Just Relations

by Rodney Hall

  Bill Swan wouldn’t touch the drinks set up for him and paid for by the enemy. They bubbled quietly side by side.

  – Here, Uncle took one of the glasses and thrust it into the senator’s hand. Get this into you. It’s a short cut to bein human.

  All eyes watched as the statesman assessed the situation, studied the poisonous brew, thirty years since he had last tasted alcohol. He sipped. At this rate the torture would last all night.

  – I must go, he announced.

  – Not before you’ve had a drink with us.

  This was Ian McTaggart’s round, being the senior citizen, and then Basher Collins’s round and after that Jessie McAloon stood one for the ladies, which you couldn’t refuse without extreme discourtesy, and young Tony McTaggart on behalf of the generation of the future.

  – I saw your grannie Bill, said Basher. Floating in the old dam bare as a plucked chook.

  – She’s a talented woman alright, Billy said.

  The visiting politician eventually struggled off his bar stool and assembled himself in a departing position. Silly Robbie McTaggart, forgetting who was on whose side, got carried away with sentiment and tucked a little flask of whisky in the man’s coat pocket for the sake of goodwill. Uncle, Basher, Vivien and Billy took him by the four corners and helped him out, the men accidenrally giving him a kick in the shins and a clout across the head on the way. They stood in the dark street once more, balancing, and at a loss. What could be done with the mongrel? There was no one barring George who’d have him; and they weren’t allowing George that pleasure either, or they’d never hold up their heads.

  – Senator, said Vivien Lang. If you’re willing to make do with a blanket and an uncomfortable sofa you’re welcome to stay at my house.

  An absolute hush followed this offer, during which you could not hear his acceptance nor his thanks, as if an explosion had deafened people. Uncle’s head chimed with Elaine McTaggart’s words, words she spat out with such venom he couldn’t comprehend at the time – I saw them don’t you realize, Billy and her together, and say what you like Uncle Swan that woman’ll be the ruin of somebody I shan’t say who, she won’t be satisfied till she has the whole lot of you at one another’s necks, I know women and I know her type.

  The telephone inside the pub began ringing, the sky shivered to black shards that pricked at their skin. Basher escaped back to the bar. Vivien stood her ground against the pressure of Whitey’s. Bill struggled with a storm of outrage, and yet he was also tantalized by this way she had of reacting impulsively and getting things wrong. She didn’t appear to care what anybody thought of her, which attracted him and held him in check.

  Vivien blamed herself for a clumsy fool. But how could you go back on it without sinking even lower? Nothing more than politeness prevented her modifying the invitation with some impossible condition. But she had an intuition about Great-aunt Annie and her self-imposed exile instead: might she be ashamed … and at the same time proud?

  – I’ll bring the gear up from my car, the visitor declared sedately. He opened the door of the deflated vehicle and out bounded sixty-seven pounds of woolly black dog, sole witness to the crime of harassment, and trotted off to lay its tribute outside the pub. The senator recovered his centre of balance and liberated a suitcase from the clutches of the back seat.

  Vivien was very much at home in the tension she had created; forever the new girl, teased and tormented, an outsider, her father’s face streaked with shameful tears that dissolved her confidence in the world, and something about her mother they kept her from knowing, oh yes, and when she wanted very much to suffer it, to survive it.

  Jasper Schramm again appeared on his porch silhouetted against the bright smoky air of the bar.

  – Billy, your dad wants you on the phone mate.

  – Tell him, Uncle growled as Billy bounded across the road. If he comes in range a my place I’ll shoot the arse off him.

  What was this hope that lifted him to such lightness? And coming now, when he was most sure he had successfully broken free of his parents? Billy skipped indoors.

  – A bad business, said Tony joining them outside and shaking his head at the mystery of the deflated tyres or Vivien’s stratagems; so agitated that even by the streetlamp’s glow you could see he blushed at what remained unspoken.

  Vivien made her getaway. She thought of promising Uncle she’d work on the senator while he was at her place, but wisely changed her mind. It could never sound right. Instead she said Goodnight goodnight, and was gone. So that Frank Halloran, slamming and checking the doors of his car, had to trot drunkenly after her, his cumbersome suitcase banging against one leg and his dog slinking along sensing trouble.

  – Well Felissy, Uncle spoke at last in the tenderest voice he’d used to her for forty years. This could be the end I’d say. We might be seein the end a Whitey’s.

