by Stephen Orr
Charlie was fuming. Storming down Edwards Avenue, away from Lindisfarne College—from D-average students who ruled the basketball courts, telling him he needed to ‘shrink a little’; away from endless overhead transparencies—pages of facts no one was ever going to remember, thousands of words they were made to copy into their books for no good reason; away from the smell of the canteen—chicken-nugget rolls and hard-bottomed pies—as they were made to queue in the sun clutching a fistful of sweaty money; but worst of all—away from Mr Neil.
He tripped, turned and kicked the tree root. ‘Fuck.’ Hitching his school bag over his shoulder and continuing. He could remember Neil leaning over him, his face an inch away from his nose, smelling the science teacher’s breath and seeing the yellow margins where his teeth met his gums. Hearing his voice: ‘So, are we going to go through all of this again, Mr Price?’
‘No.’
‘Which reminds me, I never received an apology for last time.’
‘For what?’
‘You’ve got a short memory. If you look on your Focus Room card it says, quote,’ and he took a yellow card from his top pocket, ‘“Before re-entering class it is the student’s responsibility to negotiate terms with the teacher.”’ He looked up. ‘Before entering class.’
‘I didn’t realise.’
‘How many years have you been here?’
Back on Edwards Avenue, Charlie was livid. He moved to avoid a pile of dog shit in the middle of the footpath. What sort of person just leaves it there, he thought, going on to consider the merits of its colour and shape, and how it was left in exactly the same spot every few days. He read fresh graffiti on a Stobie pole—‘The Vagina Cooling Machine’—with a picture of a man with his glasses bolted onto the side of his head. He crossed the road to avoid a mum with a pram and two kids in tow; she called something to him but he just kept walking. Then he realised she was an old neighbour. When he looked back she was gone. He kept walking, turning into William’s driveway. He climbed the few crumbling steps to his front door and knocked.
Then he waited, feeling his heart racing. He wiped sweat from his face.
William opened the door. ‘Charlie.’
‘G’day, Mr Dutton.’
William was wearing a T-shirt, boxer shorts and thick socks. ‘You okay?’ he asked, sensing the boy’s distress.
‘It’s Mr Neil.’
‘Ah.’
‘He sent me out of class again.’
William was trying to hide the relief in his voice, the simple, quietly spoken, thank-God-it’s-all-over happiness that was washing over him. He could feel his fingers shaking, and his eyes were swimming in Charlie’s. There was a drop of sweat about to run down the boy’s cheek and he wanted to wipe it, but dared not.
‘I could get suspended,’ Charlie said.
‘No one’s gonna suspend you.’
‘Neil said they might. He’s such a complete fuckwit.’
William looked up and down the street. ‘Come in.’
They sat in the lounge room. Charlie dropped his bag and took a moment to remember. The shaggy carpet. The springs erupting through the leather lounge. The piles of CDs and books. Then he looked at William. ‘He hates me.’
‘I can’t imagine you taking on Neil.’
‘He always starts it.’
William noticed Charlie’s scuffed leather shoes, his long socks fallen down around his ankles, his legs, covered with new scars and bruises and a graze just below his left knee. ‘You hurt yourself?’
‘I came off my bike.’
He noticed his shorts, too tight, faded, fraying around the edges, and his shirt, stained with what looked like paint. ‘So, what’s Neil upset about this time?’
‘We were doing this prac, mixing chemicals, and Simon, who was working with me, dropped a pestle and it cracked in half. Along comes old knob-nuts and starts in on me. I told him it wasn’t me but he says, “This is typical of you, Price”.’
‘He wouldn’t listen?’
‘He wouldn’t give me a chance. Eventually I just … exploded, and called him something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know … wanker … something. Then he says, “Teachers don’t have to be abused by students”. And I said, “It wasn’t me”. And Simon says, “It was me”—but he wouldn’t listen. “Verbal abuse,” he says, and he takes out his little yellow card.’
