Then, one Sunday morning, something woke me. I think I’d been drinking into the small hours. Wasn’t supposed to, but who is? These days? And maybe I was starting to feel cut loose. A state of disassociation.
When you’ve been used to school it’s hard to adapt to change. You realise your need for routine. That you’re uncertain when deprived of it. That you’re bereft.
All that time us teachers spend complaining about the job? Meaningless. We’re institutionalised. We’re timetable addicts. Without the direction a proper job brings to life, lots of people go to pieces.
XII
But forget the red wine or Australian whisky. That Sunday my head was as clear as it’s ever been.
Not a cloud in my mind. I was sharp and primed. I almost said ready, but ready for what I’ve no idea. Outside there was complete silence. Yet I knew. I knew.
Lulu was snoring. Curled like an ammonite in the limestone. In the dirty sheet. And sucking her thumb. Yes, Lulu always sucked her thumb. And I never knew from one night to the next where she’d fall asleep.
It was night, or at least still dark. But I’d heard something. I got up immediately. Naked I suppose, and walked through the shop and opened the front door. I stepped out on to the street.
When I woke it wasn’t quite raining. By the time I opened the door I could hear pittering on the skylight. Big drops. Fat, slow drops. Like blood. Drops so big they exploded around me. Great sticky detonations against my shoulders. On my belly and on my neck. And I knew then the weather had changed. But maybe it wasn’t a serious change.
Because if the rain came from the south it would have been cold, travelling over the southern ocean. Maybe up from Antarctica.
Like when the wind blows east on The Caib, and the sand seems to go the wrong way. Because we’re used to sand travelling east, not west. The same direction the trees point. The way people on The Caib lean into the east. Have you noticed that? Because that’s what the wind on The Caib does for you. Deforms you from birth.
XIII
I’d felt it before, that southern rain. Just once or twice. And I’d hated it.
Cold as quartz, that southern rain. You know, if I was a musician, I’d write a song about it. Minor key, a bit wistful. The mood darkening as the rain grows colder. As you realise that southern rain from the southern ocean means winter coming on.
But this was warm rain. And that’s why I thought it felt like blood. Rain from the interior, where there never was rain. Where the rain didn’t belong.
This was red rain. Miraculous red rain that left rust on my skin and a ruddy film over this silver Hyundai parked in the street.
You know how sometimes everything you see stays clear? And you know you’ll never forget it? It’s rare but it happens.
That was one of those moments, when I saw the silver car. And the silver car made sense. At last I was seeing that car for the first time.
It had been parked by the shop all week but I’d hadn’t really noticed it before. I can remember the car radio had been disconnected and was on the front passenger’s seat. That there was a yellow tee shirt in the back with a smiley face design. Used as a rag.
As soon as it rained I saw rings of red dust around every raindrop. Yes, a blister of dust, like sand bubbles when the tide goes out. And as I went into the street I looked up and saw red rings on the skylight. All these red Saturns.
Cleaning that glass in Hey Bulldog had always been a problem. It was old and pitted, a breast of antique glass that must have served a purpose.
Originally, I’d been determined to make it a feature. God knows that high street needed something distinctive. But cleaning was always the issue. There was moss on the outside so the green stains were never removed, no matter how we scrubbed.
Getting up there was impossible, I thought. But maybe I was wrong. I should have given Lulu a bunk up and a scrubbing brush. Or I should have scrambled up the outside. But I’ve never been good with heights. Or that’s the excuse I made.
But think about it. Everything might have been different. Lulu would still have been living in Goolwa. And I’d be selling books and pop-art collages in Hey Bulldog. On a dust-blown high street. In a town where David Bowie didn’t make a video for Let’s Dance. Where my ghost and Lulu’s ghost drank green tea in the Goolwa Motel. While talking about stars and music and our customers, and how fame was bad for you.
As ever, we wondered whether there was anyone left who wasn’t phoney. Because we were the real thing. Weren’t we? We were the last of the pure. The founders of a new age.
XIV
When I went back inside, I said let’s celebrate. Lulu was asleep but I still called out, commanding her.
