The Glass Mountain (11 page)

16

Ossie has slept fitfully. Again he flicks on the kitchen light. The round-faced clock says 2.45. He won't try to sleep now, he'll think instead. He should consider what he ought to do — what he's going to do — about this crazy scheme of hers. But he won't, for he can't get the story she told him out of his head. And suddenly he has the strangest premonition, and it's got to do with her and him and with the sixteen-year-old boy who'd joined up for fun — as he's joining up for fun. To be astride his king's charger, rounding the next bend in the road, like the boy in the story, astride his camel rounding the next dune in the sand, seeing fragments of flesh float before his eyes but not the whole picture — not the bit that's hidden beneath the frame. And if he had, what then? Would he have said no to fun, to adventure, and got on with his cows and sheep?

Ossie rolls onto his back and addresses paint pots. ‘Or for once in his life was he gonna be someone, 'stead of just no one, and have mates an' all what ya'd die for?'

Again he flicks on the light. 3.35. ‘An' pay for it later. 'Cos ya gotta pay, no matter what. The boy soldier did —'

Once more he reaches for the switch.

3.50. It's time.

Ossie gets up, pulls on his jacket and boots and opens the door. A skein of fog unwinds towards him, wraps up his legs, his body, his head. It's bitterly cold.

He moves over grass that's wet and silent as a prayer. Gets to the gate, to the road that's not a road but a river of cloud. Here and there lampposts loom darkly.

He keeps to the centre of the river road … His feet are freezing, his hands numb. Drops fall from his nose.

Travis has left a light on under the porch as he said he would. Ossie stops, blows on his fingers. Even through fog the pink is very pink. He wheels the bike, now complete with sidecar, onto the road and kick-starts the motor. He lets out the clutch and the machine moves forward.

At the iron gates he turns off the engine, gets off the bike and pushes it across the grass.

She's there, all ready, all waiting with coats and gloves and cushions and blankets — with her helmet on. She looks like a little Martian.

She smiles. She is.

‘There's a big fog out, Essie. It might be commodious to wait.'

She pokes her head out the door. ‘There is,' she says and picks up her bag. He grabs an armful of cushions and blankets. He's crossed the Rubicon. He tries to think which poor jerk did it first and wonders if whoever it was felt the same way he did.

He heaves her into the sidecar and she disappears. He heaves her out and starts again. Now perched on cushions and blankets she pokes out nicely. He takes hold of the handlebars and starts to push.

‘The letter!' As they creep past the entrance he slides it under the door. Now they've reached the road he turns on his lights — visibility is about an arm's length. The fog licks up, wets his face, twists hair that falls from a red helmet in ringlets.

‘Essie?'

He stops. He can make out that she's waving a little white hanky. ‘Ya wanna go back?'

‘This —' she waves again — ‘means there's a need to communicate.'

‘Communicate what?'

‘I don't know. But something's bound to come up.' She snuggles into the blankets. ‘This little nest's very comfy,' she says.

‘We'll be wayfaring real slow, Essie, which is advisable to do when ya can't see.'

Again he kick-starts the engine. The clutch feels a bit spongy but his foot's numb so it's hard to tell.

Fingers of fog slap at his face as they turn onto the road that leads to the highway. From there they'll travel north.

They putt-putt on. Here and there the shapes of cattle, sheep and telegraph poles hang suspended in mist. It's 5.15. On the highway, transports lit like Christmas trees thunder past.

Now the fog is lifting, drifting up. Along the highway they roll, see daylight breaking in the east.

Suddenly the white flag is being waved. Ossie flicks off the engine and swings around. ‘What's the matter?'

‘I just want to know if you're happy.'

‘Ya pulled me up for that!'

‘Are you?'

‘Aw Essie. Now look whatcha done. I've got two hefty roadtrains in front of me.'

They travel on into the thin white light of day.

Now the country is stirring, its orchestra is tuning up. From fields and paddocks tractors hum, balers whirr, kelpies bark instructions at lowing cattle and bleating sheep. A squadron of cockatoos screech overhead and below the magpies warble.

