Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 1, Issue 3

by David Foster

  Volume 1: Issue 3

  David Foster and Zoë Foster

  Published by Review of Australian Fiction

  “Darcy Redivivus” Copyright © 2012 by David Foster

  “The Younger Man” Copyright © 2012 by Zoë Foster

  www.reviewofaustralianfiction.com

  Editorial

  One of the great mysteries of life, that never ceases to confound me, is why every literate household in the English-reading world does not own the collected works of David Foster. The only reason I don’t have a complete set on my own shelves is because my copies are always out on loan or have been lost or stolen by friends. I do have a copy of Hitting the Wall (1989) – two novellas – which I, in turn, stole from a friend’s shelf many years ago, and which I will never relinquish. It contains the near-perfect novella, “The Job” (1973).

  Foster’s last novel – his fourteenth – is Sons of the Rumour (2009). Susan Lever, writing in The Australian, said: ‘It is Foster at his very best, overwhelming the reader with his imagination, comic energy, wisdom and the richness of his material.’ James Ley, in the Australian Book Review, said: ‘Attempt to characterise Foster’s writing and eventually one will run out of adjectives. There is simply no one remotely like him in contemporary Australian fiction. He is so far ahead of everyone else that it’s not funny. Except it is funny – very, very funny.’

  Perhaps Foster’s greatest achievement is the character, D'Arcy D'Oliveres, a postman, who stars in, or crops up in the background of, many of Foster’s novels, especially the “Dog Rock” novels of the mid-1980s, Dog Rock: a Postal Pastoral (1985) and The Pale Blue Crochet Coathanger Cover (1988), which mark two-thirds of a long promised trilogy. D’Arcy also narrates the epic novel, The Glade within the Grove (1996), awarded the Miles Franklin in 1997.

  Well, for this issue of the Review of Australian Fiction, I am very pleased to announce the return of D’Arcy D'Oliveres.

  When I first contacted David Foster in early 2011, he had completed a draft of the final instalment of the Dog Rock trilogy. It was, at the time, like a piece of D’Arcy’s mail, having some difficulty in finding a home. Foster offered me a stand-alone excerpt from it. And this is “Darcy Redivivus” that you now have before you.

  I maintained my professional demeanour, however, and did not beg Foster to let me read the whole manuscript. And, it seems, my restraint may now be rewarded. Because since submitting this piece, David Foster informs me that his novel has now found a home, and it will be published as Man of Letters: Dog Rock 3 in July 2012, by Puncher & Wattmann. And this should give you all a few months to go out and read the first two “Dog Rock” novels – at least – if you have not done so already.

  The second story in this issue comes from Zoë Foster, David Foster’s daughter. Zoë is an author in her own right, with two novels already published, Air Kisses (2009) and Playing the Field (2010). A third novel, The Younger Man (2012) is to be published this month. The piece included in this issue includes scenes from this novel. She also has a beauty book, Amazing Face (2011), and a book on dating, Textbook Romance (2009), written with Hamish Blake. She writes what the kids call ‘chicklit’.

  Admittedly, I take a perverse pleasure in thinking of David Foster readers reading something by Zoë Foster, and vice versa. Their chosen literary paths may seem very different, and traditionally, readers may turn away from one, or turn their nose up at the other, style of writing. And yes, there are notable differences. But for the more discerning reader – which, as readers of the Review of Australian Fiction, you clearly are – what will also be noticeable are the traits common to both. For both of these authors approach their work with the same playful, yet serious, concern for language, a sharp wit, and fierce intelligence.

  Which is exactly how their work deserves to be approached by readers.

  Enjoy.

  Darcy Redivivus

  David Foster

  ‘So who were your nominees, Des?’

  ‘All the obvious choices. Neil Finn, Dot Org, Dud Leahey, Nick Cave, Kamahl.’

  ‘Fair enough. No argument there and you say it was when you saw the face of a youthful Ross Commoner on that stamp of the letter for lot B that you lost control of your cycle?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m asking the questions, Des.’

