breathe in the stone. It’ll smell, all right. A sulphur smell.

  Some stones are full of ghosts. Because fossils are ghosts. And then look into that stone. That stone will be packed with corals. With minute creatures. From the seabed.

  Yeah, stones are full of ghosts. Like echoes in the earth. Or that’s what I think.

  Parry stood on tiptoe and placed his tongue against the quartz. It could have been a glass nipple within his mouth.

  And this stone tastes, too, he said.

  Of what?

  Salt, Parry said immediately, licking the white eye. A beadlet white as a dog’s wall eye.

  Yes, salt of course. But also wet sand. A dead seagull. That horrible cider they sell in The Cat. The outfall. It’s however The Caib smells. Because it smells like home.

  Great.

  You know, I used to dream about that smell when I was over in Oz. Salt forever in the air. Because we’re drenched in salt here. Overwhelmed by salt. There are currents of salt flowing through this place.