The Glass Canoe, page 6
He’d been all over the world for this company he worked for. His favourite story was of when the British were in India.
‘I was at a dance and met this real snooty woman about thirty-five. As I was dancing with her I thought This is good, she’s rearing to go, and sure enough that night I took her home—to her place, too—and got me end in. They get better over thirty.’
‘Like a rattlesnake?’ I suggested.
‘Yeah, but a day or two later I pass her in the street and raise my hat and say good morning. Young man, she said, remember this. Where I come from sexual intercourse is not considered sufficient social introduction. You could have knocked me arse over tit with a feather.’
A few months after this his two girls went out together with two local kids on a Friday night and got themselves killed. Car smash head on at a ton and a half on Highway One. Just went out for the fun of it.
I sent him a card. He didn’t come into the Southern Cross for a while so I thought I might call round at his place with a few cans and maybe cheer him up.
In the yard next door a mob of fowls were battering an old hen. Really picking on her. It was probably her eggs they came from. Fowls aren’t human.
I didn’t make much noise. Perhaps I should have. The door was open, no one answered my knock, I could hear voices inside.
I went in, I didn’t think he’d mind. As I got further, the voices were kids’ voices. Kids of four or five or six. I can’t tell what age they are when you get down that far.
I didn’t want to interrupt, I just listened. The voices got older. Nine or ten. The kids were saying things like what they did in the holidays, and singing a song or two they learned at school, or reciting poems.
As the voices got bigger, they got louder. I came closer and up to a door that was open a little. I didn’t go right to it, there’s nothing easier to pick up than a movement close to a slightly open door. I stood about three metres back.
Bob had a tape recorder going, a little old one, and the tapes he was playing had to be his kids’ voices. Tears were coming down his face, he wasn’t even trying to wipe them away, and falling on to the front of his trousers where the fly is.
I turned away, found a table and put the beer down very quiet, and carefully made for the door. As I got there I heard the voices on tape change to boys’ voices—his two other kids—and he shut it off and went to another tape or else ran the same one back. His boys were OK, they were alive and kicking. He didn’t need to cry over them.
When he came back to the pub, everyone gave him a few words and said how sorry they were, and this seemed to buck him up. He got drunk his first night back and wanted to fight everybody, bad hand or no bad hand. They all understood except one stranger, who invited him outside. He was going, too, but the boys pulled him back and Mick and a dozen others explained Aussie Bob’s case to the stranger who saw the justice of Bob being allowed to shoot his mouth off because of grief for his two girls. Mind you, if a stranger had done the same thing when it wasn’t a question of something as solemn and respectable as grief, they’d have joyfully thumped shit out of him.
Out in the pub yard, in a heavy shower a day later, Aussie Bob was fighting raindrops. Punching as they passed him on the way down. At one stage he copped an airgun pellet in the chest and said someone ought to do something about those kids.
The pub lost interest in his private battle. No one thought the kids ought to be stopped. You don’t hang the cat because it kills a mouse.
Fate wasn’t finished with Aussie Bob. Some months later, in October, his two boys went out in his new high-powered car, bought new for Spring when young men’s fancies lightly turn to thoughts of speed, and got killed inside an hour from leaving the house.
That finished Bob. He got on the piss every day, never sober enough to play his tapes of the kids’ voices, and finally took to going to work drunk.
His mates did their best to hide him, and on night shift they’d persuade him to get out of sight. When the supervisor came in, Bob was always outside on the plant.
He was on the plant, all right. Lying down on it, sleeping it off under a cylindrical tank, which was supported on four short legs.
It had to fall. Bob had to be there when it fell. The grating supporting it was at fault, and the tank took Bob and the grating down eighteen inches to the vacuum tank underneath. A leg of the top tank fractured the vacuum tank and bits of Bob and grating were sucked into the vacuum tank.
There was no way of telling he’d been asleep. His firm made a presentation to his family, but there was no one to give it to. His wife died when the fourth was eight, he had no relatives in Australia. They put the money into what they call a suspense account, in case he acquired relatives.
None of these things should have happened to Bob: he wasn’t made for tragedy; fate or God or something got hold of him and savaged him. Regularly we ironed ourselves out and we did it on purpose: he had it done to him and it was permanent.
ERNIE
He was often in the pub, but not regularly. He’d have to stay away some days in order to practise new sports. He was eager for promotion where he worked and since there was a rapid turnover of bosses he was forced to learn a new sport with every boss. I say forced, but he forced himself. Life was no good if you couldn’t talk his favourite sport with the boss, and maybe, with luck, you might get to play with him on the weekend. Who knows what might happen then? You might just hit it off. And next time, when a promotion came up . . .
The only time I ever saw him drunk he kept saying over and over, ‘I’m getting smarter. Every day I’m further up the ladder. Every day I’m smarter. Every . . .’
His present boss was a fisherman, and Ernie had heard this from someone other than the boss. Nevertheless, he took the chance and started to learn about fishing.
