Letter to George Clooney

by Debra Adelaide

  Problem is, folks here guard their bones closely. Which is why it’s such a mystery how that shin’s gone missing. Folks here have been jealous of us for some time, I know that. Firstly because some of the longer term residents had eyed our vault for a while. Reckoned they had prior claims. Then they got suspicious when they heard about Connie. A random shot, was all, poor girl. But people think gangs, drugs, the usual, just because we come from the slum. And then when I found that gas ring at the dump and brought it home, next-doors stopped talking to us. Said we were getting above ourselves. Even though Mrs D offered to heat cans for them, if they wanted. She even gave them a lid of bacon rinds, cooked to perfection. Sent Mirabelle over with a nice message which they just ignored, sending the poor kid back. Mrs D tossed them away, a whole lid full. Which she’d only obtained after hanging around the Concourse all morning until everyone else got bored or had better things to do, and when the kitchen hand came out and threw the scraps in the skip she grabbed them straight away, so they were as clean and fresh as.

  On my way out of the facilities I bump into Ranger Sykes. He’s okay. So long as you mind yourself.

  ‘Morning, Ranger.’

  ‘Hey Dempster. Nice day for it. And night. Be clear all through, I reckon.’

  ‘You’re right there. Bet you got your hands full.’ It being the busiest day of the year for him, though Mothers’ and Fathers’ Day come close.

  ‘You folks all ready?’ Officially, he has no business with my place since we got a private arrangement, the Family and us, but like everyone in uniform he takes it too seriously. But I always humour him, it wouldn’t pay not to.

  ‘Just about. Place has never looked cleaner. You want to come by and inspect?’ Though I sure as hell hope not. What if he looks into Our Flower in Heaven?

  He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Nah, I know you’re good for it, Dempster. Not everyone abides by the rules like you. If they did I’d hardly have a job, would I?’ He laughs. I laugh.

  I start to walk off when he calls me back. ‘Say, Dempster?’

  ‘Yes, Ranger?’

  ‘We’re implementing a Client Satisfaction Survey. A form for the families to fill out. Come by my office later and collect one. You give it to your family before they leave. Then you have to read their comments and thumbprint it if you agree. So it’s all fair, like.’

  ‘Will do, Ranger.’

  ‘Give my regards to Mrs D.’ I watch him walk away. His stomach is getting bigger, straining against his belt.

  The thin edge of the wedge. This is the third or fourth bit of paperwork this year. You have to read their comments. Meaning, we have to ask them to read them out to us. I know what he’s doing. Trying to weed out the illiterates. He won’t catch me there. Already I’ve got Rusty doing his alphabet and numbers with Lester’s eldest, who once went to school for a whole year. Then what we do, before dark some nights, is trace over the biggest letters on the plates, all of us reading them out. Mrs D sprinkles the talc on top of Grandfather Benedict, and the kids form their letters with their fingers, then spread it clean, over and over. I reckon by the time of Ranger Sykes’s next bit of paper we’ll all be able to read it, bar Emanuel of course. In fact my plan is that by the next form he dreams up I’ll be signing my full name, with my very own pen too. No more thumbprints. Looking forward to the shock on his face then.

  On my way to find Lester I pass the Townies. A whole row of them jam-packed just like they are up in the town where they come from, and honestly I don’t know why they bother, except the air here’s cleaner. But if you’re going to live five families to a place and string your washing across the lane and squabble late into the night over the one TV connection, you may as well have stayed in the slum. One of them yells at me as I pass, young Fingersmith, I think it is.

  ‘Hey Dempster, any more home improvements up your place lately?’ Then laughter. I look into the tiny window, basically just a missing brick in the columbarium wall. Three of them, all sitting in the dark around an upturned Frytol tin with a pack of cards.

  ‘Puttin up some shadecloth?’ he says.

  ‘Maybe a nice teak deck?’ says another. More laughter.

  ‘Nice day, boys,’ I say as friendly as I can. Nothing irks them more, I’m sure. Then my king-hit. ‘Don’t see you moving out for your families today.’ Which is true, and I know despite everything they’re jealous of folks like us, who have a Family to visit regularly, religiously. Residents of the Townies never get visitors. It’s pretty sad. No wonder these boys are as they are.

