Peripheral Vision

by Paddy O'Reilly

  Makes me realise I’m a little hungry myself.

  She’s giggling and peering at him dipping the temptation into the water, probably can’t even see the string without her reading glasses, skinny grey stripe at her scalp like some tribal decoration except she’ll dye it away tomorrow pretending she’s ten years younger and she’ll have a glass of dry white wine with a bocconcini and tomato and basil pizza and we’ll all be lovely darling darling.

  A bocconcini pizza would suit me fine right now, the trouble with this reserve being no one eats dinner here, after all who’d bother carting across their pizza or fish and chips and a can of Coke just to abandon it half eaten in the dark for a kiss with the girlfriend when they can parbloodytake at a restaurant up in Lygon St, everything provided, eat and drink your fill then go for a lovely walk along the Merri Creek and make Merri.

  Bugger, they’ve got one.

  Poor little yabbie, tasty morsel of rotten meat dangling in front of the house, you peek out lured by that irresistible smell, you take the lump in one claw and it is so damn good you can’t let go even though the bastards upstairs are reeling you in and you know that disaster’s waiting for you but something inside has locked on to that smell and you find yourself clinging on as you’re pulled up through the water, gentle as a flower drifting in a stream, the light getting lighter until it hurts your little stalky eyes and you know you should let go, you know it’s all over for you if you don’t but that smell has reached into you, taken hold of your mind, you’ve damn well cleaved to that delicious smell and it will be the death of you.

  And when you break the water there they are, the bastards staring at you and exclaiming to each other what a beauty you are, and you are a beauty, you’re a hulk, Godzilla of the yabbie world and still you can’t let go, you’re frozen in your death wish and they drop you and your meat, that useless little dreg of Judas meat, into a bucket of clean fresh water that makes you want to gag and that’s it, the shock wakes you up and you think Jesus what the hell have I done and now, you idiot, you epicurean fool, you start trying to escape, your claws scrabbling against the smooth blue bucket walls but you’re done for.

  There it goes splash, one later to be served up on a bed of seduction salad with a chardonnay jus and a side of I love you I really do now roll over darling he’ll say to the ancient scraggy lovebird who’s cooing and snorking over catching a yabbie like it’s fishery foreplay, look at me you juicy morsel I’m a big brave fishing man at the creek.

  Me and my one-on-one love life on the other hand excuse my pun prefer a bit of privacy, which is more than most you’d guess from the shenanigans going on late at night in this reserve that I like to call the Merri motel, frequented by your underage snoggers and the ones who’ve left their wedding rings in the glove box for a sashay in the weedy dark with some lucky lady.

  Sadly no woman would look at me now with my particularly dreddy hairstyle du jour that I can’t wash since the drought and those cheapskates stealing water for their carnations so the council takes the heads off all the garden taps in the parks, and believe you me I’m not putting my head in a basin at the public toilet with half your ablutionists so blind drunk they think the sink’s the dunny or the vomitorium, can’t tell you how many coiled-up turds I’ve found in the sink and I look at the abominations and realise those idiots must have climbed up and squatted like storks to do a shit in there. Amazing what a bottle of sauvignon blanc will achieve for the human body.

  Oh hell, here it comes.

  If it isn’t the social worker bastard come to gooey all over me, Max have you taken your medication, Max are you eating anything, Max do you want a place to sleep tonight, I tell him you twit, social workers are supposed to be girls, you’re a greasy old bastard from Footscray, why don’t you get a proper job and stop hassling decent citizens like myself, and he always says shut up Max if you had any sense at all you’d be living in the Housing Commission with a cleaner you moron.

  I like the fresh air, haven’t I told you that five hundred times I tell him and he always says there’s no fresh air around you Max, you stink like something died in your pocket and I tell him it did, it’s my self-respect, and he says take your hand off it Max, you could walk out of this today and get a job in an engineering firm and I tell him that’s what put me here in the first place remember.

