Datsunland

by Stephen Orr

  Then he’d leave for school. Out the back door, through the side gate, so none of the boys would see him. He’d wait at the crossing until one of the Grade Six monitors stopped the traffic. Cross, greeting parents, students and teachers on duty. ‘Peace be with you,’ and they’d reply, ‘And also with you.’ He’d teach his Pythagoras, phone a few parents, make a coffee and return to his office. Then, sitting comfortably in a leather chair, he’d stop to think about Miss Mary. He’d pick up the phone and call her. ‘Miss Mary?’

  ‘Yes, Philip?’

  ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she’d manage. ‘Are you stopping by the shops on your way home?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘I have a craving for FruChocs.’

  ‘Of course, dear. Of course.’

  There’d be a long pause. ‘They had Bryce Courtenay on the telly,’ she’d say.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He has a new book, and I think I’d like to read it.’

  He’d smile. ‘What’s it called?’

  Another pause. ‘I can’t recall, although there was a convict involved.’

  The next Saturday, or on his next visit to Kmart, he’d buy her the book. It’d sit on her bedside table, unread, on top of a dozen others. Eventually, after a few months, he’d move them into a bookcase full of unread books.

  The dilemma of neglected books wasn’t something he was happy about, but they were the only things she ever asked for. He couldn’t deny her this simple joy. Maybe the physical object gave her some pleasure. Maybe it took her back to some other time. Perhaps when her father would read to her.

  Back in his office, he’d open his desk drawer, take out a framed photo of Miss Mary and place it beside a pot of plastic foxgloves. He’d stare at his girl’s face—her small brown eyes, her button nose, the lips he’d help decorate every Sunday morning before they sat down to watch Songs of Praise.

  One day, called from his office on an emergency, he’d left his photo of Miss Mary on his desk. When he’d returned his superior, Brother Tobias, had asked, ‘Is that a picture of your sister?’

  ‘My sister? Yes, yes.’

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Now? Melbourne.’

  ‘I never knew. It’s funny, I tried, but I can’t see any family resemblance.’

  Yes, the keeping of Miss Mary did have its moments. Why, he often thought, should he be ashamed of doing good deeds, of showing charity, compassion, love? Sometimes he felt like a German hiding a Jew. But Miss Mary was no Anne Frank. She was a living, breathing, crying-at-the-end-of-It’s a Wonderful Life, angry, loving, forgetful human being. She was flesh and blood, an aching, longing bag of bones who just needed someone to care for her, talk to her, understand her.

  Years before, when she’d first arrived, someone would knock at the door and he’d wheel her to her room and spray the area with deodorant to remove any feminine scents. He’d open the door to discover it was a charity collector. These days he just left her in front of the telly, kept the chain on the door, opened it and asked who it was.

  One day it was Brother Tobias, dropped in for a coffee, and he said, ‘I seem to have some bug. Can we make it for another time?’

  Brother Vellacott would go home for lunch. Fill a plate with finger food from the spread in the Gold Room, leave the low-pitched hum of his office and walk out into the sun. Cross the road and let himself into his cottage. Present the food to Miss Mary, go to the kitchen and return with two cups of tea. ‘So, Miss Mary, how was your morning?’ he’d ask.

  But she wouldn’t reply, too caught up in Farrah Fawcett’s golden locks.

  Then he’d hear the postie, go outside to fetch the letters and return to his tea and sandwich.

  ‘Bills,’ he’d say. ‘Bad news and bills. Oh, and here …’ Opening a hand-written letter. ‘It’s from Brother Cope, remember him?’

  As he read, and Miss Mary worked on a cold samosa.

  ‘He says he’s taken the show to Broome, and they’re loving it.’

  The ‘show’ being what Cope called his ‘Sidewalk Sunday School’, a truck that pulled up in front of skate parks, schools and shopping centres in disadvantaged neighbourhoods, opening a curtain to reveal a stage. Cope would be there, lit up, music playing, dancing about on the floor of his old Dodge as his offsider distributed ice creams and plastic flags to attract the local kids.

