by Gary Crew
‘Yes,’ I said. Could there be any doubt?
‘Get a sandwich,’ she called. ‘And…’ Her words were lost as the crowd surged. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘Up there, listen…’ and she drew my attention to a person standing on a balcony above us.
We were looking at Sebastian Chanteleer.
‘It is my privilege,’ the writer said, gazing down, ‘to offer a vote of thanks to my mother, Constance Chanteleer, our gracious hostess.’ He raised his glass and, turning this way and that, politely patted one hand against the back of the other, as encouragement for us to join him. Which I did—awkwardly, since I had no glass—seeing as it was the right thing to do.
Then Constance Chanteleer stepped forward to join her son, there, at the balustrade above us.
But I will not tell you about her yet.
Just as I put Sebastian Chanteleer on hold when he was about to take the stage at the Redmond Barry theatre, so I will set his mother to one side while I tell you about my mother. While I have the chance.
Florence Mary Bloome (Florrie to the grocer and the butcher), my mother, was an ignorant woman, full of her own importance. I can say this now that she is dead.
Mum was born to a dairy-farming family in Dunolly, ‘up the bush’, as she would say, her education ending with primary school. Her future was to work on the farm, milking cows and carting slops to pigs. Understanding this, she left for the city. I figure she was also pregnant, not that my father was ever mentioned (though I must have had one).
Mum found work in the big smoke trimming ladies’ hats, clawing her way up to become a milliner, then left to start her own business working from home—and to raise me, which is to her credit.
She rented a three-bedroom weatherboard house. One bedroom was hers, one mine, the other a workroom where her customers turned up in answer to a weekly ad run in the paper. These were society women, looking for an original model to wear to the Flemington races. Mum was rough as bags, but good at what she did. ‘You have a good eye, Mrs Bloome,’ the women would say, and noticing me playing on the floor with her hat blocks and fabrics and artificial flowers, they’d add, ‘And this is your boy?’ Then mum would sniff, and shove me into the yard.
Mum was not only rough, she was also big and dark, having thick black hair that she cut herself. In certain lights I might notice her moustache, which led my friend Rory, who was then our neighbour, to say, ‘Your mum’s a man, ya know.’ And she was, in a way, and had to be, if she was going to get on.
I suppose all of these things made her opinionated. But when opinion is based on ignorance, there’s trouble. Mum was not educated. She knew nothing about literature, or ideas, or politics. She didn’t read and although she had the radio playing while she worked, she made a point of turning it off when the news came on. ‘All politicians are bastards,’ she reckoned. We rarely watched TV. (‘It’s all rubbish,’ she’d say, standing to block my view and turn it off.) She preferred to go to bed (wearing flannelette pyjamas, snoring like a man) and get up early.
So when the butcher said, ‘Who do you think will win the election?’ or ‘This inflation is a worry, hey, Florrie?’ she’d sniff, and hoist her bag over her fat arm and say, ‘I’ve got enough to worry about raising this,’ and give me a push out the door.
Naturally, I grew up ignorant, tagging along after her, doomed to think of her as the centre of my universe.
The best Mum could do for me (as I was told so often) was send me to St Finbar’s Catholic School, which was a cut above the local state school, because she had to pay (not much, but she paid) and that made going there better. Not that she believed in religion, nor the Catholic Church, and especially not the Pope (though she wondered over his head gear), all she wanted was to give me the best. ‘I’ve given you the best that I can, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I’ve laid the foundations. Now you have to climb the ladder of success.’ And so saying she’d whack me across the back of the head, scattering the constellation of buttons or beads or sequins that I was imagining into being, there on the floor. ‘Now put that rubbish away and do your homework.’
For all of her rough ways, I loved Mum, and I think of her still, bossy as she was, especially when I see kids doing it hard, like the ones I saw in Ho’s Chinese that night, with the golden chain made out of sauce.
Still, like every other kid, I grew up. I went to school and I learnt. I drew maps and did sums and read the books that the priests gave me (plus some that I picked out myself), even though they were about stuff that mum didn’t believe in, like martyrs, and saints and golden-haired angels—which is one of the reasons I love Lootie, since she is a golden-haired angel herself—although she rules the roost (much like my mum), I guess.