William was enjoying it. ‘Once he said to me, “So, old man, you up for a bit of golf?” Like that … old man. And I said, “No, I can’t stand golf.”’
‘That sounds like him.’
‘Well, at least you stood up for yourself.’
‘But when he said verbal abuse, I just thought of what Dad would say. I tried to back off, I said, “Sorry, that just slipped out,” but then the whole class laughed and he was even more pissed off.’
William couldn’t help but smile.
‘It’s not funny.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m in deep shit.’
‘If I could do something to help I would.’
Charlie’s face mellowed. ‘I guess I’ll just have to tell Dad, eh?’
‘Guess you will.’
‘He’ll freak out.’
‘Maybe not.’
There was a pause, full of possibilities, and risks. William was the first to jump in. ‘How you been?’
‘Lewis made us get up and play “The Ash Grove”.’
‘So you said.’
Charlie saw his letter on the coffee table. ‘You got it?’
‘Thanks. It was funny. You’re a very funny writer.’
‘Cos I always fuck things up, eh?’
‘Uh uh, language, Mr Price.’
‘I fuck things up.’
‘You don’t. You just like to get to the bottom of things. You’re honest, and you have a low tolerance of …’
‘Fuckwits.’
William stood. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Alcoholic?’
William’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about Coke?’
As William fetched a couple of Cokes, Charlie picked up his guitar and said, ‘I told you I learned “Revolution”?’
‘Yes.’
And he played—the blues chords, the elastic riff—and started singing. William returned and put the drinks on the table. He sat beside Charlie, busy playing around with the song—growling then whispering, throwing back his hair like a rock star, racing, shouting and then finishing with a flourish of chords that nearly broke a string.
William applauded. ‘Very good. But what about your scales?’
‘Screw my scales.’
He took the guitar from his student and said, ‘Here’s one I’ve written.’
Homestead Seven Hundred
I love your halogen plates
The cactus in your gravel
The sound your toilet makes.
He sang the song right through, occasionally meeting Charlie’s eyes, looking away and back again. When he was finished, Charlie asked, ‘Are you doing that with Nimrod’s Cat?’
William nodded. ‘The chorus sounds good with the big chords.’
‘It was great playing with you guys.’
‘We should do it again.’
‘Well …’
William censored his thoughts, but it didn’t seem to matter. ‘Look at this.’ He showed the boy a small, hand-torn leaflet promoting a party they were playing in two days’ time. Charlie studied the photocopied image of the band. ‘It’s amazing, when you play a chord and the amps just roar.’
‘There’s nothing better, eh?’
‘And your voice just cuts through everything.’
William picked up his drink. ‘Well, ask your dad. See if he wants to come along.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘I bet he’d love to hear you.’
‘I bet he wouldn’t.’
‘Ask.’
Charlie folded the leaflet and put it in his top pocket. Perhaps, he thoug
ht, it was William’s way of repairing things: Bring your dad, your sister, your uncles, everyone. From now on it’s all about rock’n’roll. ‘That guitar quartet,’ he said. ‘You should’ve been there.’
‘And he conducted?’
‘Like this.’ Charlie imitated a conductor, flinging his arms about and almost knocking over a lamp. ‘“Come on, boys, nice strong beat.” I’d just love to get up there with one of your amps.’
‘Not much chance of that now.’
Charlie waited, screwed up his nose, like he’d just been embarrassed by one of his dad’s farts. ‘You know, you didn’t have to quit.’
There was a long pause, the sound of roof iron expanding and a rubbish truck revving up a few blocks away. William said, ‘I just …’ But realised there was no way of explaining.
‘You got more work?’
‘Soon, I hope. At this school full of religious zealots.’
‘There’s no chance you could come back?’
Their eyes met. ‘I was a real bloody idiot,’ William said.
Charlie’s didn’t realise what William was saying; why he needed to say it, why there was, or ever had been, a problem. ‘You’d need to work on your parenting skills.’
‘How’s that?’
‘If you ever had kids … although, for that to happen, you’d have to attract an actual female.’