  Vellacott had first seen the show in the early eighties. He’d been working at a parish school in the outer northern suburbs when, one day, unannounced, Cope had pulled up on the oval, parked his truck and started his show. He remembered watching him use a dummy to entertain the kids. His hand in the back of the little boy’s head, moving his mouth.

  ‘Good morning, Willy,’ Cope had said.

  ‘Good morning, Brother.’

  ‘There’s no need to call me Brother.’

  ‘Well, you sure ain’t my sister.’

  Laughs. As he marvelled at how Cope kept the most unruly kids under his spell.

  Brother Vellacott would return to school, mark a few tests, write an inspiring piece for the college newsletter and finally, just after the bell, retire to the toilet to change into his shorts and Lindisfarne coach’s top. He’d take to the oval with a series of infamous strides. Stand with his hands on his hips, his whistle in his mouth, and call for the Cricket First XI to line up. Then he’d show them how to get their shoulders back, their stomach in and their head high. ‘Let’s acknowledge our one weakness: fielding. We’re letting too many through.’ A dramatic pause, eyes narrowed, searching for any weakness on the peach-fuzzed, pockmarked faces of his ‘Magnificent Eleven’. ‘Today we’ll work on the art of the perfect catch: full lob. Here, cupped hands, close to the body.’ As he demonstrated. ‘Right, two lines, off we go.’

  Once, he’d brought Miss Mary to watch. Helped her into the front seat of his little black Golf, driven her across the road and parked her behind the nets. He’d covered her legs with a rug and left her with a thermos of tea. ‘Will you be alright?’

  ‘Go on, get to your boys.’

  For the next hour he’d kept looking over, waving, making sure she hadn’t fallen asleep. One of the boys had asked, ‘Who’s that, Brother?’ But he’d just smiled.

  At five o’clock on a Thursday there’d be an executive meeting: the big fish, the little ones, the business manager, heads of departments and sometimes Monsignor Pascal, in his black splendour, a gold crucifix around his neck and a solid, silver ring. They’d discuss curriculum and resources—whether to drain and retile the pool, revarnish the floorboards in the gym, replace the twenty-year-old maths textbooks. One day, as he sat listening to the big fish talk about Edmund on his donkey, his pager went off. He unclipped it from his belt and read the message. The big fish looked at him. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He’d told Miss Mary only to page him in an emergency. This was only the second time his pager had gone off. The first was a hot February afternoon when she’d tried to bath herself. He’d found her arse up, legs over the side, almost drowned. So this time, as he excused himself from the meeting, he was worried.

  He fumbled his key in the lock, tried again, burst into his cottage and called, ‘Miss Mary?’

  No reply. He didn’t have to look far. Miss Mary had fallen from her wheelchair and her left leg was twisted, caught under her body.

  She lifted her head and looked at him. ‘Philip?’

  ‘Stay still.’

  He assessed the situation, and then took her under the shoulders, lifting her into her wheelchair. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was reaching for the telly guide.’

  ‘But I left it …’ He looked at the coffee table. It wasn’t there. ‘Where?’

  She pointed to the bookcase.

  ‘Miss Mary, I’m sorry.’ Kneeling beside her, holding her hand and kissing it. ‘I was in a rush.’

  She smiled. ‘Get up. It doesn’t matter, there’s nothing broken.
’

  Which was something. The prospect of having to take Miss Mary to hospital had often worried him. ‘What’s your relation to Miss Mary?’ they’d ask, and the cat would be out of the bag. And what about when she died? How would he explain the ambulance and the flashing lights? The frail old lady, her face covered, wheeled from his cottage? What would he say to his shocked neighbours, the coroner, the police? Who exactly was this Miss Mary, they’d ask. And what exactly was your relationship to her, Brother Vellacott?

  That night, to punish himself for leaving the television guide in the wrong spot, he turned his shower up hot and made himself stand under it for five minutes. The next day, and the next, he called in sick. When the principal stopped by to ask how he was he didn’t answer the door, although the big fish could hear Miss Mary singing along to the 1957 cast recording of Oklahoma!

  Brother Vellacott often took Miss Mary through the McDonald’s drive-through. He’d turn to her and ask, ‘Was that with or without pickles?’ Once he’d said to the girl at the window, ‘My wife likes to get out for a drive.’

  She’d looked at him strangely.