  She conceded that we might.

  – Who’d have thought it, he said.

  – About Miss Lang?

  Uncle looked at her slowly, distrust collecting between them once more.

  – Miss Lang, she repeated. Is deeper than I thought. How she hates that senator!

  – Does she but? he didn’t bother to conceal his hope.

  – Mr Swan you are blind as well as deaf, the old lady exclaimed spiritedly.

  Billy emerged from the Mountain emanating grim colours, the railing ducked as he sprang over it. He ran to the car, checking that its owner had gone, and Vivien too. Vivien, his thirty-four-year-old mistress making the biggest idiot of him. What if, he thought, her hair had been dyed and she was really fifty?

  – Here’s another fool, Miss Brinsmead commented as she left them.

  – I’m coming home with you Uncle if that’s okay, said Billy no longer free to consider Vivien’s house his own. My father wants me back!

  – Christ, Uncle grumbled happily. That’ll be the end of my peace and quiet for the night. Noisy bastard like you in the house.

  – Are you coming Tony?

  Though he would have liked to do so, Tony obeyed some obscure sense of honour in refusing. So much was happening. As usual he had been one step behind. And now it looked possible that he and his best friend might find themselves rivals in love, of all things. Only the highway, the future of the town, holding them together. Vivien’s snub to Billy had given him hope. A false gesture of sympathy would be something he might live to regret.

  – I need another drink, Tony replied and left them to their lousy exclusive friendship. He’d have liked to make a defiant gesture, but knew nothing in this line beyond childhood, the urge to thumb his nose or stick out his tongue disgraceful for a man of nineteen. Stiffly he left them, dissatisfied with himself.

  Frank Halloran, snoring pure alcohol, fitfully tossed around on the tired sofa in the Langs’ back room. He was watching Senator Frank Halloran cutting a white tape tied to the doorhandle of Brinsmeads’ store in Whitey’s Fall, that godforsaken windy hole, and tied at the other end to the trellis at the side of the School of Arts in the same town. The tape stretched right across the road and he was there in the middle cutting it, yes an old Chinaman had given him a large pair of scissors but they were proving difficult to manage. Meanwhile, each side of the tape, uphill and downhill, stretched cars and cars, a traffic jam decked out with bunting, meeting here at this point and waiting only for him to snip the tape and release them, each line of cars to where the other had come from. However, as he watched his hand striving to open the scissors, sunlight flashed on the blades and he looked up because his eyes were dazzled. He could also smell something blossoming apparently, but didn’t recognize it to put a name to. He looked up and what he saw filled him with fear. The mountain itself was changing. The Whitey’s Fall general store remained the same as ever though perhaps cleaner, even the scrolls painted on the doors were identical with the way he remembered them: HASHERDAGGERY BOOTS & ALL TRESPASSERS & PROSECUTED, the Mountain Hotel was exactly the same. But the roadway appeared to be a v
ast barren surface. There was a chicken apparently enjoying it, a white chicken stepping across with its neck jerking in time with its tread as if the cars would never move. Then the mountain turned a curious shape and much larger, dark too and covered with people. And the roadway which the cars had come down was swallowed in a mess of trees, a jungle nobody had cleared, thick vines strangling the houses, monstrous growths. The whole mountain a community of groping shadowy shapes which filled up the sky. And afterward all that was left was this mountain which wasn’t even the colour mountains can be and a pair of dazzling scissors. Then car tyres screeching and a woman … That’s how he woke into the night-time, the dark room spinning and himself flying on the bed, the lovely alcohol still at work. Yes, with sensuous deliberation Frank Halloran careened and banked, whirling away, glimpsing the gold roofs of a castle keep where Vivien Lang would be woken from death by a kiss. He lay in the dark, wondering why he didn’t do this more often.

  In his mind a question stood solid as a witness in court: why had she invited him to her house to sleep? He addressed himself to this question, respectfully.

  You are waiting for an answer to me, the question said.

  Tricky, Senator Frank agreed. The point is, she’s single, he added, impressed with his grasp of fact. But not even the infant Samuel was more mystified by the voice he heard in the night.

  The point is, said the question at last, finding his slowness tiresome and passing him a tangible glass proposition. There’s only one bloody motive she could have.

  The darkness hummed a swarm of bees.

  Senator Frank took the hard fact and turned its crystal, peering for enlightenment.

  Could St Peter himself deny it? asked the question. When you can see right through it?