Let’s celebrate the rain.
Rain? she grunted. Rain?
Rain, I said. Red rain. And I pulled the duvet back from the bed. This worn old rag with Elvis’s face on it.
But the fat Elvis. The stupid Elvis. Not the beautiful Elvis. The rhinestone Elvis. I pulled Elvis off the bed and grabbed Lulu by the wrist. She was wearing those disgusting khaki shorts and some old vest and I dragged her to the window. I said, all this time we’ve been waiting, months we’ve been waiting, years I suppose, so listen to it. Listen to the rain.
No, she screamed. No. I’m still sleeping. Let me sleep, you bastard.
But she stayed up with me, cursing like a trooper. Stood beside the glass in her curlers. And that’s what we did.
Listened to that rain come down. Not torrential rain, not yet. But by then the light had arrived. Morning happens quickly in the south, and we looked out as the raindrops exploded. Thick as molten glass those raindrops.
And after a while we realised the rain was golden. Yes, it was golden rain falling on Goolwa that early morning. Rain full of desert dust, so it looked golden to us. We stood under the skylight and listened to the rain. With velvet hammers pounding.
XV
Of course, it had rained before when I was in Oz. But not much and I’d never paid attention. Yet even at that moment I could feel the light and the air changing.
The red rains fell, steadily. For an hour or two. We both went out, back to the pavement, drinking in that golden rain. Two fools in the deluge who knew it was a rare rain on our skins.
That rain seemed a blessing. Death of the drought, that’s what the rain meant to us. Everything would be better, we thought. The land could drink and flower again. You know, the wattles and the gums, the fields of orchids.
Lulu walked around in that golden torrent, kicking through the puddles. Pretty soon her hair was hanging straight and lank. No more frizz. The rain was polishing her face and throat and that vest was just stuck to her.
I told you how clear everything was? The silver car, Lulu’s drenched skin? Like a cloud had lifted. Yes, Lulu was golden that morning. Maybe we both were, gilded by a desert in every drop of rain.
Yeah, celebrate, said Lulu. We gotta celebrate. And I admit, it was me who opened the beer. Just one beer each to toast the end of the drought. Because that’s what it certainly was. The end of the endless waiting.
Come on, I said.
It must have been me, mustn’t it? Sometimes you have to take responsibility. So, I own up to that. But just one bottle each. That’s all we had.
And we went down to the Murray and afterwards over to the dunes. We were soaked through but it didn’t matter. It was momentous rain that fell on us that morning.
Other people had the same idea. There were plenty of us at the riverbank, trying to get the Sunday barbies going. Yeah, people were fiddling with the charcoal and cracking the grog.
No, you don’t often celebrate rain. But this was a special occasion. I think people were beginning to believe a catastrophe had been averted.
There’s a pub on the river, where they brew their own. If it was a drink I wanted, and the motel seemed too close, that was the place. A walk and its reward.
That special morning the owners were opening as we arrived. So we sat there, steaming. They
put their heaters on for us, and soon we were dried out.
And no, I don’t think I ordered Lulu more beer. But it all gets hazy. Maybe I had a glass of red. Two at most. They have this real juicy cabernet there, chocolate and leather. Yes, those local wines from McLaren Vale, they’re worth investigation.
But I would never have bought Lulu a drink in public. Kids and booze, that’s a serious protocol. Not that Lulu was a child. Of course not. She was mature and reliable. More than competent in the shop. As much as anyone else I met over there.
Okay, I’d taken her out in Addy a few times. But only for food. Usually at the Sebel Hotel, which has an ornate bar. The kind of place to make you feel good about yourself.
She loved it in the Sebel. I remember once she had shrimps in garlic mayonnaise. Another time it was just nachos with melted cheese at the bar. Wow, she wolfed it down.
But her favourite? Wedges, no question. No one does wedges like the Aussies. Real thick wedges with sour cream. Forget bloody chips, wedges are the genuine thing. We had wedges in Goolwa too, in the motel where they always looked after us.