  Friday, February the fourth, 2011, three ten p.m. and I am interviewing a postal delivery contractor in the go-ahead hamlet of Dog Rock, taking notes at his home address, an untended affair, an unwelcoming abode where you make your way to the back door gingerly, through very long grass. You’d want a machete for the front path, a jungle of Pittosporum, our dreaded warm temperate rainforest invader. I was obliged to break the chain on the vehicle gate to gain access. Only has a landline, no voicemail, won’t answer the phone. Owns a Dandie Dinmont terrier, name of Toby, wouldn’t leave me alone and I hate Dandie Dinmonts.

  ‘Never before dropped a Honda ninety. See, it came as a shock,’

  ‘Oh bullshit. We’ve all dropped Honda nineties. I’ll bet you’ve had that day you’d call a dead-set drop-a-thon, Des. From my experience, dropping a bike may be categorised as follows: one, you’re down before you knew it in a drop and drag; two, you take a wrong line and watch, mesmerised, as the bike proceeds to do its own thing. I’d say this was of the latter, mind you, as contractor, it’s your motorcycle, so you do with it as you see fit. Drive it through a rhinotek reindeer into a culvert, by all means. You are entitled, as you are aware, to have two motorcycles, one for superfluity and both to be repaired at your own expense. Always carry a spare tube, would be my advice. I must say, though, this entire business is a bitter pill for management. Ross Commoner, indeed. “Utter betrayal of democracy,” is the phrase I recall from my briefing. It burns still in my ears. And to think, that of 2917 postcodes representing 2561 retail outlets of Australia Post, part of every day, in rural and remote regions of the myriad that deliver, on average, 21 million items of mail across Australia daily, the signal honour of choosing Australian Legends of Popular Song fell to your postcode and you have stuffed it. You realise that? You have cactused it, Des, in citing a nonentity who never even left Dog Rock. We’ll be calling in the experts next time. This is the end of democracy, as far as we’re concerned.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with it! I couldn’t tell you how Ross Commoner got to be on that stamp.’

  ‘So you say. But we are here to ascertain the truth.’

  ‘I suppose they blame me. Always blame the bloody postman, low man on the totem pole!’

  ‘Come come. We are not jumping to conclusions, Des, though we bear in mind you were one of only two people involved in the selection process and you can’t even tell me the other one’s name.’

  ‘I’d know it if I heard it. It’s that girl picks up the outgoing mail from the PO in the white Toyota van. Got a red contractor sticker with Australia Post logo on the bonnet. Only ever see her face behind the steering wheel when I’m coming down Railway Parade at or about four thirty. She never nods or raises a finger even though I’m riding a postal bike. That’s what it’s come to, mate, strangers in the late afternoon. I shall be glad when I’m out of it. How long have I to go now? Two years? I’ve only spoken to her the once and she never replied.’

  ‘Did you know the Australia Post logo, which is red to signify life, was designed in 1975 when Telecom was hived off, to signify a lunette postal horn opposite a red segment and circular to signify the global reach of Australia Post? No, I can see you didn’t. Well, you could be out of it before you realise, Des. It is to your discredit you would not take an honour like this more seriously. I’m asking m
yself as I’m driving down here, what would Gus Nossal be thinking of this? And what would Roy Higgins be thinking? And it’s more than just Ross Commoner, mate. Items of mail have been reported missing from your beat, most recently, a gift voucher for Bunnings Warehouse where lowest prices are just the beginning. Would you mind if I took a quick look at your tool shed?’

  ‘I have no time for tools, can’t get any work done about the place, no time to mow the bloody lawn. It was at the Mail Centre last winter, contractor meeting, I first heard of these Australian Legends. Didn’t think we had any, aside from Ned Kelly. Thought the Queen of England was our Australian Legend. I never look at stamps. I have no time to raise my eyes to the right. No time to read a postcard. There was no forewarning and they slow you down, these meetings. Just as you’re trying to get a good start, they call a meeting on you.’

  ‘Yet often very necessary, Des, these meetings, as I’m sure you would concur. You have ruined this experiment in devolution, you and your friend in the white van.’

