Sydney Bridge Upside Down (2 page)

For Jean, Des, Den —
and remembering Bill

T
HERE WAS
an old man who lived on the edge of the world, and he had a horse called Sydney Bridge Upside Down. He was a scar-faced old man and his horse was a slow-moving bag of bones, and I start with this man and his horse because they were there for all the terrible happenings up the coast that summer, always somewhere around.

I start with Sam Phelps and Sydney Bridge Upside Down, but now I go to a cliff-top on a January day, a sunny afternoon, mid-afternoon. I was there with Dibs Kelly.

Dibs said I was too scared to climb the dead tree. I put a hammerlock on him and shoved him to the drop from the cliff-top to the rocks beside the wharf.

‘You know why I won’t climb that tree,’ I told him. I put on some pressure. ‘Eh? Eh?’

‘That hurts a bit,’ he said.

‘Give in then,’ I said. ‘No, answer the question first.’

‘I told you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know where Mr Dalloway’s
gone for his holidays—hey, that hurt!’

‘I mean the tree now,’ I said. ‘What did you say about me and the tree?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

I told him what I could see. By pushing his head into the grass, I said, I could look over him and see the rocks, waves hitting the wharf piles, a dinghy swaying at the bottom of the funny steps near the end of the wharf. It was a long way down, I said, shifting my elbow from his neck. He pretended to cry. He made choking sounds into the grass. He coughed.

‘I’ll tell you then,’ I said, loosening the hammerlock. ‘You know, all right, but I’ll tell you, boy.’

I explained why I wasn’t climbing a tree that would fall over the cliff with a good push, let alone with me trying to get up it, so who wouldn’t be scared to climb it? I’d be looking for a quick trip to the rocks if I climbed it.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘who did you hear crying like that?’

‘A girl,’ he said.

‘Which one?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Susan Prosser?’

‘I don’t remember, Harry.’

‘I’ve never heard anybody else crying like that,’ I said.

‘It happens all the time,’ he said. ‘You just don’t hear them. Haven’t you heard your mother crying?’

‘Not like that,’ I said.

‘You listen,’ he said. ‘When she comes back, you listen.’

‘People cry differently,’ I said. ‘When my brother cries, he yells, he enjoys it. When I cry, it’s because I’m gulpy and
the damned tears start without me wanting them to. But I don’t cry much.’

‘My mother says she likes a good cry,’ Dibs Kelly said.

‘What about?’

‘Oh, anything.’

‘I’ve never heard—’ I was going to say I’d never heard my mother crying the way Dibs had been crying, nor did I think she would agree with Mrs Kelly about liking a good cry. My mother was different from Mrs Kelly. My mother did her crying in secret.

I didn’t say this, though, because Dibs humped me suddenly and I had to let go of him. He’d hurt me, I staggered. He followed up fast and knocked me down.

I got my knees working, he couldn’t keep me pinned.

‘I’ll dong you, boy!’ he shouted.

As he came in, I caught him, my feet in his stomach. He went flying, smacked the dead tree pretty hard. The tree did not fall over the cliff. Dibs Kelly did.

I go back now to the beginning of that day, my brother and myself in pyjamas for breakfast with our father, sausages and fried potatoes, plenty of toast and raspberry jam, cocoa for us and tea for him.

‘Just because your mother’s away,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t mean you can run wild. Just because it’s the holidays it doesn’t mean fun and games all day every day. An hour a day won’t hurt you. You could do a lot of weeding in an hour. Other things as well. What about those passion-fruit, Harry? The vine’s all over the shed now. Lot of passionfruit on that roof. But you do the climbing. Cal can catch them.’

‘I can climb,’ Cal said. ‘Aren’t I a good climber, Harry?’

‘You’re not so bad for your age,’ I told him.

‘I can climb to the top of the chute,’ he said.

‘Shut up!’ I told him.

‘Keep away from the works!’ Dad shouted.

‘Cal means long ago,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t been in the works for years and years.’

‘Three men died there,’ Dad told Cal. ‘They knew of the dangers, but it didn’t stop them having accidents. If it could happen to them, men knowing what might happen if they weren’t careful, it could happen to you. So keep away. Or you know what I’ll do to you.’

I knew what he would do to Cal. He would chase him with his whip.

My father’s whip was long and black. He’d won it at poker many years before from a drunken stockman. He kept it on a nail above the copper in the wash-house, and he could certainly get to it quickly when he was in the mood to use it, his missing leg didn’t slow him, not then or when he was chasing me, whizzing along behind me with his crutch flashing and his whip cracking, and me thinking it was fair to let him catch me twice, since I had two good legs and could have got clean away if I tried, but no more than two flicks because it was very cutty and there was blood on my legs whenever he caught me. I would let him get his two flicks in and then I’d be off, up into the hills or across the swamp to the river-bank where I had plenty of hiding-places, usually the swamp because the single-plank bridge was too awkward for his crutch. He had to stay
behind and watch me go, cracking the whip and shouting, making me feel sorry for him.