XVI
And then that rain stopped. More people were appearing on the riverbank. Maybe I thought The Cockatoos should give an impromptu gig at the shop.
It wasn’t organised. Getting the kids together at short notice would have been impossible.
But it’s the type of thing we do, I told Lulu. Spontaneous and natural. That’s what Hey Bulldog really means.
We’re not your puppets, she said.
It would be wonderful, I remember saying. Lots of people would find out about the shop.
Not your puppets, she repeated. And went on repeating. Making up a song. Like she did sometimes. But over and over. Not your puppets she kept singing. Not your puppets.
Yet it was only an idea.
And that’s when I realised. Sitting there by the heater, a glass of wine in my hand at ten in the morning. That I couldn’t make it work.
Yes, I thought, Lulu’s right. This orphan off the street, brought up by her grandmother? She understands it all better than I ever can. Or ever will.
The public doesn’t want the shop. The band doesn’t want to play. And here’s me, literally killing myself to make it work. When nobody gives a damn. Whatever difference it makes is not enough. I’ve tried and it’s impossible.
TWENTY
I
When we went back I think we played Pink Moon by Nick Drake. The whole of the album. Then played it again. And I talked to Lulu about life back here. Trying to explain it.
She was virtually an adult, so she understood. Look, she was definitely an adult. I talked about standing at The Horns and looking towards the iron horizons of The Works. About hearing the songs blow over from the fairground. Ghostly songs all mixed up in the wind. And all the screaming you hear at the fair.
After a while you get used to that. Because if you’re brought up on The Caib, screaming doesn’t mean so much.
We tried some Bach too, Glen Gould doing the Goldberg Variations. With that humming, his own extemporizations behind the notes.
Hmmm, hmmm, hm, hm, Gould goes. Hmmmm … hm! You’ve heard it? Gould’s humming?I love his humming on that recording.
But maybe the drink and the poor sleep the night before were having an effect. I started to think about the end of things.
Poor Nick Drake died, didn’t he? Young as Keats and not much older than Lulu. Though Lulu’s not dead, is she? No, Lulu’s not dead. And I ask myself, aren’t people allowed? To be eccentric any more?
Now that verse, that line from Nick Drake’s song – ‘Now we rise And we are everywhere’ is on his gravestone. I know it’s optimistic yet that line chills me. Why is that? What’s that line mean?
Don’t worry. I know what it means.
Nick Drake was shyer than a man should be. Can be. They turned Pink Moon into a car advert. Like everything else. The whole of music pillaged to sell… Ah, you know.
Does it matter? Well I remember telling Lulu music like Pink Moon cancreate a unique psychic space for yourself. Pompous eh? Sometimes I hear myself and I cringe.
But no, I don’t care. So yes, it mattered. And maybe it still matters. This year we’ve played Pink Moon once in Badfinger. I told Glan and Serene about Nick Drake, even if he’s dead and meaningless to them.
But so is the bloody Goldberg meaningless. A man humming as he plays the piano? Sometimes I switch the Goldberg on in the dark and Glenn Gould is there with me.
Mnmm, hm, hm he goes. Mnmmn… And the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. Christ, I can smell Glenn Gould in my room. Smell that ointment he had to rub into his back and his neck. And the smell is part of the dream. And when I wake it’s still there. That ointment smell.
Ah, don’t mind me. I’m just letting off steam.
II
It’s increasingly hazy from then on. As part of our rain celebration we were playing our all-time faves. So it must have been, let’s see, Miles and Mingus and Terry Riley and JSB and… Yeah, I remember, we did The Easybeats as a homage to Oz.
Okay, maybe we might have played two CDs together. To see if they’d complement one another. Like the fairground, I told Lulu. That’s how the fairground sounds.
But those poor unlucky bastards, The Easies …Life’s not fair is it. And there’s Lulu and me dancing round, singing
It’s gonna happen…
gonna happen…
gonna happen…
gonna…
III
While the party was going on I can remember some man came out of nowhere. Telling us to turn the volume down. Yes, do us all a favour. Do us all a favour and tone it down. Sport. That’s what he said.
