‘You put it.’
Pippa grabbed the envelope and shoved it into the outside pocket of my schoolbag, which was lying on the floor. She tucked it well down.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
The following day I stopped on my way home from school at the corner café and looked in. Although its front was lit with an ugly green neon frog, it was murky inside and at first I thought nobody was there. As my eyes grew used to the dimness, however, I saw a boy lounging at the corner table. He was tall, but I couldn’t see much more than that. I went in. ‘Are you Adam?’ I asked him.
‘I might be,’ he said. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m Nicky Starling.’
‘Nicky—oh. You’re Philly’s brother?’
I took a moment to understand who Philly was before agreeing. I dragged out the envelope and handed it to him. He opened it and I stood there uncertainly. Pippa had given me no instructions about a response. Should I ask for one?
He finished reading. ‘Poor Philly,’ he said, but lightly, as if twenty-four hours of throwing up was a minor inconvenience.
‘Do you want me to give her a message?’
‘Tell her I’m sorry.’
‘What for?’ I didn’t mean to be cheeky: I wasn’t sure what the message meant. Was he apologising for something specific, something I didn’t know about?
‘Tell her I’m sorry she’s not well,’ said Adam Pascoe. He stood up. ‘Tell her I guess I’ll see her when she’s better.’
He shoved Pippa’s message into his pocket, picked up his schoolbag, and ambled off. He was tall and dark. I wasn’t sure about gorgeous, but Pip wouldn’t care one way or the other what I thought.
She was cross with me, later, for not obtaining a written response.
‘You didn’t tell me to,’ I said.
‘Do I need to tell you everything?’
That weekend my father was at his grumpy worst. Hawthorn was playing in Sydney, but on Sunday: this meant that, for the second weekend in a row, the almost unthinkable happened: he missed out on going to a Hawthorn match. The Sydney match was televised, but (as he told anyone who would listen) it wasn’t the real thing. Naturally he was going to watch it.
I was roped in, of course, and trailed into the lounge as my father was turning on the television set.
‘Knights is back, Nicky,’ he said with excitement.
I settled myself on the couch. I had Fleshbane tucked inside my jumper, where I could feel his comforting knobbliness without my father seeing him. Watching football at home was better, because I didn’t have to suffer the cold and the rain and the wind, especially at Waverley Park, the most exposed of the grounds, also known as Arctic Park; further, my father’s behaviour was less extreme. He was less likely to abuse the umpire when my mother was in the next room. And I was spared the long trek there, during which he talked about the teams and his expectations, and the longer trek home, when I was dragged through the post-mortem. But to be at home and my father’s only companion was also to be a greater focus of his attention. Sternly requiring participation, he insisted on hearing my halting opinions and found them invariably mistaken.
As it turned out, this match was less of a trial. There had been heavy rain in Sydney and the ground was treacherous: slippery where there was grass and muddy where there wasn’t. This hampered skills I might have been required to notice, and the players slid around a good deal, which I thought was funny. My father made a number of points about how tricky a wet ball could be: I assented to these, and said, Look at that! a few times, which seemed to please him. Knights did well in spite of the wet; so did Eade and Morris, two of my father’s other favourites. We won by nineteen points and I was released.
My father bounced into breakfast the following Saturday. His eyes were shining. ‘Buckenara’s back!’ he said.
‘Okay’, I said, doing my best. ‘That’s terrific.’
‘And Ayres. We’ll romp it in!’
‘It’s Richmond, isn’t it?’ I knew this from the news.
‘Yep. Blow ’em away,’ said my father, turning the toaster on.
‘But aren’t they ahead of us on the ladder?’
A shadow came over my father’s face. ‘It’s early in the season,’ he said. ‘The ladder doesn’t mean much at the moment.’
‘Only because you’re not near the top,’ Pippa snorted, her mouth full.
My father shot her a dirty look as he dropped bread in the toaster.
Richmond won by thirty-nine points. That evening my father was thoroughly depressed. To add to his misery, all the talk was about Gary Ablett and his magical feats enabling Geelong to defeat North Melbourne. My father hated it when Ablett did well.
‘Dermie Brereton kicked six, Nicky,’ he said to me despairingly, over dinner. ‘He’s a hero, that man. But it wasn’t enough. They were tired. Even Lethal was tired.’