  Funny, though. I was thinking of putting up a bit of cloth, just for the hottest months. I’ve been keeping an eye out at the dump for a piece of sailcloth or netting that would do.

  Lester’ll be working down in the Avenue, which is kind of his baby after all these years. He’s very particular about his edges. I swear the line where his lawn meets the white marble is so sharp and straight you could cut your fingers on it. I find him sweeping leaves with a broom he’s specially designed so it doesn’t dislodge the fine white gravel of the path. A bundle of cloth rags he’s tied and shredded and trimmed so it gets into every corner. He gets down on his knees to do this, even though the gravel cuts them. He and Mrs D make a good pair, they’re both that fussy.

  When I tell him the problem he shakes his head.

  ‘No stores left.’ He speaks low, in case someone’s nearby. ‘I’ve heard there’s been a lot of pilfering lately, especially of the young residents. Yours isn’t the only instance, Dempster.’

  ‘But why? What do they want with shinbones?’

  ‘It’s not only legs. I’ve heard forearms are taken too. Sometimes whole hips. I’ve heard . . .’

  ‘What?’ We’re practically whispering now. He keeps moving his broom as we walk so it looks like he’s working. ‘What have you heard?’

  He looks this way and that. ‘Trade. They sell em for medicine.’

  ‘Bones! Who’d want a leg bone?’

  ‘Shh, will you. Come over here.’ We walk around the south side of the last block on the Avenue, and lean against the wall. It’s cool still, the marble not yet warmed by the sun. No one can spot us here.

  ‘Your girl, she’s a virgin, isn’t she?’

  ‘I believe so.’ Mother and Father have said it often enough.

  ‘There you go, then. People think they’ve got extra powers, your virgin bones. And they like them nice and dried out, hence your girl. She’d be what, seventeen, eighteen years dead?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘Right, perfect. And they’re clean.’

  ‘Cleanest in the whole cemetery.’ We’re proud of that, me and Mrs D. In fact last time, Mother and Father hinted they’d be amenable to writing us a reference, if we ever wanted. Not that we did. We being happy there. They being happy for us to stay. And so on. But if we ever . . .

  ‘That’s it then,’ Lester is saying. ‘They slip the bone out, take it off to be processed, no cleaning or drying needed, just grinding and packaging in zip-locks, then off to the distributor. Quality guaranteed. I tell you, Dempster, out on the street that stuff could fetch thousands.’

  I’m still comprehending all this, wondering what special powers you get from these virgin bones and do you inject it or eat it or what, when he hits me with it, looking at me meaningfully.

  ‘I’ve heard up at the Mortdale Centre it’s getting worse. They’re taking fresh bones, so long as they’re young and virgin, drying them out artificially. There’s such a demand. You might want to warn Mrs D.’

  Connie! I’m going to have to get her out of there. Connie all on her own, no one to protect her bones from vandals, it doesn’t bear thinking about. I’ve got to tell Mrs D but then Rusty comes belting out of nowhere and runs right into me, clutching me round the legs.

  ‘Dad, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! It’s Jamie. You gotta come fast.’

  Turns out Jamie down in The Meadows has gone and got stuck playing on top of one of the slabs. His mum doesn’t know wh
at to do and his dad’s already gone to work.

  ‘This is why I’m always warning you about that place, son.’ I pick him up, he’s so out of breath, and walk as fast as I can. The Family’ll be here in fifteen. They’re always super punctual.

  Jamie’s mum is moaning and wringing her hands with about fifty kids hanging off her, grizzling. Jamie himself is sitting on the edge of a double slab that has cracked all the way across, and half collapsed in on itself. The kid is taking it well, not crying at all, though his left leg is at a bit of an angle.

  ‘What were you doing?’ I say as I assess the damage. There’s a fresh crack right where his ankle is jammed.

  ‘Just jumping from side to side. I missed. Rusty always wins.’

  Rusty looks sheepish. I’ve told him a million times not to play this game.

