by Ron Elliott
David washed his hands in the laundry and went into the kitchen. It was clean and empty. David went into the hall. There was a bedroom with a big mirror, and on the dressing table there were brushes and lipsticks and powders. There was a little shiny box of dark wood with shiny brass hasps. He sneezed, then sneezed again. There were some flowers in a vase, but the smells were perfume. A cushion on the bed was embroidered with a picture in green and red stitching. David stepped closer to see that it was a lady under a tree, embroidering a cushion of a lady under a tree.
There were long thick curtains that were open, then lace ones under that let the light come in. David could see the window of another house only a few feet from this one. The houses must be nearly touching, but not quite. David went closer to the window, to see inside the other house, but the blinds there were pulled down.
On the wall by the door, there was a painting of a boy, holding up an apple to a white horse. It was in a forest with yellow light and dark trees. The boy was wearing blue shiny clothes with a bow round his neck from times past. It looked like the horse was sniffing the apple, or maybe just looking to see what it was.
‘You’ve found my picture.’
Mrs O’Locklan was at the door, full string bags pulling her arms straight down.
‘No one was here.’
‘Your uncle has gone to see the cricket people to explain why you can’t go to training.’
‘I have to go to training.’
‘Not till your hand is better, you won’t.’
David looked at her, a little angry, but she stared back, neither harshly nor worried, just looking. David looked away from her. He’d see Michael. No point trying to reason with a woman.
‘Nice isn’t it? Do you think the boy is frightened and trying to be brave even though he’s feeling a little afraid?’
David realised that she thought he’d been looking at the picture again.
‘No. It’s just a horse. It’ll eat the apple. Horses love apples.’
‘Then he’ll ride him through the forest.’
David looked at her. He tried to be patient. ‘No. It isn’t his. Be mad to try to climb on a strange horse. Get yourself killed.’
‘Ah, you must be from a farm.’
‘Yes. Dungarin. My grandad an’ me.’
‘You’ll have to tell me about it, once we’re settled.’ She left the room, calling back, ‘Help me put this shopping away, then I’ll start fixing your hand.’
When David reached the kitchen, Mrs O’Locklan was already pulling things out of the bags to put on the table.
‘Do you like spaghetti?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Soon find out. How about lamb chops?’
‘Yes.’
There were peas and potatoes and butter, wrapped in greaseproof paper.
David said, ‘Where’s your husband?’
‘He died.’
‘In the war?’
‘Yes. Did Michael tell you?’
‘No. Is this his house?’
‘No, this is my family house. When my mother died, it was left to me.’
‘Why aren’t you at work?’
‘I’ve taken my holidays.’
‘To be with Uncle Mike.’
‘And to help get your hand better.’
She had stopped unpacking and was looking at David. She didn’t seem embarrassed. Nor impatient. She was just looking with a mild smile, waiting.
David wasn’t sure whether he liked her or not.
She went back to her things on the table, taking a jar out of the bag. It had a chemist’s label. ‘This is to rub in your hand.’ Then she took out a toothbrush. ‘Here, go and use this now, before you grow potatoes in your mouth.’
David looked at the toothbrush.
‘Go on. Freddy Feenie will be here with his motorbike soon.’
The toothbrush made David’s gums bleed, and the ointment, which she came out to rub into his hand and finger, stank like compost. They stood on the back veranda as Mrs O’Locklan worked the ointment into David’s hand. Her fingers were strong, and worked the sore parts as expertly as Mr Scully.
Her face had flecks of red little veins all over, and her neck had lots of little wrinkles as though it had once been bigger, but was drying up now. Her breasts were hidden under her dress, but big and seemed to be breathing, each on their own, like sleeping animals. David looked away, out at the tiny yard again. The back fence was a solid wall of wooden pickets, with a gate in the middle. There was a lane, then more houses, every two joined together, all the same, as far as he could see.
‘That’s the neighbourhood,’ she said.
‘It’s all squashed in.’
‘Yes, nice and snug.’