  ‘She’s no friend of mine. I have no friends, aside from little Toby. Toby! Toby! Stop that what you’re doing. I wanted nothing to do with these Legends of Popular Song. I saw it as unpaid overtime. Wore a white suit and a red tie, the man who chaired the meeting. Never seen him before or since. Suppose he come from Melbourne or that’s what it said on his card. We just wanted to get back to work, we didn’t need to be wasting time with him. Then he draws this lottery ball from his pocket, see, and he holds it aloft and he’s looking at me. And now he’s smiling and winking. Oh, they slow you down, these meetings. One of these masseurs, too, couldn’t keep his hands off other people’s shoulders. Stead of sitting at the head of table, as was proper, he kept roaming among us, massaging our shoulders. He didn’t like the feel of mine, I can tell you, he found a deal of tension there. Who are you anyway, by the way? Why should I be talking to you? How dare you break the chain on my gate with a pair of bolt cutters? I’ll have you for trespass. I’m in discomfort. I need a couple more Nurofen Plus then I’d like a kip, if you wouldn’t mind. I’m euchred. They’ve been screwing me for years without the margarine and you can replace the chain on that gate.’

  ‘It’s only the one link. No big deal. If I were you I’d put something in my stomach other than white wine if I wanted more Nurofen Plus. How many’s that you’ve had?’

  ‘None of your bloody business! Many as I could get into me. I’ll make meself a sandwich. Would you like one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Food here not good enough?’

  ‘Didn’t say that. Not hungry.’

  Item: what should I memorise of this encounter? I’ll forget the codeine abuse. I’ll recall he was sent home, ASAP, from hospital, and his broken collarbone is causing discomfort, yet how many times has Stewie O’Grady broken his collarbone now? Eight? Nine? You don’t hear Stewie complain. Still leads his team as domestique supreme. Oh I’m a wake up to malingerers. I need to be, in my game.

  So I showed Des my Authority to Convey Mail. I then produced an authority identifying me as an operative of CSG, the Corporate Security Group of Australia Post, authorised to conduct random audits on delivery contractors and sub-contractors, but I find I have left my certificate of graduation from Madras Medical School back home in the CBD. Damn!

  ‘This doesn’t look like you,’ he says, scrutinising my authority. ‘Where’s your comb-over?’

  ‘That sort of talk gets you nowhere. Have you no courtesy and you a postman? You will find me at all times courteous and I would never argue, on a proven principle the confrontation may lead to an assault. You must teach yourself to say, “Just like me, this person is striving to fulfil his/her ends.” I see you’ve signed off on your Self-Paced Contractor Induction Training Participant Guide. Prior to which, you were in full-time employ here as the Dog Rock postman. By the way, I don’t think that’s the right sling they’ve put on your arm there, Des. Tch tch, the way they do things in these backblocks. You want a proper St John sling on a fractured collarbone. I’ve seen your scans. You’ve a slight fracture. Here, when I take this arm sling off, I want you to bend your elbow and raise your left forearm across your chest like so, with your fingers pointing at your right shoulder like so, which may hurt at bit depending on your blood level of ibuprofen, but I can reuse the bandage, which appears to be relatively clean, wrapping it round your left arm with the upper end over your right shoulder, which will stop the arm pulling on the collarbone. Have you perchance a safety pin? I shall need one. Let me just go rummaging through all the drawers and cupboards in your house. Think of it as a random audit. Oh I hope I don’t find any undelivered mail or perhaps a cheque book or two or a mastercard or a Bunnings Warehouse gift voucher.’

  ‘You’ve not touching me. Take your hands off my shoulders!’

  ‘I am a doctor nominated by corporation, Des. I represent Injurynet. I am here, among other matters, to ascertain whether or not you are fit to return to work Monday and I tell you what, it’s looking good. I am a legally authorised medico, mate, outside city limits. I multi-task in serving, with pride, the largest continually operating organisation in Australia. Now for reason on public perception, I don’t want you riding a Honda ninety round this town with your arm in a sling though I’ve no doubt it could be done as the Honda ninety is clutchless and that’s your left shoulder you’ve taken out. I am redeploying you to light duties. I have no doubt you are fit to sort mail and push a mail buggy with your right arm, effecting any necessary braking on the buggy with your left foot, while delivering mail, perhaps a little lighthearted banter, using your right arm, to any street address. As it happens, we’ve a vacancy in Crookwell.’

  ‘I can’t get to Crookwell from here with a broken shoulder! It’s not on the railway line.’

  ‘Ah yes, but you drove yourself to hospital yesterday morning, no worries there. You can drive and you can ride. By the way, my name is D’Arcy D’Oliveres and I shall be doing your run while you’re in Crookwell.’

