by Stephen Orr
‘Yep.’
Aiden started and revved the bike. He put it into gear, edged the nose from the shed and set off down the road. He switched on his headlight. ‘Hold tight.’
‘I am.’
He worked his way through the gears. They moved silently through the dark desert. ‘Good, eh?’
Harry was beaming, the breeze cold, and real, on his face. He saw the way forward. The road. The corrugations that threatened, every moment, to throw him from the bike.
14
Murray sat on an old sofa. It had been exiled from the house when Carelyn had bought an all-leather number (since worn down to the flesh under Chris’s angry arse). It had been placed against the house, perhaps to disguise the damp and un-mortared bricks, or maybe just because it was the best spot, in the sun. Here it got rained on and sand-blasted, slept on by Yanga, used to store bags of fertiliser and rolls of wire.
He sat back, savouring every sun-warmed breath. Without looking, he reached over to a small table and picked up Dr Diamond’s ukulele. He strummed a few chords. Then played a song he’d always liked but never known how to play (Harry had downloaded the chords for him).
We were comrades, comrades,
Ever since we were boys,
Sharing each other’s sorrows,
Sharing each other’s joys …
He savoured the last note. ‘We were comrades, comrades …’ There was a rattle from the junkyard behind the shed. ‘Hello?’
Nothing.
He could see the rusted-out water tank with its shards of peach- and gravy-coloured iron flaking off. Yanga appeared from a rust hole with a mouse in her mouth. She dropped it at his feet. ‘Go on, get out of it,’ he said, kicking it away. She looked at him, tilted her head, returned to the tank and went back inside.
He could remember when the tank had sat at the bottom of the hill, not far from the crew’s quarters. Could remember sitting one morning, in this spot perhaps, when the hands had started calling, ‘Bertie, what the hell are you doing?’ Remembered running down the hill (as a twelve- or thirteen-year-old) and standing in the bushes, staring into the overflowing tank.
Bert (who’d suffered from depression) had climbed into the tank fully-clothed. He was thrashing about—his body agitating as his head disappeared below the water. One of the men had said, ‘He’s fuckin’ well drowning,’ and another had replied, ‘Someone get in and save him.’
He could remember seeing Bert stop, tread water and start to remove his clothes. Wring them out and hang them over the edge of the tank as the rest of the crew watched. Could remember Bert looking at them and smiling and asking, ‘What’s wrong?’ and someone replying, ‘We thought you were drowning,’ and Bert laughing, and replying, ‘No, it’s just how I clean me clothes.’
And he could remember, years later, after the tank was empty, ten or more men pulling it up the hill with a series of ropes fed through the rust holes. Dragging it to where it was now. All this, and everything in the junkyard, just because it was easier to keep stuff than throw it. Throw it where? You could make your own dump, of course, away from the house, but what would that achieve?
Harry came out of the house and stood waiting for something.
‘Old Pew!’ he called, closing his eyes and walking blindly across the compound. He felt with his feet, step after slow-and-careful step. When he came to the shed he stopped. Turned around and started back, still blind, still groping. ‘Old Pew!’
‘Who’s he?’ Murray asked.
Harry opened his eyes. ‘The blind pirate.’
‘Which blind pirate?’
‘From Treasure Island. I’ve just finished it.’ He closed his eyes and continued. ‘Tapping up and down the road in a frenzy …’ He stopped and looked at his grandfather. ‘I need a cane.’ And found a stick sitting in leaf litter. ‘Old Pew was groping, calling out for his old comrades …’
‘How about your exercises?’ Murray asked, strumming chords.
‘Will this do?’
‘Ten minutes of walking. Make sure you lift your legs.’
Harry continued his groping, this time in a circuit around the edge of the compound. Murray underscored his mutterings with music, occasionally singing a line. ‘Comrades when manhood was dawning …’
‘Don’t leave me here,’ Old Pew groaned, leaning forward, searching the air with his free hand, tapping in a telegraphic frenzy. ‘Wasn’t I there for you, when there was a knife at your ribs?’
‘Can you feel your muscles working?’ Murray called.
‘Aye, and me knees bending, and me flesh mending!’