An arm came over the top of the gate, and pushed the latch. The gate was pushed open and a little man with a huge moustache looked up at them on the veranda. He jumped on the spot, then waved, then did a kind of dance as he turned around and went out again, to come back moments later, pushing a motorbike.
‘That’s Mr Feenie. He’s going to help fix your hand.’
Freddy Feenie looked up at them, and raised a hand as though they should watch. He jumped on the bike, and cranked it to life by jumping on a lever. It growled, coughed then rumbled. He nodded to them smiling. He raised his hand again: now watch. Then he pushed down a stand, and with another leap, pulled the bike back up on the stand. He jumped off the bike, and David thought he might bow. But he smiled, and waved his hand at the bike, as though he’d just made it appear out of nothing.
Mrs O’Locklan led David down to the grumbling motorbike. Freddy nodded and smiled. He nodded a lot. Mrs O’Locklan grabbed David’s hand and put it on the back mudguard of the motorbike. It was shaking terribly and David tried to bring his hand away, but Mrs O’Locklan made him keep it there. She shouted, ‘The shaking will make your finger heal faster.’
David looked at his hand on the bike mudguard, and finally crouched so his back wasn’t all twisted. He looked at Mr Feenie, who stood next to the handlebars revving the motor occasionally. He nodded eagerly again to David, who nodded and smiled back.
David spent the afternoon with his hand variously on the mudguard, the seat and the petrol tank. Occasionally a neighbour or passer-by would put their head in through the back gate or over the side fence and have a look for a minute or so, then go away again. The fumes from the bike made David a little sleepy, but his hand was already feeling better, even if Freddy Feenie wouldn’t stop looking at him and nodding each time David looked back.
At dinner time Mrs O’Locklan came out and gave Mr Feenie some money. ‘For petrol,’ she yelled.
He got on the bike and moved it back and forward so it was pointing towards the back gate.
‘Again tomorrow?’ yelled Mrs O’Locklan.
David yelled, ‘Thank you, Mr Feenie.’
He nodded and nodded some more and smiled. David was relieved when the bike finally left. His ears were shaking as much as his hand.
‘Can he talk?’
‘Oh yeah. The leg off a chair. Did he bend your ear about the cricket?’
‘No. He never said a word.’
She shrugged. David could smell food. There was a big pot on the stove of tomato and meat and another of spaghetti. There was bread, cut thick with butter on it already.
Mrs O’Locklan made him put his hand in a bowl of warm, nasty smelling goop while she dished out their tea. David looked into the bowl and thought he could see bits of seaweed and stones amidst the greasy cream.
‘Secret recipe from a Chinese man at the markets.’
Mrs O’Locklan put a bowl of spaghetti with the sauce on in front of David. She cut some funny smelling cheese onto the top.
‘You’ll have to eat it left-handed, unless you want me to shovel it in?’
David did the shovelling himself, but found it difficult. Large drips of the delicious sauce kept dribbling down. He looked up anxious, but Mrs O’Locklan laughed, as she sucked up a pie
ce of spaghetti making it look like a snake going into a wood pile.
‘Where’s Uncle Mike?’
‘Not here,’ she said with a shrug.
David was trying to decide whether he should say something that was nice, like that Uncle Mike was probably on his way, or whether he should tell her the truth, like that he thought Uncle Mike was probably in a pub, which meant he wouldn’t be here any time soon. Only Mrs O’Locklan spoke first.
‘You don’t get a cow, then complain about the milk.’
‘Why would you,’ said David. ‘That’s why you get a cow.’
‘Hmm. Maybe not a good figure of speech. But what if you think you’ve bought a cow, but you find it’s something else, when you get it home?’
‘What? It’d be a cow. You mean like a barren one or a crook one?’
‘Let’s forget the cow. What I was trying to say is that ... I never met your uncle before ... the hospital, but by all accounts he was a different man. Anyhow, the one I met, all and all, is who he is.’
She took a drink of her sherry. David noticed the glass there for the first time. It was a tumbler rather than the tiny stemmed kind David had seen at the hotel dining room.
‘You met Uncle Mike in the hospital?’