  He uncorked the fact and took a swig of whisky. In any other way but that, he admitted. She has to be worse off for having me here.

  Jesus! the thing that amazes me, the question accused him, is you in this house, waking up in the middle of the night.

  You mean I’ve already been asleep?

  You’ve got to be joking.

  F.H. consulted the bottle, realizing with some outrage that it was half empty already. I see what you mean, he admitted. Frank, Frank, he berated himself despairingly, tenderly, his chalky feet rubbing together and powdering the floor. He was permitted another swig. But is it too late? Is it ever too late while it’s still dark?

  An insensitive cockerel crowed in the distance.

  It’s a myth that they wake at dawn, the question soothed him.

  Being the cautious, responsible individual he had made himself, Senator Halloran lay a while longer on the spinning, gliding sofa to debate the nuances of the situation, the personal, social (and yes, political, even national) consequences of action or inaction. His drunkenness holding him back with its usual moralistic scruples. He listened and the silence sang a gloria. Even so, microsonic sighs and creaks also reached him from elsewhere in the house. He slid off the sofa nearly cracking his head open as a result of the blanket diving for his legs in a rugby tackle. Extricated, he sat for a dignified half hour composing his nerves while the couch whisked him through a quick tour of New South Wales. He listened again for the giveaway murmurs of a woman frustrated in her desires, his prehensile ear clutching each sound in its little fist.

  What the hell, as the question pointed out. Action is preferable to the deadly sin of sloth. If you do nothing, it reasoned, you’ll always blame yourself afterwards.

  He moved, a herd of nubiles galloping off in the hysterical distance, their sweet bare legs and gentle buttocks a vision. The floor swung up to meet his feet each time he took a step, feet so impressionable they could feel the pattern on the lino. Give him his due; once decided, he proceeded with the same firmness he would adopt to enter the senate chamber when he knew everybody was watching. This was a theatrical occasion. In the dignity of his singlet and underpants, Senator Frank seven-leagued it out of the back room into the ruined passageway where a huge shaggy bear leapt up at his throat. He struggled with the black brute. The heat of it hugged to his chest, teeth glimmered in the dark. Then the vicious animal began whining Brahms’s lullaby in his ear. He knew it. Ocker! His old mate Ocker. He converted his desperate wrestling into caresses. For a moment there he sank in the morass of affection. But the call was on him. He accepted another slug from the bottle which had thoughtfully stuck in his hand. What if, the objective in view and the lady ticking off her ecstasy with his every footfall, this bloody mongrel were to jump in after him and bark the frigging house down? Not cool. Not cosmopolitan. Might easily ruin his pitch. Best take preventative action. His free hand groped for the dog’s collar while the impertinent creature sniffed enquiringly at his breath. A policeman in every dog.

  – Shush, he instructed it.

  Sure enough, someone had thought of the problem already. The dog was tied up on a long rope! Had he accomplished this when he got home from the pub? His head wagged with respect. Marvellous what you can do without even trying. Unless she did it, thinking ahead. Well, it was better to get rid of the animal altogether. Both hands were needed for the knot. He put the bottle on the floor and concentrated. Ocker recognized freedom when it came his way and shot out into the night and the pleasures of perfect camouflage. The senator expressed gratitude to the chamber as he collected his brief and stood erect in his pants. He took exact bearings to navigate the rocking corridor. He wavered at the bedroom door. Actually there was no door, just a conventional opening. Frankie boy occupied this opening with his large blurry form, intent, feeling for sounds.

  She lay breathing on the bed. If you didn’t know better you’d have sworn she was asleep. She even gave a realistic groan and that dry-mouth inducement of saliva common enough among sleeping persons.

  – Are you asleep? Senator Laurence Olivier murmured.

  She turned on the bed discontentedly. He peered at what little could be made out, listening with his whole body.

  – Are you asleep? he asked more firmly.

  She turned again, again discontentedly. He began to feel cold, the merry-go-round slowing down.

  – Vivien are you sleeping? he asked with more urgency. Nothing. He balanced on one foot and then, the virtuoso, on the other, his dry soles brushing the floor audibly, his pulse deafening, his nerves emitting a shrill scream.

  – Vivien, are you …?

  – Mnnh, she moaned.

  – Are you asleep?

  – Mnnh. Mnnh. She tossed the other way, facing the wall. She had stopped breathing altogether. So he stopped too. Then she started again. He breathed.