But seeing as I have drifted off to talk about Lootie (and feel a little more secure), I will leave my mother for a while, and go back to where I was, at Chanteleer’s garden party, with the author on his balcony, towering above me, his mother beside him, her arm through his, like royalty.
Constance was a slight, grey-haired woman dressed in pink, a panel of voile floating from her right shoulder (where Chanteleer stood) across her throat. She seemed gracious enough (from a distance, I admit), her smile set, her face pale and powdered, her curls primped and pressed against her temples.
‘You are too kind,’ she said, her lips barely parting. ‘As is my son. We will come down.’
I saw her white stockings and shoes of pink brocade, pointed and dainty, as Chanteleer took her elbow, suggesting frailty (or his need to control?).
Reaching the manicured lawn, they turned to the crowd, who parted, allowing them through. I pulled back too, not wanting to draw attention, since I had dropped the change that day in the Redmond Barry and made a fool of myself, which Chanteleer would remember. I was afraid too that he might stop, whispering something to me as royalty does to a commoner in a walk-by.
So they came on, looking neither to the right nor the left, but when they drew closer, and I could have reached out to touch them (as some did, receiving nothing in return), I saw his eyes move (ever so subtly), sliding from side to side like a lizard’s, hungry for a fly.
And his hunger fell on Lootie.
His eyes widened in acknowledgment—in a moment, in a flash—which was caught by his victim who reddened and stepped back, allowing him to pass. Along with his mother, you understand, who had seen nothing.
But I had.
In that moment, in that flash of acknowledgment, I realised their pact—although I could not own it. Their union was impossible to me, my Lootie and that children’s writer. Such was my love (my naïveté, my ignorance, I now know), I pulled down a curtain, denying reality (as some do, following a death).
When I stuck my head out to look along the clearway the pair had created (their wake, so to speak, like naval vessels), I saw they were heading for the food. Cakes and sandwiches on silver trays were laid out on white-papered trestle tables, trailing lengths of ivy. I saw tall thin glasses with pink paper napkins stuck in the top, bottles of champagne in silver coolers, and squat glass jugs of lemonade, the surface thick with ice cubes. (Chanteleer was a children’s writer, I reminded myself, although, oddly enough, no children were present.) I also came close to the red-haired stutterer as he wandered about, his boater pulled down hard on his head making his pink ears stick out, a tray of sandwiches, tilting, on the tips of his fingers.
There was something demeaned about him, something neglected, unwanted—feral, almost—that I could not grasp. And he had a scent, I now realised, an odour that I had not caught over the stink of fetid camellias: a gamey sort of smell, like a fox I saw pacing once, close up by the wire, in the zoo.
But I thought myself smart that I now knew who ‘the mother’ was that he had referred to and, being an expert on mothers, I had no doubt as to why he should be intimidated. Chanteleer’s mother was a force to be reckoned with. A curious one. A power yes—but, in her own right, or merely reflecting his? Her mouth remained open, fixed, a slit showing teet
h, a smile communicating nothing. Was that it? Was she no more than a doll, a sort of substitute for someone younger, prettier, sexier, a faux partner, paraded on the arm of her son, not wanting to be there, but being there, to complete a charade? To complement a lie?
I allowed myself to dwell on this, to sink back momentarily into the crowd, vanishing to satisfy myself that I was onto something deep (the relationship of mother and son, the need of a man for a woman), when now I know (in sorry hindsight) that I was lying to myself, deluding myself, denying the look I had seen him cast at my girl, my Lootie, and the blushing acknowledgment she had shot back. Knowing. Agreeing.
Ah, the pitfalls, the swamps, the quagmires, the out-and-out bear traps of love. The blind and wilful ignorance of self as fool.