  Today he hands me a plastic bag saying I’ve brought you a few things like a toothbrush and toothpaste because Max your breath would melt the duco off a car.

  So that’s what happened in the carpark the other day I say, I thought it was the hot wind.

  I like that the old Footscray do-gooder sometimes brings me a feed.

  We sit on the high bank and open up the paper and I’ve got to say the aroma of fish and chips is like rotten meat to a yabbie, I can’t resist it, hungry as anything and him telling me he got a piece of flake and three potato cakes and chips, so I ask what are you going to eat and whammo he pulls out another package from his social worker man bag saying here’s mine and handing me a can of beer and this is it, this is a life good enough for any old bastard, the sun shining, a pair of lovebirds torturing yabbies across the creek and a lapful of fatty batter and salt making my head spin and my mouth fill up with saliva that I wash down with a mouthful of beer.

  To hell with the toothbrush and toothpaste, it would probably knock out the last of my teeth anyway.

  See them over there I say to him and he looks at the squidgy love seniors dangling their meat in the creek, they’re flouting the laws of the reserve I tell him, you should arrest them, they’re stealing the fauna, and they’re going to cook it up in white wine and extra virgin olive oil and boast about it like it’s a prize marlin they’ve wrestled with for hours, man against nature, those bastards are turning my reserve into a dinner party.

  Max he says, stop looking at them or they’ll spot you for the perv you are.

  Mate, sitting next to you I’m suddenly the dapper gentleman I tell him, look at yourself you’ve got to get rid of that fungus growing on your chin, what is that some kind of fashion statement or you forgot to spray on the Exit Mould this morning.

  It drives the ladies wild he tells me and he gives it a quick fondle like he’s Rodin’s thinker and I tell him that oil off your hot chips will give it extra shine and special aroma and he says yep that’s it, hot chip oil is irresistible to the kind of lady I’m looking for. Anyway Max your wife wants to see you.

  They’ve caught another yabbie, splash into the bucket for the doomed clacker and they’re probably already planning the four-course dinner yabbie à la puy lentil ragout with a twist of smug satisfaction, we caught these ourselves didn’t we darling, clink go the shiraz boys clink clink clink.

  Max?

  Fish and chips here in my lap like a piece of stinking irresistible meat and Mr Social Worker’s scratching at his weedface and looking all dewy-eyed at the beautiful nature around us, we’re having a lovely picnic aren’t we. Sure we are you traitor.

  So whaddya reckon Max he says, I could get you a shower at the Brotherhood, give you a couple of bucks for a coffee.

  Not having eaten a big meal in one go like this for a while I’ll probably end up in the vomitorium tonight fighting the drunks and junkies for a bowl of my own.

  I don’t need a wash I tell him, the joy of the outdoor life is freedom to smell like a walking corpse, no wait, it’s freedom to be a walking corpse so bugger off and let me live my wonderful life okay.

  Big fisherman and his missus across the creek are packing up their Ikea fishing stools and burbling over their dinner in a bucket and I see the bloke’s pretending to help her up while he cops a feel of her arse with his big pincer.

  So Max?

  Don’t say anything to me not a word I tell the social worker bastard, because nothing you say can be right and you’re in my domain here I left them everything.

  I’m not saying anything he
says, except kids, I’ll just say that one word kids and leave it with you Max.

  Where’s my dessert I say, you can’t treat a man to a meal without dessert, you’ll never get me into bed this way and he nods and pulls out a packet of caramels.

  Shit I say, did she tell you about the caramels and he says yeah she said to bring a packet of caramels and tell you Emily’s in high school now and she needs help with maths, I promised I’d do it, it’s done, okay now let’s eat our chips Max, I don’t want to mess with you.

  Mr and Mrs Ikea are off now, they look back and wave at us for the dinner party tonight when they can say we saw a homeless man poor old thing, we couldn’t have caught the yabbies without him, it was his stench that brought them scooting out of the water, titter titter ooh we shouldn’t talk like that.