Or at least I was told he said that. Because, it’s true, we were inclined to crank it up. Either we’d open the doors, front and back, to create a draught. Or rig The Cockatoos’ PA up on the pavement in the little square between the shop and the motel.
They called that square The Birdcage. And yes, sometimes they held gigs there. Perfect for The Cockatoos. In my mind, I’d designed the poster. Or maybe Lulu had drawn it already. The Black Cockatoos in Goolwa Birdcage. But tone it down, this man told me.
Tone it down. Sport.
Tone it down. Sport.
For Chrissakes.
IV
We weren’t too loud. No, I’m positive we weren’t very loud. But what I do remember is that it was raining heavily.
Yet this was different rain. This was coming the other way rain. This was going to be a long rain. I could tell that. I could easily tell that.
No, not from the interior, this rain. This rain didn’t come from the red, dead dustbowl. This rain was drifting up from the south. From the southern ocean and the icefields. And I had the tune for it, my song to southern rain.
I swear I had started writing that song. I could hear it in my mind. It’s there, waiting for me, that song. I’ve started it. I’ve started that song.
But that must happen millions of times. Think of all the vanished songs and poems. Those ideas lost for want of a notebook or a pencil, a simple recorder. Lost forever…
For Chrissakes, that man said. What are you doing? What are you both doing in here?
But what were we doing? Celebrating, that’s all it was. That’s all. Look, everybody else was celebrating. Weren’t we allowed?
V
The clouds were black in the south. Those rainclouds still massing as they had for weeks. Those clouds like cancer cells.
Okay, the music must have been my choice. Lulu would have wanted Kylie. But we just couldn’t have her in the shop. That day.
I only know what happened from then on by asking questions. Trying to piece the jigsaw together. And I’m still trying.
VI
I’d had a poor night previously, as I’ve said. And I think those pills I’d been taking were still having an effect. Sometimes they make me drowsy. Yes, I think I was taking the pills then. But I’m not sure. Sometimes it�
��s noticeable. I might have nodded off.
No, it’s time to own up. I slept. I went back to bed. I went to sleep and I remember Lulu shaking me, shaking me, saying she was getting her own back, ha, ha. And the next thing I remember she was cuddling up and she was as hot as when she had that fever.
But Lulu always felt like that. A scalding little radiator I used to call her. Hot as the earth in summer. Under those quondong trees.
Yeah, that’s what colour Lulu was, the Goolwa earth. And drowsiness is the poet’s condition. Isn’t it? Keats was always drowsy. John Lennon’s usually tired. Lulu says she shook me but I pushed her away.
But how could Lulu tell me that? I haven’t spoken to Lulu since. Since that man said we played our music too loud. Not since she disappeared.
VII
No I’ve not spoken a word to her I’m sure I haven’t but I can imagine how she felt because she must have been hungry and we never even had breakfast I hadn’t thought of that hadn’t thought of anything just passed her a vest in case she was cold and all I cared about was getting out to celebrate the rain and yes we were dancing this wild dancing but surely everyone was dancing to celebrate and when The Easies came on they were the loudest yes louder than the Goldberg and that man who came in should blame The Easies but what did he know yes what did he know cozit’s gonna happen gonna happen over and over in my head yes all the time it’s gonna happen in my head gonna happen. And that gold dust on her.
Oh I know what you’ve been doing, I said. I know it all.
VIII
Then I woke up. And I remembered.
Everything.
Nothing.
I was lying on top of the bed. The Elvis duvet was half on. Half off. I was cold. I was hungry. My throat was lined with dust.
But my first thought was Lulu. I swear Lulu was my only thought.
I could tell in seconds she wasn’t in Hey Bulldog. I searched all her sleeping places, the nests I’d seen her use, the trunk, the recycling box, the shop window. Behind the green screens. Not there, not there. But I wasn’t worried.
And when no, she wasn’t in the motel either I still wasn’t worried. They gave me my green tea. But I wasn’t worried. I sat in the window looking at the rain. And I wasn’t worried.
Limestone Man Page 22
