Datsunland

by Stephen Orr

  Back in the bedroom, Damien was sniffing the blazer. ‘You haven’t been smoking?’

  Charlie could feel the morning cold on his chest and fastened a single button on his pyjama top. ‘I sat with these kids at lunch and one of them got out a pack.’

  Damien just waited. More bad news. Shit he’d have to deal with, behaviour he’d have to explain, plead, all the time wondering what the hell was happening in his son’s head.

  ‘Dad, that’s the last thing I’d do. You get suspended. I’m not that stupid.’

  ‘Well, you must be, you were sitting with them.’

  ‘It’s not so easy, just to get up and leave.’

  Damien smelled the blazer again. ‘It’s bloody easy. That’s what you’ve got legs for. If they suspend one, they’ll suspend you all. What else would you be there for?’

  ‘Just sitting.’

  ‘Is that what a teacher would think?’

  ‘I dunno … yes … no.’

  Damien was looking for eye contact, but Charlie was studying stickers peeling from his wardrobe door. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s the truth?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I know some experiment. But others …’

  ‘What, now I’m taking drugs?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. Even fags, that’ll go on your record.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Dad.’

  Damien guessed his son was telling the truth. He threw the blazer in his lap. ‘You better hang it out to air. Smells like you’ve been in a pub.’

  ‘I’ll pick up my clothes.’

  ‘I’ll be on a pension if I wait for you.’ He picked up the T-shirt William had provided on the day of the rainstorm visit. ‘This isn’t yours?’

  ‘Let’s see.’

  ‘It’s an adult’s.’

  Charlie searched for a story, but nothing came to mind. ‘It’s Mr Dutton’s.’

  ‘Why have you got it?’

  ‘He lent it to me … when my shirt got wet.’

  ‘When was that?’

  He explained, and when he’d finished Damien asked, ‘What, he asked you there?’

  ‘Yeah, so I could see his guitars.’

  ‘And this was when you were meant to be having a lesson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An eighteen-dollar lesson?’

  ‘It’s all part of it, Dad.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought.’ He looked down at his faded moccasins. ‘That man’s not a bit … strange?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You just looked at his guitars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Damien waited. ‘Well, I tell you, he’s not meant to do that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There are reasons.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you mind. He asks again, you say no.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos I said so, that’s why. And the law says so.’

  Charlie couldn’t see the problem. ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘Was someone else there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s the problem. Supposing something had happened?’

  Charlie wasn’t stupid. Years of evening meals had been eaten and homework completed to a soundtrack of current affairs programs. Dodgy developers, loan sharks and thirty-day diets had competed for time with slightly bent trigonometry teachers and Little Athletics coaches. Much had been hinted, but little described in detail, in the six-thirty timeslot. Nonetheless, it didn’t take much imagination.

  Charlie didn’t always reveal the full scope of his understanding to his father. He’d learnt to pace himself, release information sparingly, and even to act. Nothing melodramatic, just a shrug here and there, a look of surprise, a sudden lapse of memory

  ‘You tell him, Dad’s paying for lessons, at school.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘A teacher should realise these things.’

  ‘He does, but it was just …’ There was no point arguing. ‘Okay, I’ll tell him.’

  ‘You just played his guitars?’

  ‘Yes.’

  As he loaded the powder and clothes in the washing machine, Damien wondered whether he should speak to someone. Guru Dutton seemed to be becoming a strange presence in his son’s life.

  Charlie’s smart, he told himself. He saw him reading the Australian for hours, watching documentaries about deep space and studying stray textbooks he’d found in labs. He’d ask questions about vectors and what Mormons believed, the cause of King George’s madness and how many shillings and pence made a pound. But Damien wasn’t sure if smart meant savvy.

  Charlie slipped down into the yellow seat cover.

  This, he thought, is the worst moment of my life.

  He studied the three-foot fibreglass chicken head on their bonnet. ‘Drop me around the corner,’ he said to his dad.

  ‘Don’t you want to show your mates?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  The chicken car had arrived at Datsunland as a trade-in. A yellow Volkswagen with wings painted on the side, blood red hackles dangling from the doors and a plastic beak wired to the grille. ‘Charlie’s Chicken Feast’ (in the shape of bones) on the side of a pair of drumsticks bolted onto the roof. ‘Just here,’ Charlie said.

  ‘It’s too far to walk.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  It wasn’t the first bizarre trade-in Damien had brought home. There’d been a rib delivery Cowasaki (a motorbike with a cow’s head and tail) and a Disco Festiva with shag carpet, mirror ball, strobe lighting and a turntable connected to a boom-box in the boot.

  Damien pulled over and Charlie got out with his guitar. He looked around, but luckily the street was deserted. ‘Are you bringing it home again?’

  ‘Of course. I might even keep it.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Charlie knew his dad was joking. He was rubbish at hiding things: his smile, the tongue in the side of his mouth.

  ‘Thanks for the lift.’ He closed the door and stepped away from the chicken car before anyone noticed. Walked the extra block to school and arrived late. Then went straight to the music suite for his lesson.