He loaded himself up with many dollars worth of equipment and on his first day off took a boat out from Brooklyn and fished in the shallows near a rail bridge. He’d had a few bites and had his bait sucked off and caught nothing and was just about to up anchor when he caught what felt like a dead weight on his line. Thinking in terms of old boots, he pulled. The business end didn’t come towards him, but moved from side to side in five or six metre arcs. He’d caught something.
It was a great moment. When it was nearly up the side of the boat he found it was a stingray. Never mind that, it lived in the water and he’d caught it. It was a fish.
The creature stared at him and began heaving for breath.
‘Don’t do that,’ Ernie advised it. ‘I don’t like that sound.’
He hit it several blows with his sheath knife. After each blow it groaned.
‘Don’t do that!’ He couldn’t stand the pitiful groaning. It was still staring at him. He could only afford to take out a rowing boat so he had oars. He bludgeoned the groaning ray to death and pulled its carcase over the side. He soon forgot the groans.
On the way back in the train—he wasn’t going to buy any old secondhand car, he wanted to display a brand new late model when he got a car—the thing began to sweat. A flow of fine clear oil came from its pores. He wrapped his pullover round it to protect himself from the wrath of his fellow passengers, and watched while it gradually became soaked in oil.
‘Probably keeps it warm in cold water,’ he explained to a pugnacious woman opposite with four kids.
‘You ruin my children’s clothes with that stuff and I’ll have every penny you’ve got,’ she said fiercely, and this was exactly the type of threat to make Ernie go to water. He kept his mouth shut in despair.
He wasn’t game to take it to his boarding house, so he tried to hack it up at the back of the pub. The skin was thick. We gathered for a while to watch him.
Mick said, ‘Waste of time bringing that rubbish home. Shoulda left it in the river.’
Not even Sharon would have a bar of it.
I was the only one to show him any sympathy. I could see he faintly despised me for it, but I was better than no one.
Why is it the weak man will look down on those who tolerate him, and up to those who keep him down? I’ve never worked it out. When something like this strikes me and I wonder about it, I feel I’ve found a key and I’m holding it in my hand, but I don’t know what it opens.
When Ernie had cooked a few of the hacked-up bits, he couldn’t eat it.
When he threw the bits away in disgust, some plopped in the creek. Ferocious movement slashed the surface of the water and the bits disappeared. The creek was alive with eels.
Ernie kept a salt-shaker in his pocket. When he was sure no one was looking, he’d shake salt into his palm and lick it up. Gave him a thirst. He had no real taste for beer.
He was quite sure no one was looking, but we sprung him every time.
MUSHROOMS AND DEWDROPS
The weather was humid, mushrooms sprouted over the golf course. I got off the tractor every fifty metres and collected hatfuls and tipped them into buckets I wedged behind my legs. If I was stuck on cutting greens and Wal was out, he’d share his buckets with me. At night, a little butter in the pan, they’d melt up and sizzle and come out delicious over your bit of steak or couple of chops.
The dew stayed on the grass often till around nine or ten. Grass-spider cobwebs were weighted down in the middle with diamonds. You got the best sight of them on foot; you could stop and look at one particular drop and move your head one way and the other and see the colours change from gold to blue and turquoise and through to red. And if you did it very slowly you could see the different stages from silver to yellow to gold. And if you got one on your finger and licked it off, the colours and richness disappeared on your tongue.
The weather in the Southern Cross was humid too.
From steel barrels, forced by the magic of gas pressure along slim plastic lines, our liquid golden god spouted out of taps and dew formed on the glass that contained him. Nevertheless we swallowed him.
To give him power over us, that was why. No voice of his own, he was compelled to speak through us.
At other times we jumped into the froth of beer as if it was the spume of surf, like delighted children.
MAKING AN IMPRESSION
Young Sibley was around a lot. He’d got to the stage where he got the guys to make marks on paper, or point to one of a set of choices, or manipulate blocks and sticks of different length. Most of the time all they had to do was point to something, the tests were aimed at a minimum of familiarity with written and spoken language.
Once, Sibley looked up as Alky Jack passed and I looked too. I wondered if we saw the same man.
One day a paper dropped off his pile when he was sitting out the back of the pub at a table. I thought I’d better retrieve it for him before the others got to it. He could be writing things that would upset them. He might have forgotten they were taught to read and write at primary school, and most of them still could.
The paper had some guy’s name on it, and a summary of the impressions they made on Sibley.
Danny: Neglected at home. Fair intelligence. Health poor.
Ernie: Splendid memory. Most co-operative. Hard to see how he fits in with this group.
Mick: Easily led. Quiet disposition. Anxious to please. Born loser.
Flash: Rather dull. Sexually backward.
King: Good open disposition. Hesitant. Anal passive?
Darkfellow: Companions regard him as violent, unpredictable.
Lance: Plausible disposition. Completed secondary education. Could be assimilated.
Great Lover: Quick witted, mod. intelligent. Conscientious, painstaking.
Alky Jack: Sullen disposition, unco-operative, rambling speech. Fixed ideas. Premature senility?