Recovering (as lovers always do), I spotted Lootie to one side, near the camellias, talking to a man in a blue-and-white striped blazer, much like the others. I didn’t know this man, but I was determined to speak to Lootie so I set out through the crowd. My size helped, as I could lead with my gut, but some people would not shift so I squeezed around. This was not easy with all the teetering plates and slopping drinks and creamy cakes and pointy elbows, and I was frowned at, and huffed at, and made to feel like a bigger fool than usual. I don’t know why I should feel like this (except for my size), since what I heard of their conversations was hardly interesting and not at all intellectual.
Food seemed to be the main topic, or recipes (which is food, I suppose), and while I eat food and enjoy it, I could see no value in going to another person’s house and standing in their backyard to talk about it. Or to talk about it with such passion, or in a crowd, as these people were.
Out of the fifty or so present (and I squeezed past most, or walked into them, or on them), I would say about half were saying, ‘Yes, just a hint of garlic’, or ‘No more than a pinch or pepper’, or ‘Just drizzle it over, you know…’ and waving airily, a drink in one hand and a plate in the other. So I wondered if Ho from the Chinese takeaway should be there, sharing his culinary secrets, or learning some, if that were possible. But the thought did not last more than a second because these people (precious as they were) would learn nothing from a man like him, being Oriental and alien as a space monster. Anyway, I enjoyed Ho’s food as it was, MSG and all, which these people would never add (not even a pinch) since it was bad for them, or so they had been told.
I found Lootie and came up beside her.
‘Lootie,’ I said (too loud I guess because people stared) and Lootie turned from talking to the man in the blue-and-white-striped blazer and scowled.
‘Lootie,’ I said again, not to be put off (but not so loud), ‘I found you.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You did.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No,’ she said, giggling. ‘But Michael might be.’
‘Michael?’ I said, and when the man facing her smiled I guessed that he was Michael.
‘Michael is the principal of St Xavier’s,’ Lootie said. ‘I’ll be doing my teaching practicum at his school in two weeks.’
‘And for two weeks,’ Michael said, and they laughed as if he had cracked a great joke. ‘Yes, I would love a sandwich. Anything but cucumber.’ They laughed again, as if this was funny too.
I didn’t share their humour. I am saying this because it was based on the expectation that I was stupid enough to squeeze back through the crowd and fetch this Michael a sandwich. Love Lootie as I did, I was nobody’s servant. I had enough of that working for XPress. So instead I said, ‘You’ve got a fan pin too.’
Michael looked at me as if I shouldn’t be there (as if I should be fetching his sandwich) and said, ‘Yes,’ and looked down at the pin. ‘I read Chanteleer’s books years ago.’
‘Oh?’ I said, touching the pin that Lootie had given me, ‘Lootie put mine on my coat this morning.’
‘Lootie?’ he said, frowning. ‘Who’s Lootie?’
‘Charlie calls me that,’ she said. ‘It’s like a pet name. Silly, really. Charlie is my partner. Michael, Charlie,’ and we shook hands.
‘So Lootie is going to teach at your school?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking beyond me towards the sandwich table. ‘For her prac. In two weeks. It’s coming up soon.’
‘April,’ she said. ‘We start after Easter, don’t we?’
‘That’s just weeks away,’ I said.
This Michael person looked bored when I said that. ‘Are you sure you’re not hungry yourself?’ he said to Lootie. ‘You’re sure that you wouldn’t like something?’
I could look down on the top of his head. His straight black hair was pulled across a patch of pink skin. With the sun out, he should have been wearing his boater rather than holding it in his hand.
‘I suppose I could have something,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘Just a sandwich. And some lemonade. Is that okay?’ And off he went, not saying a word to me.
‘So how come you asked him to get you something?’ I said. ‘Aren’t I good enough?’
Lootie took the lapel of my sports coat and pulled me towards her. ‘That’s my new principal,’ she whispered. ‘I was talking to him about what I would be teaching during my prac.’
‘So?’ I said.
‘I was talking to him,’ she said. ‘And you came up.’
‘So?’
‘So shush,’ she said. ‘He’s coming back,’ and she turned to face him, all smiles.
But I saw beyond him. It was not just Michael who was coming, but Chanteleer himself, his boater raked over his eyes, devilish, I thought, a smirk on his face.
‘Alice, my dear,’ he announced when he was close enough. ‘How nice to see you.’
