by Joy Dettman
It rode home with her, on her passenger seat.
Another bottle of Charlie’s Christmas wine bit the dust that afternoon. Its wired-down cork suggested it contained something fizzy, and when she got it uncapped, she wasn’t disappointed. Drank its bubbles as they gushed out, wished she’d thought to chill it, but she wasn’t drinking for pleasure, not today. She needed its hit.
Too much adrenalin flooding her system for it to hit. She took another dose then several more, understanding Shakey Lewis’s need for grog, wondering if Laurie Morgan had been an alcoholic, if he’d primed himself before he’d gone out to rob a bank.
That’s what she was planning to do – or to rob Hilda, Charlie’s daughter.
Lit a cigarette, placed it down on the ashtray, placed the bottle beside it, then picked up the biscuit tin, emptied its contents onto the table and stood looking at it, her internal organs shaking.
Didn’t know if she was shaking because she’d found Charlie’s stash or because she’d almost missed finding it. She’d always known he had his own pool of money hidden somewhere in the storeroom, that he could put his hand on a hundred pound if he’d needed it. She hadn’t known what he’d stored it in, where he’d kept whatever he’d stored it in. All week she’d been cleaning. Every night after work when she’d dropped off a uteload to the tip, she’d hoped she hadn’t tossed Charlie’s stash. She’d checked beneath the weighty old chair, wondering if Charlie had padded it with his filched notes. It hadn’t been moved since she’d started working at the shop. Nor had the iron bed. She’d changed the sheets on it, swept around it, swiped beneath it, swiped out a lost shoe or sock on occasions, but never his crate or biscuit tin.
Alarm bells should have rung when she picked it up. Perhaps on a subconscious level they had. The instant the biscuit tin left her hand a warning siren had gone off in her brain.
‘Just counting my bickies,’ he’d said once when she’d caught him on his knees beside his bed.
Big bickies, wads of it. There had to be years of his filching on the table, and probably his rent money from Miss Blunt. She’d always paid him in cash. Mrs Fulton had at one time paid him in cash.
Until a few years ago he’d spent his ill-gotten gains on packets of shares. When his hearing had let him down, he’d accused his city broker of mumbling and stopped calling him. He hadn’t stopped filching any old note that landed in his cash drawer. Real money, he’d called it. The plastic notes he’d considered play money had been safe. There would be no play money in his stash.
She stood shaking her head, staring at rolls of it, green, blue, red. Hilda’s once Charlie was gone. Everything would go to her. He had no one else – other than his granddaughter.
And right or wrong, they were not getting their hands on these wads.
‘Blame the water-pistol bandit, Charlie. It’s in the blood,’ she said.
Perished rubber bands no longer bound a few of the wads, but paper notes too long bound retained their curl. String had done a better job. She picked up a string-tied wad and felt its weight on her palm, picked up another, weighing each before tossing it down. She didn’t know where to start, if she should start, what she’d do once she started, so she took another sip of wine, then two more.
A small vegetable knife cut the strings from half-a-dozen wads of varying weights. She removed rubber bands, bits of old rubber bands, then swept them and the strings and the mouse dirt into her palm. The mess went into the stove. Rubber stinks. Burning string and mouse dirt stink. The notes on the table stank.
How much was there? Two thousand? Three?
Nothing to be done about a few of the notes. A few generations of mice must have given birth in that biscuit tin, chewed on Charlie’s money, shat on it. She fetched the hearth shovel and brush and swept around the clusters of notes, swept up confetti which appeared to be a mutilated fiver. It went into the stove.
‘Money to burn, Granny,’ she said, then washed her hands, wiped them on the seat of her slacks and lit another cigarette.
She’d have to sort it by colour. That was the only way to go. Stood then, smoke in her left hand, her right tossing curled notes to three corners of the table, red to the right corner, blue to the left, green to her left. And the smell of mouse grew strong.
‘Launder it,’ she advised, and handful by handful she transferred Charlie’s ill-gotten gains to the sink, added water, Rinso, a dash of Dettol.