Why did he address these remarks to me? Did he think that if he constantly pretended I was a devoted fan of the mighty Hawks I would eventually become one? Did it seem to him that nobody could withstand the fascination of football? These questions needled me.
Pippa found it hilarious. ‘Nicky doesn’t care, Dad,’ she crowed. ‘Nicky wouldn’t care if your precious Dermie kicked fifteen goals.’
My father and I both scowled at her.
It had been an exciting time for me while my father was at the football. A little while after negotiating Zarlok’s adventures as Balyn and Arthur, it occurred to me that Lambs’ Tales would offer excellent plots for my plays. Although I knew in a shadowy way that there was some connection between the Lambs and Shakespeare, I did not properly realise that the Tales were based on plays, or that it might be absurd to turn them into plays. I began to write my plays down. I used an old exercise book and spent much time scrawling in it. I invented, where it was obvious what a character ought to be saying, and stole from the Lambs when I needed extra gravitas. I was proud of my handiwork. The first one I tried was Othello, which presented a number of challenges. To begin with, there was a problem about who should play the main part. Zarlok always took the part of the hero, but Othello was clearly not quite a proper hero; moreover, he was black, and Zarlok wasn’t. The closest I had to a black figure was Fleshbane, but while his armour was black his body was green, so he wasn’t right. In any case Fleshbane was a shoo-in for Iago, whose villainy exactly matched Fleshbane’s capabilities. With some misgivings, therefore, I cast Zarlok as Othello, but not before I had modified his wardrobe. I asked my mother for some black material, and she asked what it was for.
‘Nothing,’ I said. I knew my mother wouldn’t mind and would possibly endorse what I was doing, but my father would mind, and my mother wasn’t always smart about this sort of thing. Guess what, Frank? I could imagine her saying with unwise cheerfulness, Nicky’s using those funny little figures of his to act out Shakespeare. I could imagine the hunch of my father’s shoulders, his renewed disappointment that his son couldn’t and wouldn’t play in the forward line for the Hawks.
Besides, this was private stuff. I didn’t want to share it.
‘Don’t be silly, Nicky,’ said my mother. ‘It must be for something.’
‘Um,’ I said, trying to think of a good lie.
‘Is it for Zarlok?’ she proceeded, with unerring instinct.
‘I thought he needed a sort of a cloak,’ I muttered.
She beamed. ‘I’ve got a few scraps of black velvet somewhere, I’m sure. I could hem it for you, perhaps fit it with a bit of elastic round the neck, sort of like a ruched collar.’
There was no end to my mother’s willingness to help. Her enthusiasm was boundless.
‘No,’ I said, appalled at the thought of Zarlok in a ruched collar, whatever that was. ‘Just a bit of black material.’
My mother sighed at the lost opportunity, but rifled through some drawers and came up with a square of fraying black velvet. I fastened it around Zarlok’s muscular neck with a small rubber band and found the result rea
sonably satisfactory.
I had a limited number of actors, but Othello had few principal characters: Brabantio, Desdemona’s father, was to be played by Brutum, and Cassio, Othello’s friend, by Stinger. Rose would of course play Desdemona. I also had at my disposal an old Barbie-type doll with black sticky hair whom Pippa had named Crystal: she came in useful for small female parts and in this case played Emilia, Iago’s wife.
There were a few issues connected with using the Rose doll. One was scale. Rose was not a Barbie doll like Crystal: she was plumper and had (I thought) a more pleasant face, but she was similar to a Barbie doll and was taller than the Heroes of the Cosmos figures. When they were both upright, the top of Zarlok’s head was level with Rose’s neatly jointed waist. At first I had found this disconcerting, but I became used to it after a while. And you couldn’t stand Rose upright unless she was leaning against something. I worked out that her feet were in their peculiar tippy-toe position because she was meant to be wearing high heels. The high heels had long since gone west, however, and so I found supports within my scenery to keep Rose vertical. The Rose doll seemed to me to bear a distinct likeness to the real Rose: her face was squarish, her lips full and her hair golden; her eyes (although they were blue) seemed alert and wise like Rose’s.