Lootie was not ready for this. She had not seen him coming. She slopped the lemonade that Michael had handed her and one of her sandwiches slipped from the plate to the lawn.
‘Oh!’ she said, looking Chanteleer in the face and going red. ‘Oh!’
Then Michael also realised who it was who had come over and while he didn’t jump and spill anything, he certainly hadn’t expected The Man Himself.
‘Mr Chanteleer,’ he said. ‘You must have been right behind me.’
‘Yes,’ Chanteleer said, stepping around the principal to get to Lootie. ‘Indeed.’ And then he said for a second time, ‘Hullo, my dear. We meet again.’
The writer had managed to place himself directly in front of Lootie, with his back to us (both Michael and myself) which was the height of rudeness, so I said, tapping him on the shoulder, ‘Pardon me, Mr Chanteleer, but…’
I have no idea what my but was going to be (‘But you are a rude bastard’, or ‘But you give me the shits…’), but whatever it was, I never said it. Michael beat me to the draw.
‘I’ve been a fan of yours ever since I read The Smallest Icadon,’ he said, moving to make a space for himself beside the writer and opposite Lootie, and consolidating his position very nicely with the question, ‘When was that? 1980?’
‘The Smallest Icadon came out in 1982,’ Chanteleer corrected. ‘I’m not that old.’
‘In fact,’ Michael said, ‘I have a copy here that I hoped you would sign,’ and he produced a novel from under his arm. ‘This is my original copy. To have signed…I see that you have a pen…’ He opened the book in front of Chanteleer.
Without hesitation the author produced that same sexy Montblanc.
‘What author doesn’t carry a pen?’ he chuckled, causing everyone to chuckle, except me.
I pushed myself in beside them and said, ‘Hi, I’m Charlie Bloome.’
The men looked at me but I wasn’t worried.
‘I’m Lootie’s partner. I heard you speak at the Redmond Barry theatre. Last Sunday afternoon.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Chanteleer said. ‘The change.’
‘Yes,’ I said, making my goofy face, ‘I dropped it.’
‘Yes,’ he said, looking bored.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Then Lootie saw you at uni and you invited us to come.
So here we are.’
‘Sorry,’ Lootie said, ‘Charlie will call me that silly name. Sebastian, this is Michael Adams, principal of St Xavier’s Boys. I’m going there to do my first teaching prac.’
‘Ah,’ Chanteleer said. ‘The joys of teaching, eh?’
Seeing that nobody could think of a response, the three of us watched while the other signed. Then Chanteleer resumed command.
‘Xavier Boys, eh? A good school is it?’
‘I like to think so,’ Michael said. ‘I’ve certainly given it my best.’
‘Indeed,’ Chanteleer remarked. ‘And I’m sure that your best is the best. You’re wearing my pin, I see.’ (I was wearing one too, by the way.) ‘And are the boys enjoying my work?’
I might not be the sharpest of tacks, but I swear the principal hesitated before replying to what was (even I could tell) an unfair question.
‘Enjoying?’ Michael asked.
‘My novels…’
‘Well…yes.’
Chanteleer picked up on the hesitation, no doubt sorry that the reply had not been the instantaneous affirmative expected. ‘Oh?’ he said, demanding more.
‘Well,’ Michael said, the tip of one finger stroking his fan pin, ‘to tell you the truth, Sebastian…I can call you Sebastian…?’
Chanteleer smiled in assent, waiting.
‘Well, we read what we can find. Sometimes your titles are hard to come by.’ Then the principal looked at his shoes, as if he had stood in dog shit, and added, abstractly, ‘You know.’
Chanteleer sighed. ‘Oh dear. I will have to speak to Eve about that, won’t I?’
‘Eve?’ Michael asked, having no idea.
‘My publicist,’ Chanteleer informed him. ‘She’s here somewhere…’ He turned directly to Lootie. ‘So, my dear,’ he said, ‘you’re going to this gentleman’s school shortly, are you?’
I gathered from the dismissive ‘this gentleman’ that the author was done with Michael, the principal, and could now enter into a tête-à-tête with the real object of his attentions.