  ‘She’s bedridden, you know, but she has a thing for Quarter Pounders, don’t you, dear?’

  One night he’d taken her to see the Christmas display along the River Torrens at Hindmarsh. ‘Look, there’s Thor,’ he’d said, indicating the papier-mâché god and his sparking anvil.

  ‘I used to play down there, as a child,’ she’d said.

  ‘You did?’ Shocked she’d offered something of her past.

  ‘Yes, with my brother.’ Sighing, looking into her lap.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a brother.’ Watching the traffic, eventually finding a spot and pulling over.

  ‘Yes, his name was Jack. I can’t remember much about him.’ Bowing her head, lower.

  ‘Was he killed in the accident?’

  ‘What accident?’

  ‘The accident that killed your father and sister.’

  ‘Who was killed?’

  ‘Jack.’

  ‘Who’s Jack?’

  ‘Your brother.’

  She’d frowned, looked annoyed and shook her head. ‘I never had no brother.’

  He’d driven around Hindmarsh for another hour, hoping it might trigger more memories, but in the end Miss Mary had just asked, ‘Will we be home in time for Ernie?’

  ‘Ernie who?’

  ‘Sigley.’

  Weekends were often a conundrum. He knew they couldn’t just sit and watch television, or talk, or deadhead roses in the backyard. Once the papers were read, the dishes washed, the clothes hung out to dry, there was a deep, cold pool of nothingness. Boredom led to trouble. It was always the way.

  One Saturday afternoon, as he sat reading a story about Pierre Menard, he looked over and noticed Miss Mary was asleep. Noticed her dress was undone down past her nipple, and that she hadn’t bothered putting on a bra.

  He felt the call of the Devil. Satan made him stand, walk over, kneel in front of her and slide two fingers inside her dress. It was the Fallen Angel who guided his hand over her wrinkly tit, cupping the weight of her breast, feeling (and lingering) on the cold, sallow nipples.

  Then he removed his fingers from her dress, and studied them. He looked at Miss Mary’s sleeping face and all at once felt like the worst person who’d ever lived. He stood, went to the bathroom and washed his hands four, five, maybe six times. Looked out of the window and studied the sky. ‘Forgive me?’

  He went to his room, sat on the bed and started to feel physically ill. He doubled over in pain from a stomach cramp. Slid to the ground and curled up into a ball, shrinking, smaller and smaller, so as to avoid God’s gaze. ‘Forgive me?’ Before starting on a round of Our Fathers.

  Nothing helped.

  He sat up, opened his bedside drawer and inserted the tips of the guilty fingers. Then slammed the drawer on them, again and again, until they numbed with pain and started to turn red and black. Then returned to his foetal ball and began a round of Hail Marys.

  He was brought around by Miss Mary calling for him. He returned to her and she was rested, happy, smiling, as though in a sign from God.

  No, he guessed. Better to keep busy.

  So they’d go on a Saturday afternoon outing. Generally these were as far away from Lindisfarne as possible: the Calvos flower markets (returning home with a dozen roses), a stroll along the Semaphore foreshore (coal smoke settling on Miss Mary’s hands), the fish market (a pair of tommy ruffs), a book sale (Cavafy and Spender), the Himeji Gardens, cemeteries, low tea at poky nurseries or maybe just sitting in the sun beside a playground, listening to children sing and shout.

  But no matter where they went, Miss Mary’s legs were always covered with a rug, her body wrapped up in coats and shawls, her face hidden by fine netting from an old black hat. People would stare at her, straining to make out her strong features, before looking at Philip and smiling. There was something about her, they thought. Something stern and stiff. A stillness that was a refusal to move with gravity, the wind, the rhythm of her chair.

  Once, he wheeled her across to Lindisfarne. Gave her a tour of his school: the classrooms and ovals, the administration wing and gymnasium. Took her into his office and wheeled her close to the glass wall that overlooked the Valley, the ancient creek-made garden that ran through the middle of the college. Then he wheeled her up to the farm, showed her the bantams and Rhode Island Reds, the merino flock and the goat that had almost hanged itself while climbing a tree in search of fruit.