Serge: Good open disposition, honest, well-spoken, gentle manner. Effeminate?
I stowed it away quick. If the King or Serge saw it, old Sibley was dead. Anal passive? Effeminate? What next? As for born loser—God Christ almighty.
THE SHOW
There were a lot of people round for the Show at Castle Hill, and most of the drinking was done not there but down at the Bull.
Ten of us lined up at the bar and to save time we ordered a hundred middies.
‘A hundred? You kidding?’ said the barmaid.
‘Fair dinkum,’ we said solemnly.
She called the licensee, who sat on the problem for ten seconds before answering.
‘You got money?’ he demanded. The pistol showed in his pocket.
‘We got money,’ we said, and flashed twenty of it.
‘Give,’ he said, his hand out.
‘Give,’ we said, pointing to the bar.
We drank the ten each in an hour. It was a hot day, the beer hardly touched the sides. Who cared if the last five were flat, it was a good laugh.
At the Show, there were stands everywhere with goods for sale. Where did the word goods come from? I wouldn’t have called most of them good.
There was a drinks tent. That was a good. The others went off looking at the ring events, but Mick and I wandered over near a blonde and got talking to her. She pulled us out of sight round a corner.
‘She’s got a jealous husband,’ Mick said, and she laughed.
‘How about a bite to eat and a drink?’ Mick suggested, and she said OK, but first she had to go off to the Ladies.
‘Get her full and you’ll be right,’ Mick said to me while she was gone.
There we were in the drinks tent. We sat her in the middle so the bottle of wine passed back and forth and she was drinking two to our one. In a short time she was full. Full? She was blind.
She was friends with some people showing machinery at the Show, and borrowed their caravan for an hour. She dragged us inside and both of us went through her several times. She wasn’t much, but she really went off her head, and made up for it in enthusiasm.
When we’d had enough and the hour was up, we went to the door of the caravan to see if the coast was clear to go. There was a bloke outside that kept saying to people, ‘Have you seen my wife? Have you seen Annette?’
No one had seen her and he didn’t look like going, so I opened the door and stepped down.
‘Have you seen my wife?’ he says.
‘I saw her over that way ten minutes ago,’ I said, pointing round the corner of the drinks tent. Off he goes.
‘Mick,’ I call back inside the caravan, ‘Get her out. He’s gone over there.’
‘I can’t,’ he says.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘She’s passed out. She’s too floppy to lift. Bugger it. Leave her here. Come on, let’s go.’
We went.
Next day we were back there but we kept away from the caravan. But you wouldn’t want to know, we run into Annette, with her friend Pam. They didn’t know us.
We stopped in front of them.
Mick said to me, with them a metre away, ‘Do you know where I can get a fuck?’
Pam said indignantly, ‘Did you say fuck?’
‘No, I didn’t say fuck.’
‘I thought you said fuck,’ says Pam, winking at Annette.
Annette didn’t want to know. The side of her face was puffed, make-up covered it. There was extra make-up at the corner of one eye. Her husband found her after all.
As we walked on, Mick was grinning.
‘Some of these blokes got no sense of humour at all. What’s the harm? She’s on the pill, she’s not going to have no kid, I haven’t had a load for three years and you’re clean aren’t you?’
I said I was.
‘Well then. Who do these jokers think they are? Jesus Christ?’
He even had the hide to start getting indignant about it. I took him away towards the boxing tent.
The last day of the show we ran into Sammy. Danny was with us.
‘Hey, you bastards,’ Sammy called. ‘Come round the back and take a gander at my new vehicle.’
We went round and there’s this Bentley, black, shining and elegant.
‘This yours?’ says Mick, putting five prints and a palmprint on the duco for all to see.
Sammy runs in with a white handkerchief and wipes off the prints.
‘It’s not new, exactly. Someone in the government got rid of it and bought a newie.’
Sammy has a lot of brass, he’s in the used car business.
‘She takes a great shine, eh? You’ll never guess what I found in the glove box.’ He dives into the front seat and comes out with a little flag on a metal pole about a quarter metre high.
‘You watch what happens when I put this on the front.’
He goes to the bonnet and finds a little mounting and sure enough the flag fits into the socket.
‘Now watch.’ He pulls out a black suit from the back seat, gets us round in a circle to shelter him and puts it on. There’s a cap too, and when he has it on he’s the perfect chauffeur.
‘Now who’s got good mocha on?’ he says, looking round at us. Sure enough, Danny’s gone mad for the occasion and has his grey suit on that he wears to weddings, funerals and smokos.
‘Danny, you’ll do.’
Danny’s pretty right by this time. Not off his head, don’t get me wrong.
In they get, Danny in the rear and Sammy driving. They head out to the street by the exit and round for the entrance. We all clear out round to the entrance to watch.
Sammy gives a toot at the gates and gets in without paying. The man on the gate sort of salutes. Others look round at the toot and gape, then crowd over to line the road in. Sammy keeps the speed down to about ten. More people up ahead line the road.