  ‘All right, well Rusty has to come here and hold you nice and firm.’ I glare at him. ‘Then I’m gonna prise this slab aside okay? You’re gonna be all right. It’ll be over in a jiffy.’ He nods. I go and grab his mother’s broom which is resting against the side of their place, not that it looks like it’s used much.

  ‘Okay. Ready now.’ By now Jamie’s only just holding back the tears. Rusty holds him steady around the middle and I prise the broom handle under one edge of the broken slab. ‘When I say, just pull him straight back Rusty, nice and easy. Make sure his foot’s free. One, two, three.’

  It goes like clockwork. The bit of broken slab’s not as heavy as I thought. Next thing, Jamie’s out and his mother’s fussing over him and all the kids are cheering and crying and I’m holding the slab thinking how best to reposition it when I look down, right down, and that’s when I spot it, directly below. Perfect. ‘Hey, Rusty. I need you for a second.’

  We’re sitting on the bottom step, our legs spread out onto the lawn, and Mrs D has found some coffee grounds after all and it’s never tasted better. We’re exhausted. The kids are all asleep early, even Rusty. The Family left a bit of a mess this time, candle wax everywhere and flower petals squashed on the floor of the vault. But I don’t mind because they also left a whole lot of rollies with real tobacco – Grandfather Benedict loved his tobacco – and some broken sugar skulls for the kids. Like Lester says, Catholics don’t stint. They also gave us two more tins of Brasso. They were very happy with the place, and even remarked on the quality of our polishing. Our Flower in Heaven’s bone fitted nicely and if they noticed it was a shade darker they didn’t say.

  This time I chose the railway terminus on the south line, which is less crowded and has the advantage of the kids being able to run along the shore all day. Mirabelle even found a scallop shell, cracked, but still a shell. Mrs D sat there enjoying the breeze through the waiting room window while I took Emanuel off her for a while. We’ll go back there next Day of the Dead to wait it out. Ideally we should have been attending to Connie, but just the idea of staying in the Mortdale Centre all day and night is impossible, with the types you get there. And you wouldn’t be able to move an inch in her section. Best time is the day after. It’ll be filthy, but at least no crowds. Tomorrow we’ll have to get her out somehow.

  As if reading my mind, Mrs D says, ‘Dempster, I’d really like to bring Connie down here, you know.’

  ‘Mrs D,’ I say, ‘you deserve that. You surely do.’

  I get out my zip-lock bag thinking, I’ll have to find a way somehow. Maybe she could rest temporarily in the niche next to Grandmother Sweetapple. We’d have to take her with us of course, every year, so the Family won’t know.

  ‘Do you really reckon it could be done?’ Her eyes are shining.

  ‘I’m your man,’ I say, lighting my smoke and drawing her close. ‘I’m your man.’

  The Harp Society

  One night there was a musical event at a grand house set in such large gardens the driveway disappeared among the shrubs well before the house appeared. The house was invisible from the street. It was a winter evening, with a light drizzle of rain. Lights set low in the garden guided the guests all along the driveway to their destination, though there were few pedestrian visitors. Flora Lindsay arrived just on time, before the doors to the reception room were shut. The friend she was meeting was even later. Either that or she had gone in ahead, although Flora couldn’t see her among the rows of chairs. The function was unexpectedly crowded and afterwards she walked back down the drive to wait by the front gates for the taxi she had ordered. Soon it became apparent that no taxi was coming. In the cold and dark, looking down towards the street then back towards the house, no one, she realised, had passed her by, though several cars were still parked in the long curving driveway. It was not that it was the time before mobile phones, just that Flora Lindsay did not carry one. She walked back to the house where she found a caterer stacking wineglasses into a station wagon. He took her into the house by a side door and showed her the hall phone, where she dialled the taxi company.