  I’m performing a social service I tell the Footscray bastard, entertainment at the Merri motel they should be paying me.

  You’re keeping the area clear of perverts too he says, the ones with a sense of smell anyway.

  I tell the Footscray social worker hey I saw your ex outside the supermarket with her new loverman and they gave me a fiver, but maybe I shouldn’t have said it, Footscray’s an okay bloke even if he is a do-gooder with a face like a hairy arse.

  Sorry, your kids how are they I say and I think I’m being charming hobo master of the Merri manor but the hairy-arse face folds up like a squashed bun and he says they’re settling into the new house and new stepfather and all that, it’s okay, he’ll be seeing them soon and master of the Merri misstep me backs off with a mighty flourish of a fart, sorry mate I say, too much gourmet food in the middle of the day.

  I’ll be off now the Footscray hairy arse says, you take care of yourself Max.

  I will I tell him, sorry about your kids.

  You should take me up on the offer of a shower he says, the park ranger’ll be onto you for suffocating the native animals.

  I’ll think about it I say, maybe next year.

  I’m not taking the caramels he says when he’s halfway up the bank, his big hairy arse, the real one, squeezed in his pants with the effort of getting up the hill, I’ll leave them with you Max.

  They’re tasty I call back, too rich for me these days.

  I’ll leave them with you he says again, you might change your mind, and the last I see of him is two big arse cheeks disappearing over the ridge.

  This is the best time of day at the Merri motel.

  The picnickers have gone home and the rooters and ranters have yet to arrive, the birds are starting their dusk calls, the council cleaner’s been through the dunnies, the council gardener’s lunch leftovers are in the bin, the free newspapers are lying around on park benches.

  The yabbies, or what’s left of them, slumber at peace in their dark quiet caves under the water.

  Something to Take Care Of

  The girl balances on the top rail of the round yard, her heels knocking against the middle rail, one-two, one-two. Inside the ring, her grandfather steps closer to the chestnut filly. The horse is part Arab with a fine narrow head and a short straight back. The end of the lead rope dangles from the grandfather’s left hand. He stretches his right hand toward the filly but in the distance a chainsaw starts up and she startles and breaks into a canter around the outer rim of the round yard. Her hooves hitting the sand sound like the thud of doors shutting in the distance.

  ‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs to the filly. ‘It’s okay, lovely girl, don’t worry, it’s okay.’

  Joe, the girl’s stepfather, stands in a larger square yard that encloses the round yard.

  ‘Can you see her tail, Holly?’ he says. ‘See how she holds it up when she gallops? That’s the Arab in her.’

  Beside Joe is a second small pony that will eventually be his ride. The stocky dun gelding with a cropped mohawk mane throws his head up and down as the Arab heaves out a great snort before slowing to a trot, then a walk.

  Joe rests his hand on the dun pony’s neck. When he and the grandfather went to buy the horses, cheap because no one had ridden them for a year, the filly was the wilder of the two. She had been broken in and never ridden again. ‘We’ll settle her down,’ the grandfather had said at the exact moment she swung her head around to nip at the man who was tapping her rump with a stick to move her forward. Joe cracked out a nervous laugh. But Holly was begging for a pony of her own, and it would be a distraction. They could do it together with the grandfather’s guidance. Learn to ride. Take on the responsibility of looking after an animal.

  The grandfather had instructed him and the girl in some basics before the horses arrived. Never stand behind a horse, never stand directly in front of a horse, keep a hand on the horse at all times to let it know you’re there, always speak gently. Then Joe had spent hours and hours on the internet watching videos of horse-training. Nothing had prepared him for these warm-blooded wilful animals with ears that seemed to have their own semaphore language.

  Now the three humans and two horses have passed four days together. Joe has groomed the pony each day, brushing the mud and dust from its shaggy coat and slowly untangling its tail. He has learned how to lift its hooves one by one to check for stones, how to fit a halter and how to hold the rope correctly. He has walked it around the agistment property ten times, watching other owners handle their horses, and then he has come back to learn more from the grandfather working with the Arab in the round yard.