‘Just keep going.’
Tap, tap, tap. Yanga dropped another mouse at Harry’s feet.
‘Eh, Pew,’ Murray said. ‘Someone’s come back for you.’
Harry opened his eyes. ‘No, Yanga.’ He thrust his stick at her and continued. ‘I could walk to the ends of the earth and just fall off. Into a river. And how would you feel, dogs?!’
Yanga started barking at Pew. She couldn’t work out why the old pirate didn’t want her mouse.
‘Ssh,’ Harry growled. ‘Go away.’ But she stood looking. ‘Curse you, Blackbeard!’ The old pirate leaned forward, almost falling over, shouting. ‘Old Pew!’ Spit hung from his mouth and clung to his chin. Then he straightened up and threw the stick away. ‘I’d rather do my stretches now.’
‘What happened to Pew?’
‘Still going, I suppose.’
The phone rang inside.
‘Shit!’ Murray said, standing. ‘Keep going.’
Harry continued, walking the way the physio had showed him. When Murray was gone, he went to the shed and fetched his whip.
Inside, Murray picked up the phone and slumped forward on the kitchen bench. ‘Yeallo?’
‘Dad?’
‘Where are yer?’
‘Still in town.’
‘Still?’ He checked the clock. ‘You were meant to be back an hour ago.’
There was a short silence. He could hear the crack of Harry’s whip, and glass breaking. ‘Harry, exercise!’ he called, but the noise continued.
‘Listen, I think I might stay over,’ Trevor said, cautiously.
‘Where?’
‘Port Augusta.’
‘Where?’
Another long pause.
‘Gaby’s got a spare room.’
‘Has, has she?’
‘It’s getting late and I’m too tired to drive home. It’s safer.’
He could see them in bed together, and he could hear them fucking. ‘How’s that gonna look to the boys?’ he asked.
‘I’m just stayin’ here … in a spare room.’
‘Well, no one’s gonna think that are they?’
‘You want me to drive home and have another accident?’
Murray looked at the uncooked chicken on the bench; the raw vegetables, the unopened jar of sauce. ‘Well, I’ll cook tea I suppose.’ Outside, he could still hear the whip. ‘Harry!’
‘The boys can help.’
‘Fay’s got another bloody headache … she won’t come out of her room. And I haven’t seen Chris for an hour. He’s probably off drowned somewhere.’
‘Okay, I’ll come home then.’
He could hear the girlfriend in the background: What’s wrong? And his son, covering the phone. ‘No, he’s not complaining …’
‘I’m not complaining,’ he growled. ‘Stay. I don’t need you dead too.’
Is it that much of an inconvenience?
‘No, it’s not,’ he barked down the phone. ‘Tell your lady it’s not.’
‘Pop!’
He heard Harry’s cry and the back door slam as his grandson came in. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ Trevor asked.
‘Your son’s cut himself.’ He studied the gash, an inch or so below his eye.
‘It just came back at me,’ Harry said, holding his sleeve over the wound, which continued bleeding.
‘He’s caught himself with his wh
ip,’ he told Trevor.
‘Is it bad?’
‘Hold on.’
He put the phone down and found a clean tea towel in a kitchen drawer. Handed it to his grandson who put it over the gash.
‘Aiden!’ he called. Then he picked up the phone again. ‘It’s under his left eye.’
‘Is he okay?’
‘Yes.’ He spoke to Harry. ‘Press down, tight!’
‘Is it gonna need a stitch?’ Trevor asked.
‘Show me,’ he growled, and Harry showed him. He returned to his son. ‘Yes.’ Called out again. ‘Aiden!’ Turning to Harry. ‘Where’s your brother?’
Harry shrugged.
Chris was watching them, but he guessed there was no point asking him. ‘Jesus, you’re …’ he said to Harry, but trailed off.
Harry knew what he almost said: clumsy, accident-prone, stupid. He could see it in his pop’s eyes. Wanted to cry, but stopped himself. Wouldn’t let the old man see.
‘Aiden!’ Murray called. ‘Fay!’
No one appeared.