I liked Dad. Cal liked him too. We had good fun when our mother was away. We didn’t mind if she took her time about coming back.

‘Want me to go to the store, Dad?’ I asked
^-
as soon as he’d made Cal promise to keep away from the works. ‘I can go to the store after I’ve done the weeding. No trouble.’

‘Not today thanks, Harry,’ he said. ‘That reminds me, though. I must put in an order for the paint, must do it on the way to work.’

‘Expect you’ll let Cal and me help to paint the house?’ I said. ‘Get it done quicker if you do.’

‘We’ll have plenty of time,’ he said. ‘But you boys can help, all right. I’ll do the high bits, you two can do some of the low bits.’

‘Expect we’ll have it done by the time she gets home?’ I said, in case he had a hint, or a warning, of when she’d be back.

‘That’s the general idea,’ he said. He looked into his cup, seemed to frown. ‘But she won’t be back for a while yet. Not according to her letter. She’d be coming with your cousin if she was in a hurry to get back. She wouldn’t let Caroline make the trip alone.’

Cal and I scowled at each other. We had forgotten about our cousin. Dad laughed. ‘She’s an interesting girl. Your mother says so.’

‘She’s old,’ I said. ‘You said she was too old to play with.’

‘Well, rather too old for childish games,’ he said. ‘But I
dare say she’ll be grateful if you boys show her some of the sights of the district. You can be her guides.’

‘As long as she’s not coming here to boss us,’ I said.

‘She’s coming for a holiday,’ he said. ‘City girls often come to places like Calliope Bay for holidays.’

‘The same as country teachers like Mr Dalloway have holidays in the city, eh?’ I said.

It was Dad’s turn to scowl. ‘Who said Dalloway’s gone to the city?’

‘I forget,’ I said. ‘No, that’s right! I made it up.’

‘Take care, Harry,’ he said. ‘Nobody likes liars.’

‘I think he
might
have said he was going to the city,’ I said. ‘One day at school.’ I reflected while my father watched me. ‘But I’m not sure. Sorry, Dad.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you’re not to misbehave when Caroline’s here. I want you boys to make her welcome. Show her that country people are hospitable.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ I said. ‘Trust us.’

‘I wonder,’ he said. But he was smiling as he hopped to his crutch, against the wall near the stove. ‘Don’t leave the dishes too long,’ he said, hopping to the door. ‘They bring the flies.’

‘I’ll do them right after I get dressed,’ I said.

He studied our pyjamas. ‘About time they went into the wash,’ he said. ‘Remind me about them next Monday.’

‘I’ll get some driftwood for the copper, Dad,’ I said. ‘After the weeding.’

‘No hurry,’ he said. ‘Later in the week will do.’

Cal and I went to the back steps to watch him get on to his bike. It was always interesting to see him take off.
He had to work fast with his leg, pushing himself away from the tank-stand, jabbing down quickly on the pedal, stopping the wobble just in time, then speeding up the side-path.

Back in the kitchen, I threw the pot of raspberry jam at Cal. ‘Catch!’ I yelled.

He missed. The pot exploded on the wall. Jam splashed everywhere.

‘Dad!’ yelled Cal, running up the passage to the front door. ‘Hey, Dad!’

‘You’re too late,’ I said. ‘He’ll be nearly at the river by now.’

It never took Dad long to reach the river, I thought as I cleaned up the glass and jam. He covered that half-mile stretch of road as quickly as any person with two good legs. The only time he slowed was when he got into the roadside metal. Then he had to use the crutch to keep his balance, poking the metal with it until he was clear. Once I had seen him doing that after a skid, and I thought it was great how he stopped himself from toppling into the ditch. He was a great rider.

Cal came back. He said: ‘That jampot nearly cut me.’

‘It slipped,’ I told him. ‘And if you don’t wash the dishes, another one might slip.’

I was only kidding. He was too short to wash up. I did that. He did the wiping.

After we had done the dishes, we took off our pyjamas and had a run with nothing on. We ran up and down the passage and in and out of the rooms, and some of the time he chased me and some of the time I chased him. When
I caught him I gave him two smacks on the behind and, to be fair, I let him catch me a couple of times. Mostly we stayed inside when we had this sort of fun, but some days I’d chase him outside and then scare him by shutting the door, and he’d bang on the door and keep looking around in case somebody came down the side-path or Mrs Prosser next door happened to look out of her bathroom window; she could see our back porch from her bathroom. One day, during one of these games, I went to the dunny which was beside the wash-house, and I suddenly thought I would be trapped if anybody called, I’d have to stay in there until the caller left, and what if the caller realised I was in there and decided to wait until I was finished? I got so excited I couldn’t do anything for a while, not until I’d made myself think of the river on a cold day. When I did leave the dunny, the coast was clear. Lucky for me, I thought.