  Amazingly enough the bottle had arrived back in his hand. This would not make a respectable impression so he stood it on the floor and left it there, giving it a pat to indicate that this time it really must not follow him. And then he ventured his first step into the room. No effect. Another. Missing the support of the wall, he wavered, too soon beside her bed, his bare thighs rustling. Safety firmly put behind him, bridges burnt, the floor crossed, his lot cast, alive with the theatricality of the absurd, he reached for the bedcovers. This time she made no response: a definite encouragement. Gingerly he had opened the way; the principal remaining problem was her position, lying as she was, right on the edge of the bed leaving no room for him to slip in… unless he climbed over her and lay between her and the wall. Frank Halloran held the petrified sheet and blanket while he rummaged for a decision. Surely she would move over? Very gently, very cautiously he placed his hand on her hip and tried pushing her over. Breathing fire, he pressed so carefully that he might have been some natural phenomenon such as gravity. At first she gave a bit, but then resisted. Just as gently she matched his push, she was pushing against him. She was teasing him, her face still to the wall. O ho! a delightful game. He pushed harder, her resistance firmed. Alcohol tapped him on the shoulder and alerted him to a problem: if she was awake, this had to be a challenge he must meet or lose face; but if she was actually asleep, any more definite a
ttempt would surely wake her. Right. And after all, Honourable Senators, had he not already attained advantages too precious to let slip? Wasn’t he ready to get into her bed, satisfied with having taken the initiative, in as strong a position to gain his pleasures as any young hoodlum with a shag-wagon and the charisma of a rock star? He lowered the bedding and considered other means. Thankfully, the merry-go-round jerked into action again, rumbling and a comfort. He delivered his verdict. How could any woman sleep through this? Okay so that meant he had the go-ahead.

  Being a tall man though inclined to fat he opted for the second approach, lifted his large soft leg and stepped right over her recumbent form, placing his foot in the middle of the bed. Then grasping the bedhead firmly, eased his weight on to that foot. The bed sagged in alarm, springs squealing. He was determined, admirable, he didn’t flinch. She rolled into the pit, against his calf. He froze. At that instant a clicking of claws on lino announced the return of the faithful Ocker voluntarily putting aside freedom. The mongrel clattered cheerfully in to fetch him. Still balanced on the leg being burnt to the bone by contact with the lady, Frank Halloran waved his best friend to hell with what could have been mistaken as ferocity. The invisible beast waited politely for this wild activity to cease and then licked his master’s hand with a hot loving tongue.

  – Go away!

  He heard the idiotic thing wagging its tail, thumping the floor like a bass drummer, the night’s nerves soon to be tortured with the skirling of a hundred bagpipes.

  – Go home, he ordered the puzzled darkness. He hissed, he growled, he went cold at the thought of what Vivien must be expecting as she lay there waiting for him. Was he to be the snarling biting mutilating kind of lover? You stupid dog, he whispered for her benefit.

  Ocker whimpered.

  There’s nothing to equal intelligence, thought the senator proudly, though his muscles were beginning to seize up in a chain of cramps from his shoulder to his heel. The dog was heard to slink away and settle outside the door. Once again Frank Halloran could feel the warmth of Miss Lang’s body lolling softly (you might say nestling) against his leg, smelling deliciously of drowsiness. The calm of Johnnie Walker suffused him once more. He took the final plunge and lifted his hind foot off the floor. His underpanted form straddled across her head, a pale colossus, a lover, a falcon hovering, an angel. Without warning, her body contracted in a spasm, next she flung herself out straight again, on to her back, then catapulted violently against his trembling leg. The knee gave way. He clutched desperately at the bedhead. But his fingers slipped on the varnished wood. He was gone. His intruding leg kicked up as he toppled, and with a terrific thud he crashed to the floor on his back. He lay there stunned by the noise and the cold, the hugeness of the catastrophe in that room of whispers and sighs. Secondarily he lay stunned by pains in his lumbar region, his shoulder and, come to think of it, his arm too. Expecting her to laugh or preferably to comfort him: or else wake and scream murder if she really had been asleep. One thing for certain, it was not humanly possible to sleep through such a din. The Honourable Senator, so proud of his priorities, sprawled on the floor of a scarcely known lady’s bedroom while the bruises gathered their sap and blossomed. The house regained its composure. Night poured thick and blue into the room. He congratulated himself on wearing neither glasses nor false teeth.