The first act of Othello, which I had copied out into my exercise book of plays, went like this:
Brutum/Brabantio: Why are you getting dressed up, my daughter?
Rose/Desdemona: Daddy, Othello’s coming.
Brutum/Brabantio: Humph.
Rose/Desdemona: He’s so interesting, Daddy. He has been exposed to many perils by land and by water, and has had a multitude of hair-breadth escapes.
Brutum/Brabantio: But he’s black.
Rose/Desdemona: Never mind. He has valiant parts and qualities.
Enter Zarlok, enswathed in a black cloak.
Brutum/Brabantio: Hello, Othello.
Zarlok/Othello: Hello, Brabantio.
Rose/Desdemona: Hello, Othello. Are you going to tell me some more stories?
Exit Brutum.
Zarlok/Othello: Definitely. Have I ever mentioned the time I was taken prisoner by the insolent enemy? Or the time I climbed the mountains whose heads are in the clouds?
Rose/Desdemona: Oh, this is so wonderful.
Zarlok/Othello: Also I have been to the savage nations, the cannibals who are man-eaters, and a race of people in Africa whose heads grow beneath their shoulders.
Rose/Desdemona: Beneath! Are you sure?
Zarlok/Othello: Quite sure.
Rose/Desdemona: It is all passing strange and pitiful. In a way I wish I hadn’t heard it, but then again I am pleased I did. I wish heaven had made me such a man.
Zarlok/Othello: Truly?
Rose/Desdemona: Truly. If you happened to have a friend who loved me, and you taught him to talk like you, that would woo me.
Zarlok/Othello: (kneels) Oh, Desdemona, will you marry me?
Rose/Desdemona: Oh, Othello! Yes, I will. But we’ll have to keep it a secret.
They kiss.
I dispensed with Brabantio’s appearance before the senate (who were beyond my resources), and moved directly to his unwilling consent to the wedding.
Brutum/Brabantio: Well, I will bestow my daughter upon you, Othello, but I wish I didn’t have to.
Zarlok/Othello: Thank you, Brabantio. I must now readily undertake the management of the wars in Cyprus, and I’m going to take Desdemona with me.
Brutum/Brabantio: I wish you wouldn’t.
Zarlok/Othello: Well, I am.
Next came a soliloquy from Iago.
Fleshbane/Iago: I hate Cassio, because he’s got the job I deserved, and I hate Othello, partly because he gave Cassio the job and partly because he’s too fond of my wife Emilia. My plotting mind has conceived a horrid scheme of revenge which will involve everybody in one common ruin. I have studied human nature deeply, and I know that of all the torments which afflict the mind of man the pains of jealousy are the most intolerable and have the sorest sting. If I can succeed in making Othello jealous of Cassio, I think it will be an exquisite plot of revenge, and might end in somebody’s death—I care not whose. (Laughs evilly and exits)
I was bothered by the episode of the handkerchief, in which Iago told Othello that Cassio had been seen using the handkerchief Othello had given Desdemona. If Desdemona had indeed lent a hanky to Cassio (which of course she had not, this being merely an invention of Iago’s), why would this have been so desperate a crime? My mother had explained in response to my questioning that people didn’t in those days have tissues, and so hankies were more valuable than they are now. I was dissatisfied with this and thought the whole business of the hanky was a weakness in the plot, but in the absence of anything better I stuck with it. For the handkerchief I cut a square from an old pair of white socks, and marked it with spots of red texta to simulate strawberries.
Zarlok/Othello: Ah, my occupation sickens me. I no longer leap at the sound of a neighing warhorse. I wish I knew whether Iago is telling me the truth or not. All my military ardour has forsaken me.
Enter Fleshbane.
Zarlok/Othello: Iago, you must give me proof of Desdemona’s guilt.
They tussle.
Fleshbane/Iago: Othello, you know the strawberry-spotted handkerchief your wife sometimes uses?
Zarlok/Othello: Yes. I gave it to her myself.
Fleshbane/Iago: Oh, did you? Well, I saw Cassio blowing his nose on it just the other day.
Zarlok/Othello: No!
Fleshbane/Iago: Yes!
Zarlok/Othello: I will go and ask her. If you are telling me the truth, I will not rest till a wide revenge swallow them up.