  The musical evening had been a recital by a harp ensemble. As Flora hung up, she saw the tall young woman who had been one of the soloists wheeling her enormous harp out of the room where the performance had been held. The woman had changed from her recital skirt into a pair of trousers, and her long hair, which had been held up with a tortoiseshell clasp as she leaned over her harp during the performance, was now tied into a simple ponytail. She was wearing a small backpack. In its black case, the instrument was a monstrous thing. Solid timber in frame and soundboard, it was heavy and unwieldy. Yet the woman handled it as if it were a cargo of meringues, guiding it down the steps and towards her van with the same delicate yet strong touch Flora had observed in her earlier, plucking and stroking the strings. Now she coaxed the instrument, top-heavy, on ridiculously small wheels, to the door of her van, where she tilted a ramp down to the ground, pushed the harp up, at the same time turning the instrument to lie sideways, replaced the ramp, then shut and bolted the doors. And then she got into the driver’s seat, turned the engine over and slowly drove off. The van coughed in the cold. Flora heard it puttering a long way down the drive.

  It only occurred to her then that she might have asked the woman for help, a lift back into town or somewhere. It also occurred to her that the second taxi she had rung for would probably not arrive either. She pulled her coat tighter and walked back down the driveway to wait. By then it was raining properly, and she wished she had remained at the house under the front porch. She walked close to the fence railings under the branches of a large Moreton Bay fig. The footpath was covered in squashed fruits, foliage and bat droppings, which she stepped around, ducking drips from the leaves and avoiding the worst of the mess underfoot. And yet despite all this she did not feel morose, or lonely, or even uncomfortable. Her spirit was instead buoyant. The program had included unfamiliar pieces – she had never even heard of some of the composers – and yet she had felt that she knew the music very well.

  The image of the woman ushering her instrument away lingered. She would be taking it home, Flora assumed. What sort of home would have room for an instrument of that size? And professional musicians had more than just one instrument. Perhaps harps required more than one room, perhaps the harpist’s home was given over to her instruments. Coming from a background that had no musical talent and only an amateurish appreciation for music, Flora wondered what it would be like to live surrounded by musical instruments. And that harp, so big, so awkward to manage, what commitment such a musician would need to have. The passion for it, the devotion. What the instrument would be worth, she could not even estimate. More than a first-class fare to London? Less than a car? And then there were the many years of lessons, the hours of daily practice, the preparation for just one performance, such as tonight’s recital. How long had the ensemble practised for this one appearance? Several nights a week, for months? And they had not received any payment. There had been a table outside selling the ensemble’s latest CD. She regretted not buying one.

  At the end of the driveway, nearly at the exit to the street, Flora noticed a
small dark blue car with its interior light on. She was not sure if it had been parked there against the kerb when she first walked down to wait for the taxi. The windows were fogged and someone was sitting in the driver’s seat. The door opened as she approached and a voice she knew called out. It was her friend Stephanie Lee, who was the publicist of the Harp Society, which had held the performance. She had not appeared all night, even though she was the reason Flora had attended in the first place.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My car broke down on the way, twice. And now it won’t start at all.’

  Flora got in the car to escape the rain. The car smelled damp, and it was cold inside. Stephanie carried a mobile phone and had already rung the NRMA.

  ‘I arrived so late, but the usher let me sneak in the back, so I caught the last half of the performance. Then I came back to see if I could get it started again.’

  Stephanie had driven the blue Golf for as long as Flora could remember. Three, four times over the years it had been their strange misfortune to have broken down together, and each time they’d waited patiently for the NRMA to rescue them. Just off the Harbour Bridge, another rainy night. On the way home from camping in Kangaroo Valley. At Broadway carpark. That time the NRMA man arrived within fifteen minutes.

  She turned the ignition and it whined disagreeably. ‘I’ll have a flat battery as well if I keep trying,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you were coming with Frank?’

  Frank’s car was reliable. He was a luthier and carted harps all over the place for his customers.

  She sighed again. ‘Yeah, well. Frank.’ She paused. ‘What did I miss? Anything special?’

  ‘Did you hear what the compere said at the end?’

  Stephanie shook her head. ‘I’d slipped out by then.’

  The concert had been a charity event, raising funds for a refugee children’s organisation. There was an inflammation of the long war in Afghanistan, and just the day before the news had reported that a contingent of international media had been attacked. Two Australians were unaccounted for, whether killed or captured it was still not known. It was said that the insurgents who had mounted the attack were teenage rebels, led by a boy who was only fourteen but who already had two wives.