‘I can come and get him,’ Trevor said. ‘I can bring him back. Or you could drive him, in the ute.’
Murray waited. ‘There’s not much choice, is there? Has it got petrol?’
‘Yes.’
‘I can’t find Aiden.’
‘He won’t be far. I’ll meet you at the hospital.’
He sighed. Wanted to say it: this is what comes from neglecting your responsibilities. It falls to someone else. Which makes you the selfish one. ‘Righto, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.’
‘Don’t rush,’ Trevor replied.
The air was sucked, with a little hum, into the void. There was nothing—no trees, no shrubs, no shredded tyres; no wrecks; no parking bays. There were stars, of course, but they were just a blur. The ute didn’t growl like the new car; it had a mechanical wheeze, like it had to push itself across every inch of asphalt. There were only two seatbelts, so as Murray drove Aiden sat in the middle holding the dashboard. Harry sat beside him, clutching his cheek, studying the glass and plastic world lit up around him. ‘I could’ve waited,’ he said.
Murray glanced at him. ‘You can’t wait—it’s gotta be sewn.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
Murray just drove. He was leaning forward, his chin above the wheel; his back arched, his bottom lifted off the seat. Aiden noticed he was squinting. ‘Can you see okay?’ he asked.
‘I’m not blind.’
But he wasn’t so sure. ‘I can drive,’ he said.
‘Not at night.’
‘I can drive at night.’
Murray didn’t acknowledge him. Harry bit his lip and dropped his head onto his shoulder.
‘You okay?’ Aiden asked.
‘It stings.’
‘You gotta be more careful,’ Murray said.
‘I’ve been doing it for years.’
‘You coulda got your eye, and where would we be then?’ He turned the thought over in his head. ‘If your dad’s gonna be off, and I’m gonna be running things …’
‘What?’ Aiden asked.
‘You gotta do what I say.’
‘He was just—’
‘Without arguing!’
He turned up the radio but then thought better of it. ‘I’m too old for all this.’ Grain blew about in the back of the ute. ‘How did you manage to get yourself?’ he asked, looking at Harry again.
He shrugged.
‘You’re gonna have a nice scar.’ Without slowing, he drove into a shallow bend that became tighter. Aiden could feel the wheels lifting. Slow down, he wanted to say, but dared not. Instead, he asked, ‘Sure you don’t want me to drive?’
‘No … yes, I’m sure.’ He drove off the asphalt, onto the gravel. For a few seconds he fought with the wheel before bringing the ute back onto the road. ‘Jesus, they should fix that.’
Harry lifted his head and opened his eyes. ‘There’s no more blood,’ he said, checking the tea towel.
‘You’re not having a good run,’ Murray said.
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Aiden replied.
‘Ten-year-olds need to be careful.’
‘I’m eleven,’ Harry growled.
‘It’s a dangerous age. Children are accident-prone.’
Harry wasn’t happy with this. ‘Accident-prone?’
No reply.
‘He wasn’t driving, Pop,’ Aiden said.
Murray sat back in his seat, straightened his arms and said, ‘If your father’s not around …’
‘What?’ Aiden asked.
‘I saw you two taking off.’
Aiden looked through the cracked windscreen, past the gaffer tape that seemed to be holding it in place. ‘It was just a bit of fun.’
‘Like I said, it’s a dangerous age.’
‘We gotta have a bit of fun.’
‘Well, have it when your father’s around.’ He leaned forward, again, wrapping his arms around the steering wheel.
Aiden studied his grandfather’s arms, his neck, his grey sideburns, and thought, Yes, it’s all someone else’s fault, isn’t it?
The word was with Murray and Murray was the word. Not for the first time, he could feel himself starting to hate his grandfather. There wasn’t much love or compassion in him. He was a sort of farmer shell, a hollow man full of regrets and knowledge and skills he couldn’t use any more, except as a sort of walking opinion that no one wanted to hear.
They approached and passed a B-triple.
Too close, Aiden thought, as Murray struggled to keep control. ‘You’re tired,’ he said. ‘I should have a drive.’
‘I’m not tired. I’ll tell you when I’m tired.’