  And then Sam Wheeler, the Ag Master, was standing in front of them in bloodied overalls. ‘Brother Philip.’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘I’ve come in to slaughter the meat birds,’ the farmer-turned-teacher said. ‘There’s no use trying when there’s kids around. You want one?’

  ‘No thanks.’ Thinking on his feet. ‘I can’t see myself cleaning it.’

  ‘I can do it for you.’

  ‘Thanks, anyway.’

  Then the teacher looked at Miss Mary.

  ‘This is my sister.’

  Wheeler was still staring at her, a single furrow deepening across his forehead. ‘Hello, Mrs …?’

  ‘Miss Mary.’

  ‘Hello.’ Extending his hand, but then retracting it. ‘No, not with all that blood. Glad to meet you, Miss Mary.’ He waited, but there was no reply.

  At night they’d follow a set routine. He’d go to the supermarket on his way home, purchase meat, a simmering sauce and rice. Come home, present the jar to his girl and say, ‘How about we try something new?’ Put on his apron and start cooking as he watched the five pm news on a small television on top of his fridge. He’d set the table, and generally there were a few flowers from the garden. Light a candle, turn off the radio and television and manoeuvre Miss Mary into position.

  After tea, perhaps, there’d be a DVD. Something light, a story where a couple rekindles their relationship. After that he’d read to her, and return her to her room. If she was wearing makeup he’d wet a flannel and help her remove it. Cut her fingernails, brush her hair and put it in its net, take out her teeth, go to the bathroom and clean them, and then deposit them in a glass of murky water.

  He’d help her into her nightie. Take her under her shoulders and lift her into bed, adjusting her legs, and feet, and eventually tucking her in. Then he’d sit beside her and say, ‘Another beautiful day, Miss Mary.’ Sometimes she’d reply. He’d pull the sheets up under her chin and think of kissing her, although he never did. If her arm was crooked, askew, he’d move it so it rested comfortably on the quilt. If it creaked, or crunched, or tried to spring back into position, he’d say, ‘We must get you fixed, Miss Mary.’

  Then he’d switch off her light, and retire to the telly, knowing he’d done his penance.

  Guarding the Pageant

  I SAW MY FUTURE in the budgie’s beak. It was the Earth Fair, and you could have your fortune told by a small yellow bird—one revelation for three dollars,
two for five. Of course I just laughed it off, but my daughter, a clever, anti-Saddle Club sort of kid, urged me to have a go. So I paid my money and sat on a stool in front of the cage, and a short, wiry-haired woman said, ‘Go on, talk to him.’

  ‘Talk to him?’

  ‘He has to know something about you.’

  ‘What’s he want to know?’

  ‘What do you want to tell him?’

  Christ, I thought. What was she going to say next?

  ‘He can see into your mind. He knows your inner thoughts, feelings and desires.’

  Was she trying to be funny or was she (more alarmingly) serious? At least you could excuse the bird—he was only after some seed.

  So I told the bird my name (Sam ‘Mad Dog’ Morgan), address (17 Brookfield Heights, Wynn Vale) and place of employment (Lindisfarne College). I told him about my eight-year-old daughter (Sarah), ten-year-old son (Liam) and wife of sixteen years (Avril). The bird’s eyes seemed to glaze over. Not much of an expression. Although it did have some nice-looking throat spots I wanted to tickle.

  Then the old girl said, ‘Now, tell him something about you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’ She smiled.

  ‘Well,’ I began, hesitantly, ‘some people think I’m a bit of a comedian.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve written a few comedy skits, and sent them to Channel Nine.’ I wondered why I was sitting in the middle of a school oval sharing my thoughts with a budgie.

  ‘Tell the budgie about the narcolepsy meeting,’ my tall, buck-toothed, brown-eyed son grinned.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You see, it’s the Narcolepsy Association’s AGM, and one by one they fall asleep, until the camera shows the whole table, with everyone snoring.’ I waited for a response but the budgie wasn’t impressed. ‘Then there’s this skit about a priest blessing pets at a school, sprinkling holy water on them, like this.’ I showed the budgie. ‘But then he gets to this stick insect. So, you know what he does?’ I looked expectantly at the bird. ‘He takes out a pipette and fills it with holy water.’