‘During the war.’
‘When your husband died?’
‘Around then.’
‘When he hurt his foot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know my father?’
Mrs O’Locklan started coughing. She’d been sipping on the sherry, and was choking on some that had gone down the wrong way. David was about to try to go to slap her on the back but had his hand in the bowl, and by the time he’d looked from the bowl back to her, she seemed all right again.
‘You need to wipe your mouth and chin, and possibly your neck, chest and stomach. I’m not sure you got much spaghetti sauce inside you.’
David took his napkin and wiped.
Mrs O’Locklan got up and put her plate in the sink. ‘Would you like to go into the parlour and read a book or listen to the radiogram?’
Mrs O’Locklan held the bowl while David concentrated on keeping his hand in it, as she led him up the hall to the parlour at the front of the house. There was a lounge chair and a bookcase full of books, but no piano. Mrs O’Locklan put the bowl on a table next to the lounge, and David followed it.
She turned on the wireless, which was playing songs. ‘I’ll get us some cake after I finish the dishes.’
David started to listen to the song, but soon thought about Nell. It was still summer holidays, so she’d be up late. It’d be light and too hot to go to bed anyway. David saw Nell and himself outside her dad’s smithy. They watched moths in the light coming out of the open workshop, while Mr Parker hammered and swore inside. There was a rhythm to the hammering, and to the swearing. The cars made Nell’s dad angry in a way that horses never did. But as Nell explained, with great seriousness, the more he hated the cars, the more needed fixing and the more money people paid him. ‘I never used to have skinned knuckles before automobiles.’ David remembered the night he and Nell were sitting outside when Mr Parker hit his knuckles and swore the longest sentence of swearing ever, and Nell giggled, and David sat listening to Nell giggle and Mr Parker swearing like it was music on the wireless.
After one of the songs there was a news bulletin. Mrs O’Locklan came in with some fruitcake, and sipped her sherry while she listened to the news with David.
The drought was breaking a record for going so long. The men without jobs had big numbers too, all over the world. A big factory in Melbourne was closing, and the men down on the wharves were having a protest about the police. David was about to tell Mrs O’Locklan that he knew the wharf men and the police, when the man on the wireless talked about the cricket.
‘The Australian and English teams arrived back in Melbourne yesterday, after Australia won the third Test in Adelaide. The English captain played down the future impact of child bowling prodigy, David Donald. Henry Longford: “It was a surprise. No doubt. However, one is rarely surprised in the same way twice, it being of the nature of surprise, not to be expecting it.”’ There was muffled laughter coming from the wireless, which must have been the people listening to Mr Longford standing at a microphone somewhere. ‘“Seriously though, we will be treating young Donald with respect in the next Test, but also as an adult.”’
The newsman spoke again. ‘John Richardson, Australian captain: “He’s a very gifted bowler. We don’t have an age bar in the Australian team. He’s in, and I’m hearing that as many people have enjoyed seeing him as are complaining. Mind you, I know the English players aren’t very supportive.”’ There was laughter, but Richardson spoke over it. ‘“Let’s not forget, our victory was a team effort and we will have to play just as well to match the English team in the fourth Test.”’
It was like the commenting and descriptions he did in his head, but just in a different voice. David looked at his hand in the bowl. It had gone down quite a lot, but was still sore. He wiggled his fingers in the witch’s brew in the bowl. There was an orchestra playing on the radio now and David wondered if he’d heard the radio report or whether he’d just dreamed of hearing it. He turned and there was Mrs O’Locklan in her chair looking at him.
‘Bloody hell, eh,’ she said.
It made David giggle.
Mrs O’Locklan made him wash the goop off his hand and brush his teeth again before bed.
‘Do you want a story?’ she asked after he was in bed.
‘A story?’
‘A story in bed, or would you rather read?’
‘No ma’am. I’m in bed. I’m gunna sleep.’
‘Oh,’ she said, rather sadly. ‘I always had a story before bed when I was little. I still have some of those books.’