The next scene went like this:
Zarlok/Othello: Desdemona! Where is the strawberry-spotted hanky I gave you?
Rose/Desdemona: My darling, I have been looking for it but I can’t find it.
Zarlok/Othello: Ah! Have you lost it?
Rose/Desdemona: It’s not that I’ve lost it, I just can’t find it.
(I had heard my mother say this, about various items.)
Zarlok/Othello: Then get it.
Rose/Desdemona: Well, I can’t actually find it right at the moment.
Zarlok/Othello: Then you have lost it.
Rose/Desdemona: I suppose so.
Zarlok/Othello: That was a magic handkerchief and it was given to my mother by a witch, and the witch told my mother if ever she lost it my father would stop loving her, and then she gave it to me.
Rose/Desdemona: Oh dear.
Zarlok/Othello: That handkerchief was made by a sibyl and the silkworms she used were hallowed. It was dyed in mummy of maidens’ hearts conserved.
Rose/Desdemona: Oh, I thought it was just a hanky.
Zarlok/Othello: Now my spirits are all puddled. (He cries)
Rose/Desdemona: Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep?
Zarlok/Othello: You are just a weed. (He exits)
On Sunday afternoon I was in the middle of one of these performances, lying on the floor of my bedroom, when my father appeared.
‘Nicky,’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’
I swept the figurines to one side and closed my exercise book. I knew that my father sometimes called Zarlok a bloody doll. His mistrust would only be deepened if he got wind of the involvement of Othello and Desdemona.
‘How about the footy on Saturday?’ he asked, his eyes falling on Zarlok’s velvet cloak.
‘You mean, going to it?’
‘Yes, of course. You and me, hey? It’ll be at Victoria Park, and it’s Fitzroy. We’ll thrash them.’
My father would never understand that I didn’t care who won. But if Hawthorn won my father would be in a good mood, and then I would be blamed for less. If Hawthorn won, the trip home would be enlivened by reminiscences about how sublime Tuck was, about the goals Lethal had kicked and the screamers Dermie had taken. If Hawthorn lost, we would travel home in gloomy silence and any comments I da
red to make would obviously be puerile.
‘Okay,’ I said. My mother had encouraged me on this matter. Just go sometimes, she would say. It means so much to him.
‘You don’t have to, you know,’ he said stiffly.
‘I really want to,’ I said. ‘I really do. It’ll be good.’
He nodded, in that dissatisfied way he had, and left. I returned to the tortured Moor.
The problem with Othello was that Rose had to die, and I found this ending made me unhappy and frustrated. It wasn’t fair, and it felt wrong for Zarlok to murder her, even though I knew it was just Zarlok acting out being a murderer.
So when I reached the final scene I tried out alternatives, and settled on a different outcome:
Zarlok/Othello: Oh, I am full of a black purpose. But see! She is asleep! I will not shed her blood, nor scar that white skin of hers, more white than alabaster. But she must die! I will kiss her.
Rose/Desdemona: Oh my dear lord, why are you gnawing your lip and rolling your eyes?
Zarlok/Othello: (in a frenzy) You are a weed, a shitty weed! You must die! You must die!
Stinger enters, wounded and bleeding.
Stinger/Cassio: Othello, what are you doing?
Zarlok/Othello: Cassio, what has happened to you? You are wounded and bleeding.
Stinger/Cassio: Othello, wherein have I offended you, and why did you tell Iago to kill me?
Zarlok/Othello: Me?
Stinger/Cassio: Yes.
Zarlok/Othello: No, I didn’t.
Stinger/Cassio: Here, look at these letters.
Zarlok reads the letters.
Zarlok/Othello: Fuckaduck, Cassio! This discovery is as a thunder-stroke!
Rose/Desdemona: Oh, my dear lord.
Zarlok/Othello: Desdemona, these letters do prove that you have ever been faithful to me.
Rose/Desdemona: I have been, too, my lord.
Stinger/Cassio: What a good thing I arrived in time.
Zarlok/Othello: I have loved not wisely but too well. I will go back to being a loving and doting husband. (He kisses Rose)
Stinger/Cassio: Hooray!
The Starlings Page 6
