Shadowboxing

by Tony Birch

  When I told her that I was going to give my father a haircut, she opened her mouth as if she were about to explain why the public health system could not allow this to occur before I interrupted by asking for a towel, ‘his towel, please’.

  He was on the same bench that he had occupied the day before, having already claimed it as his own. Without explaining anything to him I picked up a chair from the day room and instructed him to follow me into the courtyard.

  He stood up from the bench but did not move. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You have to have a haircut, dad. And I am going to give it to you. It’s either me or Modern Settings & Styles.’ He had little idea of what it was that I was talking about, but followed me just the same.

  A late-morning sun sat over the courtyard garden, while an ageing peppercorn tree provided shade. I placed the chair under the tree and instructed him to sit down. I looked across to the windows of the day room. Some of the patients were looking out through the glass, in our direction.

  I placed the towel around his neck and tucked it into the back of his shirt, just as I remembered the local barber doing to me when I was a kid.

  I put the scissors in my back pocket and started by combing his hair. I ran the comb through his hair with one hand while resting the other on his left shoulder. I lifted my hand for a moment before returning it to his shoulder. I looked down at his hair. It was a rich dark colour with the exception of flecks of silver highlighted by the rays of the sun.

  I had not looked closely at his hair before and was surprised by the luxuriousness of his curls. I took the scissors from my pocket and began to cut his hair, clipping at the frayed tips hanging halfway down his back. Some of the patients began drifting out from the day room and joined the line of smokers so that they could get a closer look at what it was we were doing under the tree.

  As I moved the comb and scissors around my father’s head I instructed him to shift his body accordingly, to move his head to the left, to the right, up and down. He responded with naïve dutifulness, as if he had decided to be on his best behaviour. He was able to sit reasonably still, apart from occasionally raising a cigarette to his mouth.

  While giving him the haircut I spoke with him about football. It was a safe topic. And whatever else had occurred between us over the years it remained one of the few interests that we held in common. We talked about the old days at the Brunswick Street ground. He talked about all of those players who arrived at the club full of hope, at the start of pre-season training.

  Most of the young men who tried out with the club never made it. Some went back to suburban football grounds, while others became journeymen-footballers in obscure bush leagues. Some never played again. And most of them were forgotten. But not by him. Before he became sick he had been able to recall most of them, even those who never made it beyond a practice game.

  When I was satisfied that I had cut enough hair to make him presentable I ran the comb through his beard. I decided not to shave him, and gave the beard a trim. I then removed the towel from his neck. There were dark and silver snippets of hair on his shirt collar. As I brushed the hair away from his shoulder I touched the back of his neck with the palm of my hand. I let it sit against his skin for a few moments before drawing it away.

  ‘Come on, dad. We’ve finished. It’s over.’

  He stood up from the chair, turned around and faced me. He looked at me as he brushed hair from the white T-shirt that he was wearing. He ran his fingers anxiously through his hair before burying his hands deeply in his tracksuit pockets and presenting himself formally, in a manner similar to that of a young boy seeking approval from his father.

  ‘What do you think? How do I look?’

  After I left the hospital I went for a long drive, unsure of where I was heading. Somehow I ended up on the boulevard, at Kew. I pulled the car into the kerb, alongside the bluestone wall where Charlie and I had gone over in the stolen Mercedes so many years before. I sat in the fractured cavity of the wall that had never been repaired. I could see the river through the branches of the trees along its bank. The current of the river was slow. It eased its way towards the city.

  I then decided to drive through the centre of Fitzroy, straight up Brunswick Street. I passed the high-rise towers that had replaced the red house and the streets of my childhood, before stopping at a red light at the corner of Brunswick and Gertrude Streets. I looked across the road at a Persian rug outlet, located where one of the streets more infamous hotels, The Champion, had previously conducted business.

  A man about my own age was standing on the corner with a young boy. They were about to cross the road in front of my car. The man was attempting to take the boy by the hand, although the boy himself refused the open hand. He wanted to cross the street on his own. But the man, who I presumed to be his father, would not let him. He grabbed the boy’s hand. As they crossed the road the boy gave in to his father’s protective demand. I watched as they crossed the road, hand in hand.

  My light turned to green and I drove away.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank everyone at Scribe for their commitment to independent publishing in Australia. In particular, I am grateful for the support of Henry Rosenbloom and Russ Radcliffe, who have been so generous with their advice and knowledge. I would like to thank my designer, Miriam Rosenbloom, and my editor, Aviva Tuffield, whose creativity and expertise have enhanced the outcome of Shadowboxing.

  To my friends and community of writers, I am indebted to you for the stimulating conversation and enthusiasm. So my thanks to Helen Addison-Smith, Christen Cornell, Martin Flanagan, Meme Macdonald, Dennis McIntosh, Stephen Muecke, Paul Sinclair, and Arnold Zable. I would like to thank George Papaellinas, who taught me that ‘writing is a roof in the rain’, and Chris Healy, who has always provided a shoulder to rest my head. To the angel of the cemetery, you are with me always. My loving children, Erin, Siobhan, Drew, Grace and Nina, taught me the true value of writing, simply in being who they are. My partner, Sara Wills, is the muse of each word I write. I love her dearly. Finally, to my mother, Dawn Corcoran, I will always be in awe of her courage and bravery.