  William was waiting. ‘Late night?’

  ‘No, I had to walk,’ he explained. ‘Dad has this chicken car.’ He told the story of how Damien had arrived home the previous evening, sounding his Dixie horn; how he’d taken him for a drive, waving to neighbours and friends and saying, ‘It smells like KFC.’

  Charlie sat in a sweaty chair, opened his bag and produced William’s shorts and T-shirt—freshly ironed, folded, smelling like lemons. ‘Dad did them,’ he said, placing them on the table.

  William’s face drained of blood. He took a moment to study the razor-sharp folds and asked, ‘Your dad?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, you mentioned your visit?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I suppose I better teach you something.’ He opened his book of scales and flattened the pages on the music stand. ‘Should we make a start?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘You’re still guessing?’

  Charlie took out his guitar and threw the vinyl bag aside. ‘Thanks for showing me your guitars.’

  ‘No problem. Now, D major, two sharps—all the way up to the tenth fret. Off you go.’

  Charlie looked at the music and started playing. He could feel William’s eyes on his hands and fingers. He made a mistake and stopped, looked up and smiled.

  ‘Don’t stop every time you make a mistake.’

  There was something missing from his teacher’s voice, and he felt flat, disappointed. ‘Usually I don’t.’

  ‘Most of the time people won’t notice. It’s called bluffing.’

  ‘Are you good at that?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  He started again. Finished D major and moved on to A and E—pages and pages of scales. Finally, he asked, ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘Believe it or not
, this is about the most important thing I can teach you.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘It is.’

  That’s not what you said before, he wanted to say. What happened to rock’n’roll, in your face?

  ‘Right, “The Ash Grove”,’ William said, opening another book.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘We’ve been wasting too much time.’

  ‘It’s not a waste. I’ve been practising these pieces—’

  ‘“The Ash Grove”.’

  ‘You’ve got the shits.’

  ‘And you’re gonna have to watch your language. I got into trouble for that too.’

  Charlie stood his guitar between his legs. ‘When?’

  ‘Let’s take it from the bridge.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  William stopped to think. ‘Who else knows you came to my place?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘I’ve probably told a few people. So what?’

  William leaned forward, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘I thought you would’ve guessed, Charlie. It’s not something a teacher usually does.’

  Charlie tried to remember exactly what he’d said to his friends as they waited outside the canteen. It had started off as a brag, but then someone had said, ‘You went with him?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘What?’

  A few more people had overheard, and there was a mixture of silence, muttered comments and a wolf whistle.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Charlie had said, leaving the line and heading for the library.

  Back in the bunker, Charlie waited for William. ‘I just told a few people you had this whole room full of guitars.’

  William was silent.

  ‘I can’t see the problem.’

  ‘You remember Brother Powell?’

  ‘But he was a perve.’

  Everyone remembered Brother Powell. He was legend. His life had become a flummery of facts, lies and scenes stolen from books and smutty movies. The truth didn’t matter any more—time only remembered the juicy bits: Brother Powell in a black robe, pacing change rooms, making no attempt to hide his wandering eyes.

  ‘Okay, I get you,’ Charlie said. ‘I was just so impressed with all your guitars.’

  ‘What did your dad say?’

  ‘Said it’s eighteen dollars a lesson, stick to the music.’

  William clapped his hands. ‘And so we do. “The Ash Grove”.’

  Charlie took a square of paper from his pocket and put it on the music stand. ‘You remember, we were discussing attitude?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And you challenged me?’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘“Fuck off, Biology Teacher”. Remember?’

  ‘Charlie …’

  ‘Listen.’

  He started playing with a loud, syncopated rhythm. Tapped his feet and moved his body to the beat. Then started singing.

  String of Words

  Goin’ round in my head

  Bullshit things that needn’t be said.

  Words words

  Geometrical planes

  Signs and symbols, dates and names.

  He crashed down on the strings for the chorus.

  Take me away from this zoo

  Let me do what I wanna do

  Now it’s time to be free

  Let me be what I wanna be.

  And returned to the syncopated introduction.

  William smiled. ‘Very good.’ Picking up his own guitar, studying the chords and searching for the rhythm. Meanwhile, Charlie was off again.

  String of Words

  Filling my days

  Spilling from lips in predictable ways.

  Words words

  Written in rhyme

  Filling my head, wasting my time.

  William was hooked. The song was fast, furious and angry, and better than anything he’d ever written. The lyrics were in turn poetic and threatening, heartfelt, dark and real. He studied the characters that formed these words: a capital R that should have been lower case; phrases crossed out three or four times before one was chosen; a stray sum; a drawing of Mr Shahriar, the student teacher; small, constipated cursive that crawled up, down and across the edges of the page.

  They finished, and William congratulated him.

  ‘It’s just something I’ve been fiddling with,’ Charlie said.

  William thought it strange that his best student couldn’t look at him as he said this. ‘Charlie … you’ve got real talent.’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s better than “The Ash Grove”.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So I don’t have to play from your book?’