  ‘Holly, look,’ Joe says. ‘Look over here.’ Holly turns, and as he says to the pony, ‘We’re good buddies now, right?’ he reaches under its chin and tickles the long hairs to make the pony toss its head as if saying yes. Holly giggles.

  Joe’s hands are always busy. Although his jeans are held up by a belt, the weakness in his left hip means they slide down and he must hitch them up every once in a while.

  He tugs on the halter rope. The pony resists, bracing itself on the sandy surface so that its weight cannot be shifted.

  ‘I can’t move this stubborn mule again,’ Joe says to the grandfather.

  ‘Remember? Walk past his shoulder, catch his eye, then turn and walk away and he’ll follow you. Don’t look back.’

  The grandfather has done the same thing with the Arab. She stands close behind him, her head at his shoulder, her warm breath fanning his ear, and he reaches up around her neck and plays with her mane, moving his hand up the arch to the poll to massage the tendon underneath. As the Arab dips her head he presses his cheek against hers, still scratching the top of her neck.

  ‘That’s my girl. That’s the way.’

  ‘When can I ride her?’ the girl asks. ‘Today?’ She is like her mother. Driven mad by waiting.

  ‘It won’t be too long. She’s a fine little filly, she just needs some love, time and love.’

  ‘What about Bobby?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to change Bobby’s name. Didn’t you say it wasn’t a good name for a horse?’

  Joe is leading Bobby past the girl now. The pony plods with an even gait but Joe drags his left leg and when he turns he has to heft his body in a stiff action instead of swivelling on a heel or a toe. Before Holly’s mother left she had started needling him about his limp. Hurry up, you useless cripple.

  Holly swings her legs over the rail and jumps to the ground. Bobby curls his neck to look at her with interest.

  ‘Can I pat him?’

  ‘Of course you can. He’s our horse now.’

  She is ten years old. Even though it is school holidays she wears jeans, grubby runners and a red school jumper with the crest embroidered on the chest. Her blonde hair twists over her shoulders in scarecrow pigtails. When she reaches for Bobby’s muzzle he tosses his head again, startling her. She retreats, looking to Joe. Even before her mother left she had trusted his word first.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Joe says. ‘Make sure he can see you properly. Stand to the s
ide of his head.’

  Holly inches forward, head high to conceal her nervousness, and strokes the pony’s thick muscular neck.

  ‘Good girl. This old fella won’t hurt you.’

  In the round yard the grandfather is running his hands over the Arab, along her flank, over her withers, up and down her legs and under her belly, all the while talking quietly to her. She steps lightly around him but doesn’t baulk. He’s an old man and although he has no fear it’s fifty years since he worked a horse. His own father was a jockey, an old-school type who flogged the horses when they disobeyed or ran too slow. The grandfather learned a different way to handle horses from a strapper girl he would have married if she hadn’t run off with a track rider from another stable. She taught him how to train a horse with attention and patience. They’re talking to us in their own language, she used to tell him. You have to learn how to hear what they say. The horse’s muscles rippling under his hands, the petal-soft muzzle, the rich smell of horseshit baking in the sun, the snorts and whinnies of the other horses agisted in the paddocks nearby bring back such memories of that stable girl he can feel the grip on his heart that he used to get when he heard her voice ringing from the stalls.

  ‘Granddad, why do they call it breaking a horse?’

  ‘Because that’s what they used to do. That’s what they did with this girl. They beat her around the ears. See?’ His hand slides up the neck of the filly and fondles her left ear. She shies away, puffing and rolling her eyes. He goes back to the steady reassuring strokes along her flank, rubbing her shoulder deeply, pushing the skin back and forth across the muscles. He’s tired already but he doesn’t want Joe and Holly to see. In an hour the light will be gone and he can go home and sit in front of the fire and think about the stable girl, her smell of straw and sweat.

  ‘That filly is so much better already,’ Joe remarks.