And now comes music of a different kind. It's Essie music, for she's singing.

“When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin' along, along —” she conducts as she sings. The white flag flutters.

“What if I've been blue, now I'm walkin' through fields of flowers —” they chorus. Suddenly a car coming towards them on the other side of the road dips its lights. Ossie pulls over. ‘Essie, it'd be very accommodating for everyone if ya put that very excellent blanket over ya head at least till we've wayfared round the next coupla bends. A blow on my horn means all clear.'

‘I'm hungry,' she says and is gone.

He gives a wave as they putter past the police car. Two men in blue wave back.

‘Colourful,' remarks one.

‘Making for the nudist camp no doubt …'

“I'm just a kid again, doin' what I did again, singin' a song —”

Ahead is a roadhouse.

‘You must be starving, Ossie!'

They park the bike and walk in.

‘What do you think you'd like?' But Ossie's not thinking of food but of a hot and dusty afternoon when he'd walked into a place like this an' how they'd shrunk back. How he'd seen uncertainty in the eyes of some and fear in the eyes of others.

But here there's nodding an' smiling all round — an' he's still the same person.

‘Have “breakfast with the lot”,' she says. He does. Then he takes himself outside for a smoke.

Essie goes on nibbling toast, sipping tea. She coughs a bit, coughs more and harder …

‘You orright, lady? … I'll git yer boy.'

‘No,' she gasps, and smiles at the truckie towering over her, ‘I'm fine.'

She dives into her bag, rips open a packet, swallows something and stumbles out.

‘Ready, Ossie?'

And they're off again.

“Rain may glisten, but still I'll listen, for hours and hours —”

Now the white flag is being waved wildly. Again he peels over to the side.

‘Look!' she cries.

‘What?'

‘We're making shadows. It's going to be a sunny day.'

17

At Camleigh Gardens Nursing Home the night shift is going off duty. It's been quiet, they're pleased to report.

Now the morning shift is beginning their rounds. The director is absent, as she's making a house call and won't be in till ten. In her absence Kate Curran is in charge.

Kate has arrived early. She's noticed a letter addressed to the director lying on the floor in the entrance, marked ‘personal'. She picks it up and puts it on Sher-alyn's desk. Puts the mail on her desk too and today there's a bundle. As she's doing so, the courier arrives with an express parcel and a box. All is piled onto the desk.

And now Kate is making her rounds and gets to room 23. ‘What's this?' she exclaims. For on the door a notice is hanging which reads, ‘Do Not Disturb'.

‘Essie asked if she could sleep in,' remarks a passing staffer. ‘She does that occasionally.'

‘I see.' Sister Curran pushes open the door and glances into the darkened room at the form under the doona.

‘I'll give her till nine,' she says.

18

Essie's right, the sun is out. The sky might be pale but the light is gold and the tarmac beneath their wheels is singing.

Ossie glances sideways. She's been asleep for the last eighty ks but now she's awake and warbling again “… singin' a song — When the red red robin comes bob bob bobbin' along —”

They come to a bend in the road and he throttles down. He's right, the clutch is slipping. He pulls over. ‘Essie, we've got a problem that will very likely stop ya singing.'

‘What problem?'

‘The clutch is slipping.'

‘Is that all?'

‘If it starts spinning, I can't get into gear an' if I can't get into gear we remain in this obstreperous spot for possibly a very long time.'

‘I'm sure it can't be serious. Trevor said —'

But it is.

‘But Trevor said —'

‘The engine's working very excellently but an engine's not a clutch an' ya need both for the process of wayfaring.'

‘We're almost there,' she sighs. ‘We could've had lunch by the water.'

‘Essie, wayfaring can be most anomalous, which is pointed out, as ya know, in
The Wind in the Willows
.'

She smiles. ‘Well,' she says, ‘what do we do?'

‘We wait,' Ossie replies.

19

‘Well, what do we do?'

‘We wait,' Kate Curran replies. ‘Sheralyn should be back any minute.'

In room 23 nurses in blue and others in green have gathered. They stare at a bed, at a doona that's been flung back to expose cushions and blankets in human shape.