  William sucked in some air. ‘For homework. And make sure your dad hears it.’

  Charlie grinned and William stopped himself from taking his shoulder, or messing his hair. Is it too late to adopt Charlie Price? he wondered; Charlie, testing and rejecting; Charlie, stopping to think and stick yellow Post-it notes around his brain as a reminder of how the world worked, its cogs and gears, its pretensions and pains; Chucky, letting his thoughts and feelings settle across the Lindisfarne lawns like a mist of cheap deodorant.

  ‘Again?’ William asked, forgetting the rest of the speech he’d planned. Lessons about distance, and professionalism—hard work and friendship through respect.

  ‘If you’d like.’

  They were off again, Charlie singing his ballad of discontent about teachers other than William. They hammered through the chorus and found a harmony that filled out the melody, and sentiment.

  This is what caught Pete Ordon’s ear, as he walked past. He stopped at the door and listened.

  String of Words

  Goin’ round in my head

  Bullshit things that needn’t be said.

  He peered inside and saw them playing, singing, their eyes moving between the music and each other.

  Bodies, amorphic, interchangeable, flowing with the rhythm. Laughter, when the soundtrack slipped or they missed a beat. When they finished, just a few words, a nod and smile. Although no one seemed to be learning, or teaching, anything. It was a coffee clutch—unstructured, lacking books and pencil marks on manuscript paper. There was no sense of awkwardness or frustration. Just a can of Coke that they shared without wiping the lip.

  The bell rang and they dared to keep playing for a few minutes, before they thought better of it.

  ‘Would you mind if I took a copy?’ William asked, picking up the food-stained page with its scribbled palimpsest of reworked words.

  ‘If you think it’s okay.’

  ‘Listen, we’re playing at The Gov tonight. I might show this to the fellas.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You wouldn’t mind if we had a go at it?’

  ‘At that?’

  William was glowing. ‘Listen, Mr Price, this is good. Don’t underestimate yourself.’

  Charlie started packing his guitar. ‘That’s what Davo says.’

  ‘Who’s Davo?’

  ‘My sister’s boyfriend. Dad doesn’t know he sells pipes at the Brickworks on Sundays.’

  ‘And you, you’re little Mr Innocence.’ Messing the boy’s hair, grabbing his shoulder and squeezing it.

  ‘I wish I could come tonight.’

  ‘That’d be good, but difficult.’

  ‘What time do you start?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘Past my bedtime.’

  And William scowled. ‘I guess.’

  Charles braced himself. He did up a button on his sports shirt, as if this might help—an inch less flesh, manners his mother had taught him. Then he stood in the doorway clutching his diary, looking out at his dad, watering the garden. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ he said to himself. ‘You’ve gotta sign this … would you mind signing this … Dad, I think we better talk.’ Although he was willing his hand to open the flyscreen door, it just wouldn’t budge.

  Damien was hosing
gravel into the gaps in the driveway. Charles thought it strange how such small details always formed the background to the disasters of his life—staring at a crack in the wall as he cried himself to sleep whispering his mother’s name; the mud splashed on the side of the ambulance parked in their driveway; Mr Chang’s crooked fringe, as he led the memorial service. Debris that made enormous things small.

  There was no point thinking about it. He opened the door and jumped down the front steps, hoping his father would start a conversation about roses or rusted fence posts. Instead, he just kept watering, head down, shoulders slumped.

  ‘Dad?’

  Damien looked up. ‘I didn’t know you were home.’ Noticed the diary, and his face hardened. ‘Tell me it’s an excursion.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It was Mr Neil again.’

  ‘I come out here to relax, to sprinkle the lawn.’

  ‘Remember, he gave me lines.’

  ‘Pull a few dead leaves from the aggies, say hello to the neighbours.’

  Charlie stepped forward. ‘Listen to this: Neil says, “It’s obvious that heavier objects fall faster than lighter ones.” And I put my hand up and ask, quite respectfully, “Don’t all objects fall at the same speed?”’

  Charlie could remember the moment, and he wanted his dad to experience it too. He could see Mr Neil leaning across his desk, so their eyes were only a few inches apart. He could smell his Old Spice and see the hairs flaring from his nostrils; see the liverspots on his cheeks and the wrinkles around his eyes. He could hear him say, ‘No, Charles, that doesn’t make sense, does it?’

  And he could hear himself reply, ‘I remember this bloke dropping this match and this stone, and they both hit the ground at the same time.’

  Mr Neil straightened. ‘Who was this … bloke?’

  ‘On the telly.’

  ‘Ah, The Simpsons perhaps?’

  His face screwed up. ‘No, it was some science thing. And that’s what they said—everything falls at the same speed. It’s because gravity is a constant 9.8 metres per second, per second.’

  Mr Neil returned to the front of the room. ‘Now you’re talking about acceleration.’

  ‘No, gravity.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Pausing to double-check the facts in his own mind.

  ‘It is,’ Charlie said.

  ‘Watch your tone.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’ He started flicking through his textbook. Neil came over and closed it. Charlie grabbed it back and continued.