‘Just floating a loan, Charlie,’ she said, attempting to sink the mess of paper with her palms, to agitate the blue, red and green pudding through the suds. Left them to soak while she wiped the table with Dettol and drank a little more wine.
Margot liked white towels. What you can’t cure, you find a way to live with. She didn’t need them at the moment, so Georgie spread four to cover the table, then prepared a bucket of rinsing water, well laced with vinegar.
Charlie had helped himself to a lot of red but more of blue. She rinsed the red first, placing each carefully on a towel, hoping Elsie or Harry didn’t decide to pop over, that Jenny didn’t take it into her head to drive down, or Raelene ride down. The thought of any one of them arriving suggested she prop chairs beneath the doorknobs.
She worked on, rinsing, shaking excess water, flattening each note, her mind wandering until it was time to spread another towel. The old clock donged three, and too soon four, but she’d emptied the sink, found two escapees beneath the table and given them an individual wash and rinse. The last of the notes were on tea towels, over the seats of the chairs. Towards the end, Charlie hadn’t allowed any old note to get away. He’d even filched brown ten-bob notes.
To Georgie, it had gone beyond money. She had five towels’ worth of red, eight of blue, forget the green and brown. It was obvious without needing to count that there were riches in this kitchen. She’d placed the notes carefully, nine lengthwise along the towels, and nine widthwise, Margot’s white towels made to measure for the job. Granny’s raggedy old towels were crowded, the notes overlapping, but religiously Georgie had stuck to nines.
Back in kindergarten she’d discovered the magic of that number, had learnt her nine times tables to disprove Mrs McPherson’s theory that the total of all multiplications by nine added up to nine. Amy McPherson had been right.
Nine times nine was eighty-one, multiply that by red ten-pound notes and it totalled eight hundred and ten. Multiply that by five towels and it totalled four thousand and fifty – and that was only the red. She had eight towels’ worth of fivers. 81 × 5 = 405 × 8 = 3240 + 4050 = 7290. Now change that into dollars. She had $14,580 in that kitchen – plus the green and the brown. And she had to sit down. Her wine bottle was almost empty.
Five o’clock when she fetched the ironing board and plugged in the iron. A quick press dried and flattened paper. It made a few of those notes look brand new. She stacked them, by colour, on dry chairs, rubber-banding them when the piles threatened to topple. Steam filled the room, steam smelling of Rinso and vinegar, with overtones of hot mouse, but by seven she was done, the notes were packed into a plastic bag, sealed with sticky tape and the bag slid deep beneath her mattress. No one entered her bedroom. No one was likely to lift her mattress if they did enter her bedroom.
A mountain of soggy towels on the floor, fifty per cent of them fit for the rubbish heap. Tossed the rest into the bath and lit the chip heater, gave them a decent dose of Dettol then left them to soak overnight, which should eradicate the mouse stink.
Charlie was still hanging in there on Monday. He was still hanging in there on Tuesday. Then Wednesday, and the phone ringing when she unlocked the doors. She knew it was the hospital to tell her Charlie had gone.
It was his daughter.
‘A chap will be arriving there around midday to do a valuation on the stock and building,’ she said.
‘Has he gone?’ Georgie asked.
He hadn’t, or not to Hilda’s knowledge. Georgie didn’t bother to claim a phantom customer. She hung up on her, picked up her keys and reloc
ked the door. If her chap arrived to do his valuation, he wouldn’t be getting in, not today.
She was at the hospital by ten, holding Charlie’s hand and telling him about Hilda’s chap, about the health inspector, and asking him why he’d bothered helping himself to the ten-bob notes. She told him she’d gone into the money-laundering business, that she was looking on her ill-gotten gains as a bonus for thirteen years of faithful service. He’d heard little of what anyone had said to him these past five years and he hadn’t regained consciousness since she’d found him on the storeroom floor. Sleeping his way to death, a sister told her.
At two o’clock that afternoon Charlie wandered off to join his Jeany, and he did it so silently that for a moment Georgie was unaware he’d gone. Kissed him then for the second time in her life and got out of that ward, not wanting to know what happened next. Walked fast to his old ute, telling herself how ridiculous it would be to weep for him – and she didn’t. She still couldn’t believe he’d done it, had all but convinced herself that he’d beat the odds again, that she’d kidnap him again from the old fogies’ home. Couldn’t imagine Woody Creek without him, or that shop.