  ‘Good luck to you.’

  ‘Oh I know what they’re like, these letterboxes of Dog Rock. I doubt they’ve changed. We always knew it would be a slow process of education there but have no fear, Des, for would you believe, that in a former life, I was the Dog Rock postman?’

  Well this rendered him speechless or perhaps it was the packet of Nurofen Plus on top of the four litres of Moselle he’d put away as we spoke, but it’s true: I was the Dog Rock postman once, but when I got out of Kee-mo that last time, I thought, given this third chance at life, I should make something of myself. So I cashed in my super and took a medical degree in Madras. And btw, pay no heed to these Trots, this Communications, Electrical and Plumbing Union, when they claim Australia Post managers use doctors nominated by corporation to force staff back to work before they are fully recovered in order to secure salary bonuses based on keeping the amount of time lost through injury to a minimum. That is a canard.

  You know, I find I am actually looking forward to going back to my old beat? That doesn’t sound right. You know, I find I am actually looking back to going forward to my old beat? That’s better. Mind you, was a time when the Dog Rock Post Office, nowadays a trendy café forever changing hands and names, had a postmaster, a senior postal clerk, a postal assistant, a postman and a telegram boy to serve a population of 352. Today it’s up the road and round the corner, a warehouse serving an ever-expanding population, currently 2753, through the services of a single delivery contractor – Des, who just euchred his shoulder colliding with a rhinotek reindeer then driving off a culvert coming up wrong-angle to a letterbox at one of the numerous lot B’s along the Old Cow Flat Road – and a postal manager.

  Scandalous? To those on the left, to the unionist Trot – perhaps. The economic rationalist will bear in mind that in our last financial year, while we recorded a profit of $260 million on revenues of $4.9 billion, our mail component – our traditional strength – lost $204 million.

  How do I account for it? Neglect of
correspondence, the sure sign of computer-induced ADD. The letter writer must filter out distraction and compose the mind to reflect deeply. The SMS texter, au contraire, wont to solving miniscule hypertextual problems, exhibits, on autopsy, the pathognomically enlarged dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, gained at the expense of the deeper cognitive function required to write a legible, cursive hand. Could it be that a system devised in ancient Persia, as described by Herodotus, and used in every civilisation since is under threat? Not really. Breathe easy. Your right to receive the latest information on supermarket specials is constitutionally guaranteed and, on the subject, please don’t resort to a jussive “no junk mail” sign with the bend gules. It cheapens the look of your residence and only puts the postie in a bad mood to have to stop at a box and not relieve himself. It could lead to injury and what does it say about you? It says you’re a person doesn’t give a fig for the economy because you’re doing people out of a job and you must know that but you don’t give a rat’s. It doesn’t take a deal of effort to recycle mail or if tossing it in the bin is too much trouble for you, do as I do: hurl it down next to the box and mow it up with your mower. That will send a message.

  As to the Dog Rock postal manager, Manuel Laybah: I understand from Des he opted out of the selection process, citing ignorance of Australian culture. Forewent an opportunity to participate in the selection of five Australian Living Legends of Popular Song – thus joining our Last Anzacs of 2000, our Olympians of 1998, our Medical Scientists of 2002, our Fashion Designers of 2005, our Philanthropists, Racing Greats, Country Singers, Tennis Champs – through honouring them, on a postage stamp or two, as individuals who have made a lifetime contribution to the development of our national identity and character but declined, citing ignorance, more likely on a feeble pretext of having 435 private boxes to sort each day before opening up at nine a.m. – all, regrettably, numbered in so ad hoc a fashion as that anyone he tried to train to help would be more of a hindrance and picture it: here is Manuel tossing up mail like a croupier dealing blackjack while his sluggish, highly-paid attendant stands by perplexed, letter in hand, wondering why box 75 is nowhere near box 76, but you see, our unique Dog Rock private box system, such as it is and it isn’t, cannot be changed, for then no one on the other side of that wall would know where their box was. Think of the consternation, the repercussions, the heart attacks! Half this town would have ISH. In the end, it was only Des and the girl who picks up the outgoing mail in the white Toyota van chose the Legends of Popular Song but vox populi, I see no problem. Can you see a problem? Two or more gathered together, no sexual bias. Where’s your problem?