Aiden could tell what he was really thinking: I didn’t cut myself open; I didn’t ask to be sitting here, dealing with you two.
‘If it wasn’t for his little … shop girl,’ Murray said.
Neither boy spoke.
‘I’m too old for all this … too old.’
‘Well, let me drive.’
‘I should be playin’ lawn bowls.’ He throttled the wheel. This time the ute got away from him. They moved onto the gravel and he braked hard. Then they were in the grass, and onto the sand.
‘Fuck,’ he said.
Aiden flew forward against the dash. They stopped; there was dust in the cabin and in their mouths. ‘You okay, Harry?’
Harry was clutching the door. He dropped his head and started crying. Aiden put his arm around him.
‘Jesus,’ Murray said.
The engine was still chugging. A car flew past without stopping.
‘Stop crying.’
‘Is your leg okay?’ Aiden asked his brother. Harry didn’t reply; he was sobbing, turning away from Murray, desperate to escape the car.
‘Christ!’ Murray said.
‘It’s not his fault!’ Aiden shouted. He climbed over his grandfather, opened the door and got out. ‘Move over.’
Murray just glared at him. He waited before undoing his belt and moving into the middle. Aiden got in and pulled the seatbelt over his chest. He closed the door. ‘You ready, Harry?’
Murray sat opposite the woman. Her arms were crossed, even her feet, tapping out the tune to the muzak that played, apparently, all night. Quando, quando, quando. He heard himself starting to hum, and stopped. His eyes surveyed the hospital foyer: the information board, holding painted slats with names like Haemaphoresis and Gynaecology, floor numbers, room numbers; posters telling you how to wash your hands; a teenage mums’ clinic; a cleaner’s trolley left out.
‘It could’ve been a lot worse,’ Gaby said to him.
Murray just looked at her. It could’ve been a lot better, he thought. If he hadn’t done it; if I wasn’t sitting here at 1 am talking to you.
A cleaner came out of the men’s toilet, gathered her sign and pushed the collection of mops and buckets down the hallway.
‘Four or five stitches,’ Gaby continued, and Murray managed, ‘We’ll see.’
He’d already decided he didn’t like her. He had this sense, he believed, of what a person was like, or at least of what they’d become. Maybe, he often wondered, it was something chemical, maybe the shape of the head, the cheek bones, the forehead; maybe the way a person talked, or looked at you. Maybe it was the false pity, the forced sentiment.
When she looked away he studied her face: flat, with big eyes, like they were being pushed out of her head; a man’s forehead, trailing all the way across her skull; hair that was too short, and too cropped, and not its natural colour; wire and bone earrings that were too big, and holes that were too big for them; a passable neck, perhaps, but a long scarf wrapped around it. ‘You knew Carelyn?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
He waited for an explanation but it didn’t come. ‘How?’
‘We used to play netball together. And we went to Melbourne a few times. Cats.’
‘Cats?’
‘Yes.’ She stared at him.
‘That’s a show?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
He sighed. ‘My idiot nephew has the record.’
They both watched as a woman in a dressing-gown floated across the foyer, stopped in front of a vending machine and made a selection. The machine stirred and clunked but nothing dropped.
‘Shit,’ she said, pushing and then shaking it. ‘Shit.’
‘No one’s gonna help you,’ Murray said. ‘You’ll have to call the company.’
The woman tried shaking it again. ‘Typical,’ she said, before floating back to the lift.
He studied Gaby’s dress: a sort of stripey parachute falling down around her ankles; her slipper-shoes, woven from rattan or coconut fibre. Her ankles, he noticed, were fat; her legs, not recently shaved. ‘Didn’t see you at the funeral,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I didn’t know, until later.’
No, you didn’t know, did you? ‘It was a very sad event, especially for the boys.’
‘Yes?’
‘They’re the ones I worry about.’
‘I could imagine.’
I could imagine. What does that mean? ‘You got any kids?’
‘No.’
No, of course not, fuck yer. He decided he wouldn’t talk to her any more. She was all show, like wallpaper, or the Myer windows. She wouldn’t let on who she was or what she was about. So fuck yer, he thought.