Had her mind been on the job of driving, she may have noticed the motor’s first complaint. Her mind wasn’t on the job, and fifteen miles from home Charlie’s ute decided to follow its master to the graveyard. It did the right thing by her, as had its old master. With its last breath, it panted over to the verge of the road, sighed, and that was that. She sat on its running board, smoking and staring at a dry paddock, at dusty sheep, until a truckie stopped to offer her a lift into town.
Told Teddy Hall that Charlie had gone. Told him where the old ute might be found. He told her it could be the fuel pump. She told him to give it a good funeral, then walked around to the shop and let herself in through the rear door where she wrote a note, wrote it large on the lid of a cardboard carton she sticky-taped in the window.
CHARLIE GOT HIS WINGS TODAY. SHOP CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
*
Folk can outlive their time, their old contemporaries. The town had stood still for Vern Hooper, for Gertrude. Charlie slept his way to death at two on Wednesday and Hilda got rid of the body at four-thirty on Thursday.
Had he died three years ago, a dozen of the brigade would have been there. All bar two had beaten him in the race for the cemetery. Few shops closed for him. Miss Blunt closed her doors, and Robert Fulton. That’s all. Had George Macdonald been alive, he might have silenced his mill for Charlie. Maybe he’d shake Charlie’s hand on the other side. Maybe he wouldn’t. They’d never got on in life.
Teddy Hall was at the funeral, wearing a suit. Vonnie had chosen it. She’d told him he had to go, that he was a business owner and the right thing to do was to pay his respects to another business owner. Charlie had always found a job or two for Shakey Lewis. He was there, cleaned up for the day. Enough were there. A few extras came to the wake at the pub where mouse money, the green and brown of it, was shouting two free beers plus sandwiches and tea. To the last, Charlie had enjoyed a couple of cold beers at six.
Hilda and her daughter, who must have had that funeral director lined up before Charlie drew his final breath, turned up for their cup of tea, still dabbing at crocodile tears. Georgie couldn’t look at them. She gave the shop keys and a handful of mail to Maisy to give to them. She’d called into the post office on her way to the funeral.
One letter amongst them hadn’t been addressed to Mr C.J. White, proprietor. She read it at the wake.
Dear Georgie,
I’ve been fighting an internal battle since I left Woody Creek. One day I decide to go back and ask Jenny every question I’ve ever wanted to ask. The next, I don’t want to know the answers.
I thought I was an only child until I turned fifteen. That’s when Mum and Dad told me about Jenny, that she’d had three other children. Sometime later I found photos of Jimmy in Mum’s album. He became very real to me. I used to tell myself that if I’d grown up with my big brother, he would have looked after me. She had no photograph of Jenny’s girls and no memory of their names. You and Margot were never quite real to me. Mum told me I looked like Jenny, but I could never raise an image of her in my mind, other than a shadow sighted from the corner of my eye.
Mum and Dad were in their forties when they adopted me. They’ve been wonderful parents, but they have families they can trace back to England. I always felt like an alien who landed on their doorstep.
There has always been a blank wall behind me. I know now who lives behind that wall, that you live there, that behind you there are grandparents, a horseriding midwife, and Archie Foote.
I’d like to see you again, but on neutral ground. If you ever find yourself in Melbourne, give me a call at the above number, during school hours, and we’ll have dinner somewhere and get to know each other.
How did I know the date of your birthday? That comes under the heading of coincidence. One of the teachers is having a retirement party in June. We had the old records out attempting to trace a few of her ex-students. And there you all were, Georgie, Margot and James Morrison-King, with your dates of birth.
Best wishes,
Cara
THE VISITOR
Groups of mothers congregated at the school gate at three-thirty, their kids cluttering the footpath. Cara walked around them, dodging a few missile kids, her interest on a tram she was intent on catching. Had she been looking at the mothers she may have noticed a tall one with long copper hair.