‘I’m not little,’ said David, angry with her again. He turned over in the bed, away from her. She could make him feel good then bad by equal turns. She made him do things instead of letting him be. And she hadn’t answered about his father. They’d been interrupted. David thought he’d ask her about his dad again. But when he turned back to say, she’d gone.
David woke in the night. There was music and light coming out from the house. When he got up, he saw his bags by the bed. There were boxes of food and bottles of grog on the kitchen table. The music was coming from the parlour. Flapper music. Shadows rippled on the wall in the hall. He went to the door, and there were Uncle Mike and Mrs O’Locklan, hugging and swaying to the music. Although the music was lively, their swaying was slow, her head resting on Uncle Mike’s chest. His uncle had his eyes closed as he swayed, like he was asleep. He looked happy.
In the morning David got the fire going in the kitchen and boiled the kettle. He ate his breakfast then put away the shopping, but decided not to clean up the parlour. The lamp had been knocked over and lay with the box and paper from the new gramophone. There were empty beer bottles and glasses and records out of their covers. It seemed like a lot of mess for two people to have made.
When Mrs O’Locklan got up, her face was puffy, her make-up smeared. Her hair was bunched up at the back, like a mass of weed but she seemed very happy as she busied herself making a pot of tea.
‘Where’s my uncle?’
‘Having a lie in.’
‘When will I go to training?’
‘When your hand is better.’
‘It’s better now.’
She came and sat on the chair near David and took up his hand. Her eyes were red and the skin under them was puffed and bunched. She pressed his hand quite far from the finger, first in the flesh under the thumb, working her way around. David realised that his eyes were closed as he felt her feeling his hand, like Jess getting a pat, he reckoned, feeling the feeling of it.
‘Uh,’ he said, his eyes opening. It had hurt.
‘You’re not ready yet. Not by a long stretch.’
‘I can bowl.’
‘Maybe, but if you’re completely rec
overed wouldn’t you bowl better?’
David shrugged, angry with her again. ‘I want to talk to Grandad.’
‘Does he have a telephone?’
David got up from the table and went out the back. There was just the little dirt yard with the outhouse and a washing line and fences and roofs as far as he could see. On the farm, when he felt like he did now, he’d walk. If he accidentally hit his thumb with the hammer, which he often did, possibly on account of his fingers always getting in his way, he’d simply drop it to the dirt and walk in a straight line doing nothing but walking until the feeling went. Then David would find himself looking at a tree or a bird or post, or often be down near the dam, like waking up somewhere else, but he’d no longer be thinking about his thumb. He’d be better, and he’d just go back to whatever it was he’d been doing before he got angry. But here, in the city, there was nowhere to walk because there was too much in the way.
He went back inside, where Mrs O’Locklan was still sitting at the kitchen table looking a little ill.
‘I want to cable Grandad. And Nell too.’
‘Very well. Good.’
‘I want to send Grandad some of the money, like Uncle Mike promised.’
She nodded, looking towards the bedroom.
‘And I want to practise bowling.’
‘Not until your hand is better.’
He looked at her. She just sat there, looking back, with no anger, but with no weakness, just like a man not going to change his mind. Finally, David looked down at the table. Her short and chubby fingers touched the tea cup sitting in the saucer.
‘Very well,’ he said finally.
They went to the post office as soon as Mrs O’Locklan got dressed and ready, which seemed to take quite some time. When her hair was brushed and her make-up on, she didn’t look so old. Uncle Mike’s motor car was parked out the front.
In the next street were some railway tracks. There were two men in little huts at the road crossing. Mrs O’Locklan explained that their job was to pull across the gates to stop people and cars when the trains went past. When David had looked at the whole apparatus curiously, Mrs O’Locklan let them stay and wait. Sure enough, at some secret signal, the men came out and dragged the white gates from across the tracks so that they cut off the roadway. They rang bells to stop the people walking through and soon a train came whooshing past in a sooty storm lasting only seconds. Then the men looked up and down the track and pushed the gates back across the track and blew a whistle, like a train guard’s, and the cars and wagons and people who’d lined up waiting all went on their way.