William smiled, and felt happy. He messed the boy’s hair and pushed his head away. ‘And you, with your tantrum. Oh, run away!’
And they were laughing, William pretending to strangle him, Charlie pushing him back. They fell to the floor, and William’s head narrowly avoided the coffee table. He looked up. ‘Focus Room!’ Grabbed Charlie’s leg and twisted it.
Eventually they sat opposite each other with their legs crossed. Charlie’s top button had come off and William found it on the rug. ‘Ask your dad,’ he said, returning it.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘At least ask him.’
Charlie stared at him. ‘It’s okay. I’m a big boy now.’
No words.
‘So, what’s he like, your old man?’ William asked.
And Charlie started to explain.
The next day William looked it up in the book: Datsunland (PJV Nominees). He found the address, scribbled it on the back of an envelope, grabbed his keys and wallet and set out.
Datsunland was one in a string of car yards lining the northern arterial. Each looked the same—cracked bitumen littered with mid-priced Toyotas and low-kilometre Korean numbers for the kids. There were strings of coloured flags fluttering in the KFC-breeze, sandwich boards with ‘Must Sell 2-Day’ and scaffolded backdrops with images of everyone’s favourite uncle in polyester pants.
Datsunland was down in the feeding chain of second-hand car yards. Its fences and gates were rusted, the ground cracked and full of weeds where deep puddles formed around the cars on rainy days. The office was a transportable purchased as Education Department surplus. Inside, there were still holes where the blackboard had been mounted, and above this, a faded alphabet that someone had tried to scrape off.
William pulled up in front of the yard. He turned off his engine and studied the cars. A few old Mazdas at the back decorated with fluorescent ‘$999’ windshield posters. Towards the front, early model Magnas, Lancers and Corollas and an out-of-place Saab Cabriolet with a ‘Low Price Today Only’ sign sitting on its roof.
He got out and walked into the yard. Wandered between the cars, pretending to read information hanging in the windows. Strangely, he could only see one Datsun: an early-eighties 280ZX. Judging from the faded sign at the back of the yard, he guessed it was just a name that had stuck. Maybe someone thought it too good a brand to give up. Datsunland. Oz with hubcaps—some sort of fantasy world minus the fantasy. He noticed a young man washing cars, and a girl sitting beside him filing her fingernails. The only would-be customer was a mum with her pockmarked son inspecting a Nissan Pulsar.
A nasal voice came over the PA. ‘Damien, telephone please.’ William watched as a small, mushroom-shaped man emerged from a back shed and wandered into the office.
He moved closer to the office and looked in the window. He saw Damien Price on the telephone, shaking his head, sorting through a pile of papers on his desk. He studied his face. There were traces of Charlie—the curve of his nose, his flat forehead and compact ears. He could see a photo on his desk. The outline of two figures. As he got closer he made out this man and Charlie sitting on a jetty, fishing. Charlie was younger, his head rounder, his smile broader. Damien had his arm around him, and he was holding up a small fish.
There was another photo—a woman, but she was hidden behind a gluepot and stapler.
He rehearsed the words in his head.
You must be Damien?
He imagined shaking hands and Damien smiling and thanking him for being such a positive influence on his son. The older man would say, So, you’re Guru Dutton, eh? Before long they’d be sitting in his office drinking instant coffee. He’d say, I’ve come to invite you to a gig. It’s my band, but Charlie’s going to get up. Damien would smile and look interested and say, I think I’m a bit old for all that, and he’d reply, It’d mean a lot to him. Then there’d be a pause. He didn’t want to ask you, he’d continue. But I think, perhaps …
But then from inside the office Damien slammed down the phone. He walked out, sliding the glass door behind him. Turning, he said, ‘You after some help?’
William stared at him. ‘No, thanks, just browsing.’