‘The old school hasn’t changed much,’ Georgie said, falling into step beside her.
Now look what you’ve done, was Cara’s first thought. Her second, I could have at least combed my hair. No time for a third. A response was necessary.
‘You’re about the last person I expected to see today.’
‘Charlie died. I’m out of a job – out of wheels too. I came down to buy a new ute –and buy you dinner if you’re doing nothing better.’
Was she pleased to see her? Yes. No. More yes than no – except she looked like a frumpy schoolmarm shaking hands with Miss Universe, and she was going to miss her tram. Except nothing. There’d be another tram.
Could she bear to go out to dinner with her, looking like a frump? Did she dare take her to the flat?
Plenty more flats too.
‘My flat’s only a couple of stops away. I need a shower. Schoolkids shed germs like dogs shed fleas.’
‘If you tell me you only use white towels, the deal’s off,’ Georgie said.
Loading schoolkids onto a tram took time. They caught it then, Miss Norris and Miss Universe sitting side by side, schoolkids and their mothers staring, Cara asked what was wrong with white towels.
‘I just saw Margot,’ Georgie said. ‘She’s . . .’ She shrugged. ‘She likes white towels and white uniforms. They’ve got her in blue – she’s in a psychiatric place down here.’
Nothing to say to that. Wished she’d worn something decent to school this morning. Wished she’d washed her dishes before she’d gone to school.
‘The old trams haven’t changed much,’ Georgie said.
‘Melbourne’s bone-shakers. I couldn’t live without them. Sydney got rid of theirs.’
‘I’m not used to riding in anything I’m not controlling.’
Talk of trams, utes and car yards carried them to Cara’s stop and as they walked the last block to the flat Cara apologised in advance for the mess she’d walked away from this morning.
‘You’re talking to the wrong person about housework. I eat out of a saucepan to save washing up. I fried bread and eggs in a cast-iron frying pan this morning, ate out of it and left it on the hob. Blame our fathers for that. We didn’t get it from Jenny,’ Georgie said.
‘How is she?’ Just something to say.
‘She went to England a while back.’
‘My boyfriend lives in England.’
‘A long-distance romance. Probably the way to go.’
They climbed the sta
irs side by side, Georgie looking around as Cara unlocked her door. ‘It was all I could afford when I moved in, now I can’t be bothered moving.’
‘I could take to living alone, though not down here. The traffic seems worse when you’re not driving in it.’
‘It gets worse every year. Make yourself a coffee while I shower, Georgie. Open the window if you want to smoke – oh, and my towels are ex-Amberley, white with green stripes.’
‘Green’s good,’ Georgie said.
*
It was easier later, her hair washed, a little makeup applied, clad like Georgie, in jeans and a pretty top.
She made coffee, discussed the school, spoke of the teachers. Only one name was familiar to Georgie, Miss Hadley.
‘She’s the one retiring in June,’ Cara said.
‘I thought she was ancient when I knew her. She taught me for a few months. She taught Margot for the best part of two years. I’ll guarantee she hasn’t forgotten her.’
‘Would you be interested in coming down for her party?’
‘I could be anywhere by June.’
They didn’t go out for dinner. But at six Cara, now asking her questions, learned that Jenny had been adopted by Granny Foote’s daughter, and that Archie Foote, the philandering doctor, had been Jenny’s father – Itchy-foot, Georgie called him. Granny’s itchy-footed quack.
They ate salad sandwiches at seven, and at eight Cara admitted to owning a fold-up bed.
‘It’s as hard as the hobs. I sleep on it when Mum and Dad come down.’
‘Are you shockproofed yet?’
‘Against what?’
‘You probably ought to know what will be under your fold-up bed before you go offering it.’ Georgie had left her zip-up sports bag beside the door. She retrieved it, slid the zip and dug deep to remove a shoe box. ‘I need to tell someone anyway. It’s screwing up my sleep. Blame the hereditary factor,’ she said, lifting the lid.
The mind does a double-take when it’s expecting new shoes and it sees a plastic bag full of banknotes. Cara’s chair tipped over as she sprang to her feet and stepped back.