‘Righto, boy, now we’ll do some weeding,’ I said after Cal had got in his second lot of smacks. ‘Ten minutes in the garden. Before the sun’s too hot.’

‘Why don’t we pick passion-fruit?’ asked Cal. ‘Dad said I could help.’

‘
I
give the orders,’ I said.

But we did pick passion-fruit, because that seemed like more fun to me too. I stood on the shed roof and tossed the passion-fruit to Cal, and he caught most of them, the only ones he missed were the ones I aimed at his head, he ducked those.

Up on the shed roof, I could see along the backyards, all five of them. Of course there were once a lot more backyards, they used to go nearly half-way to the river.
Nowadays, with the works closed, there were only five houses left in Calliope Bay, the others had been pulled down. Every backyard was very much like the next—vegetable garden, shed, passion-fruit vine—except for the Kelly backyard. The Kelly backyard was full of rusty truck and car parts. This was because Mr Kelly, a short gingery man, was a carrier. He owned a Reo lorry and kept it in his backyard, which was where he had let other trucks and cars go to rust. Another reason for the mess was that Dibs Kelly’s big brother, Buster, fixed motor-bikes there. Buster Kelly owned an Indian, and everybody said it was a tremendous roaring thing. Buster sure made that Indian go.

‘No, it wasn’t the only reason I called,’ I told Mrs Kelly later in the morning. ‘Of course, if Buster does turn up and offer me a ride, I won’t say no. I rather like speeding along on the back of his Indian. How about you, Mrs Kelly?’

‘On that roaring thing?’ said Mrs Kelly, who was plucking a fowl. ‘Not for me, thanks!’

‘It’s quite safe,’ I told her. ‘Personally, I trust Buster.’

Mrs Kelly, who was large and purple-cheeked, gave me one of her knowing looks. She said: ‘It’s not
me
you must convince, young man. Wasn’t it your mother who said you were not to ride on Buster’s bike? Or was it somebody else’s mother?’

‘My mother did say that,’ I said. ‘But it was ages ago. I don’t suppose she’d mind now.’

‘Buster wouldn’t want to go against her wishes,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘We can’t be sure what they are until she gets back. And she’s only been gone a week, so she won’t be thinking of coming back yet.’

‘She won’t mind,’ I said. ‘Especially when she sees how we’ve fixed things while she’s away. We’re not just having fun, Mrs Kelly.’

Mrs Kelly finished plucking the fowl, dangled it. ‘Do you miss your mother, Harry?’

‘Not much,’ I said. I watched her wipe the bench. ‘We’re having a visitor, you know,’ I said. ‘Our cousin Caroline. She’s coming from the city.’

‘So I heard,’ said Mrs Kelly. ‘How long will she stay?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Hope she doesn’t stay too long. By the way, Mrs Kelly, when will Buster be back?’

‘Not till the week-end,’ she said. ‘You’re out of luck today.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’ve got plenty to do.’

‘Harry?’ Cal said from the doorway.

‘I have to look after
him
,’ I told Mrs Kelly. ‘He misses his Mummy.’

‘I don’t!’ Cal shouted.

‘He pretends he doesn’t,’ I told Mrs Kelly.

‘When people first came to Calliope Bay,’ she said, ‘what troubled them most was loneliness. I don’t mean the people in the very old days, the first one or two who farmed in the district before there was any sort of settlement. I mean those who came to build the works, then those who came because there were jobs for them at the works, then those who moved in when others moved out, then of course those who came to help pull down the works. All these people were very lonely for a time. They seemed so far, far away from everything. No part of the country, of the world even, seems so faraway as this. And when people
are faraway and lonely they often behave curiously, this is well-known. The teacher, many years ago, who tied a child to a tree in the school grounds would not have done so in any other place. Or, nowadays, the way Mrs Prosser hides is because she lives in such a faraway place. She is lonely, so she holds back. Even the rest of us, popping into one another’s homes and chatting, can see and hear only so much. I know I hold back when I go visiting, I know the others do too. Now, I asked your mother if she was looking forward to her holiday in the city. She said she was. “Are you sure, Janet?” I asked. Then she said she didn’t like leaving you boys, she said she would be thinking all the time she was away that she should have taken you with her, she would not be able to truly enjoy her holiday for thinking of you. On and on in this fashion. Was it the truth? Or, once she had made the two dozen bottles of ginger beer, did she give another thought to those who would drink it when she was gone? This is not for me to say. I can only suggest that escaping from loneliness is not always a matter of going from one place to another. How many bottles are left, Harry?’