It was a backyard party. A friend of a friend of Greg’s brother was getting engaged. Christmas decorations had been taken out a few months early, strung up through trees, fence posts and an old Hills Hoist with a ten-degree lean. There were a few card tables covered in pizza, No Frills dips, empty beer bottles and full ashtrays. The band had set up inside the shell of an old lean-to. They’d hung up their banner and put their amps out in full sun. Cords snaking everywhere, terminating at a mixing desk, itself plugged into an old power point that hung loose from the wooden frame of the lean-to. Groups of twenty-and thirty-something teachers and brokers, gardeners and dropouts stood about talking. There was a dog, and he was sniffing people’s feet, dry-pissing on the skeleton of an old fruit tree and barking at a pair of pigeons.
William and Charlie sat together on the dead lawn. Charlie was playing an acoustic—the riff to ‘Stairway to Heaven’.
‘You’re murdering it,’ William said.
‘It’s hard.’
‘Slowly … it’s just a broken chord.’
William sat close to the boy. He took the fretboard and tried to show him the correct fingering. Charlie tried again, and William guided his hand. As they played, Pete Ordon came in a side gate. He looked around, but couldn’t see anyone he recognised, so started to separate his sixpack of beers and pack them in ice.
‘Pete,’ a tall man said, approaching him and shaking his hand.
‘Dan. How are you?’
As he talked to this man, Pete saw Charlie and William on the grass. He noticed them together, and their hands overlapping on the fretboard. He noticed William touch the boy’s shoulder, and squeeze it, and he saw how they laughed and looked at each other. He noticed how they were like brothers, or perhaps something closer. Father and son? There was no sense of distance between them, physical or otherwise. From what he could see, William was not teaching, and Charlie certainly wasn’t learning. It was an entirely different togetherness.
After he broke off his conversation he wandered over to them. William looked up, saw him and leaned back with his hands on the dead grass. ‘How are you, Pete?’
‘Good. And you?’
‘Fine.’
Pete looked at Charlie. ‘Good to see you here, Mr Price. How’s the BMX going?’
Charlie avoided looking at him. ‘Fine.’
‘No broken bones?’
‘No.’
‘And what’s today … a bit of extracurricular?’
William noticed a sort of superior look on his old friend’s face. He said, ‘He’s gonna play a few songs with us.’
‘Good.’
William sat up, placing his hands in his lap. ‘How’s my replacement going?’
‘Very organised. Had this lot playing at an assembly.’ He indicated Charles.
‘I heard,’ William said. ‘“The Ash Grove”?’
‘Yes.’
‘I never got around to all that.’
‘Well, he comes very well recommended.’
‘By whom?’ Charlie asked.
Pete just looked at him. Party or no party, he wasn’t about to let the boy cross the line. ‘Well, Charlie, Mr Dutton did up and leave us.’
‘But he wants to come back.’
Pete looked at William. ‘Really?’
‘No.’
‘He does.’
‘See, that’d be a problem, Charlie,’ Pete continued. ‘We only need so many guitar teachers.’
‘Well, get rid of Lewis.’
‘Mr Lewis.’
‘Everybody hates him.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
‘I do. Everyone says so.’
‘That’s not what I hear.’
‘From his students?’
Pete waited for William’s support, but didn’t receive it. ‘Well, Charlie, you should make a petition.’
‘I will.’
‘Although, there’s more to it, isn’t there, son?’
‘Son?’
William shook his head. ‘No, it was my doing, Chuck. Like they say, you reap as you sow.’
Charlie grinned. ‘You make your bed and you lie in it.’
‘It takes two.’
‘There’s no business like show business.’
‘Once bitten, twice shy.’
‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’
They continued as Pete watched on. ‘Well, good luck,’ he said.
‘You too,’ William replied.
Pete walked off, looking for a familiar face. He found Greg and they started talking. As Charlie returned to his riff, William watched them. He noticed how they leaned into each other, shrugged, and seemed so serious. He saw them turn, look at him and Charlie and then look away.
He lay back on the grass and wondered. He’d been drinking other people’s beer and now he’d half-emptied a bottle of someone’s brandy. He looked up at the sky and felt the ground moving beneath him.