Nurse Curran takes a deep breath, swings on thick heels and faces the gawking mob. ‘There are other residents to attend to,' she barks. And to a group of three, ‘Search the grounds — everywhere.' And to two others, ‘Find Ossie —'

‘Here's Sheralyn,' a voice calls from the door.

Kate hurries from the room. At the entrance she finds the director bundling towards her office dropping papers, keys. ‘Kate, hold these.' Sheralyn is flustered. She thrusts a sheaf of folders into her assistant's hands. ‘Discovered last night we've got a problem with the loan,' she moans.

‘I think you'd better sit down.' Sister Curran guides the director towards her chair. ‘We've got a problem here too.'

20

On the highway two cars have whistled past. Now a roadtrain honks its hooter and rolls on, and a little black sports model zips by.

‘We might be here forever, Ossie.'

‘Come an' sit on this very excellent tree trunk right here by the road, Essie.'

‘Help me out.'

He props her on the log.

‘In situations like this, Ossie, it's probably better to be helmet free.'

It is. A four-wheel drive campervan pulling a trailer is sliding to a stop.

‘You okay?'

‘Done a clutch,' Ossie replies.

The occupants of the van are a man and a woman. The man is large and loud, the woman also. They speak at the same time.

‘The next township's five ks up the road —'

‘You pull off a bit further along —'

‘Kev'll fix you up —'

‘Brian knows everyone, don't you love —'

‘The little lady'll be warmer inside —'

‘It's chilly standing here —'

The next minute Essie is sitting on sheep's skin and Ossie and the man are uncoupling the sidecar and heaving it and the bike aboard the trailer. The woman is still jabbering on.

‘It's very kind of you,' Essie interrupts.

‘Brian can't stop helping people. He's a policeman — hasn't had a break for years. Finally I put my foot down and we're off for two weeks.'

‘That's nice.'

‘I've seen men drop dead on the job.' The woman stops. ‘Are you alright, dear?'

Essie leans back. ‘My bag —'

‘Brian, pass up the lady's bag. Real quick, do you hear.' Essie fumbles inside her little carry-all, pops something into her mouth and again leans back.

‘Should you be on the road, love?'

‘I'm going home,' Essie replies. ‘The boy's taking me. He doesn't want to, but I — persuaded him. I'm dying, you see …'

The door swings open and the man climbs in. ‘You right at the back there?'

‘Yeah,' Ossie calls.

‘Brian, the lady's going to see her home again and the boy's taking her.'

‘That's real nice.'

‘I'd want to see our home sometime later when — it's later, wouldn't you, Brian?'

‘I sure would,' replies the policeman loudly, as he pulls into the road.

21

‘It's the clutch alright,' announces Kev. ‘If I order now it should be here by morning.'

‘You mean you can't fix it right this minute?'

‘This is the country, lady, and this here's a little town. If I put in an order now, it'll come down on the overnight. Should get ya up and running by ten.'

‘Tomorrow's Sunday.'

‘Makes no difference to me. Tell ya what, I'll get going at eight — just for you.'

‘That's very condescensial,' Ossie replies.

On the side of the road the township lines up — a general store, a pub, a health centre, and a takeaway that boasts the best pies in the district. The garage and a tired-looking motel complete the picture of a row of leggo boxes plonked on yawning, dust-blown plains.

‘We'll have to stay somewhere,' remarks Essie.

Kev scratches his head. ‘Well, that could be difficult. There's this folk-singing thing down by the river. Come from miles, they do. But there's a couple of places down the road a bit.' He picks up the phone. ‘They're full.' He scratches his head again. ‘Ya might try next door.'

They ring the bell at reception. Ring again. At last a woman in a dressing-gown shuffles in. She's got one room, lucky to have that. She passes over the key.

Ossie pushes open the door of unit 3. ‘I don't think this is at all preponderous, Essie,' he says.

‘If we open the windows —'

‘It's not that —'

In the room there are two chairs and a small table on which a bunch of artificial violets has gathered webs.

And one unusually large double bed.