The Glass Mountain (14 page)

31

She's exactly where he left her. Though now she's on the seat. The small iron-lace seat of her childhood that faces the glass mountain.

She doesn't turn, though she hears him coming, hears the bike bump closer, hears his boots on grumbling shale.

He observes the stillness of little grey curls, of a small mauve back. She's dead — he'll touch her on the shoulder an' she'll slip sideways like in the movies.

She's not. She's just sitting there staring up at him. She looks very old and indescribably sad.

She has willed him back and now all she can say is ‘Oh.'

There's something unreal about where they are, and who they are, and what they're doing, like in a painting.

In the foreground two people, one old and one young, are sitting on a seat. The background is a sea of blue, a sun dipping low and a strange mountain peak etched upon the sky.

The younger speaks. ‘Ya taught me what words mean,' he says. ‘The difference in some so close yer'd hardly notice. Like “want” an' “have” — “I want to be alone.” “I have to be alone.” Now the two of them's somewhat altercational I'd say, wouldn't you? What did ya have to do that ya had to be alone for, Essie? What did ya have to do that was nothing to do with wanting? An' I reckon to myself that's a strange one, 'cos wanting's bigger —'cos it's something outside yerself — an' most often to do with someone else. Like, I want to be with you and that wanting's so bad, Essie, I'm gonna be. Ya hear me? I'm very cognitive ‘bout someone wanting someone else around, 'cos most of my life nobody has wanted me around — no matter what they said. An' now yer all calm ya can tell me, quiet like, if my cognitating's right …'

The older shakes her head from side to side. ‘Forgive me,' she whispers.

‘Essie, I know the pain's bad. I've been to the library an' looked up this very excellent book an' I know how it works. An' I know what ya think of hospitals an' nursing homes an' all an' I reckon there's lots what think the same. An' ya reckon how very excellent it'd be to be out an' about among ya glassy mountain an' ya little beach an' all, snooping round for a very excellent place to cark it like the little animals do —'

‘Oh Ossie.' There's a small pause, then she speaks. ‘I remember your coming to my room that first time — the wayfaring bikie with his funny ways, his innocence, his impossible truth —'

‘Ya did plan it then?'

‘In a way. What I didn't reckon on' — her lip trembles — ‘was that I'd become so very fond of you.' She pauses. ‘I'm not afraid of death, Ossie —'

‘I would speculate that yer not afraid of much, Essie.'

‘—Just the path to it.'

‘An' that's what I ruminated upon, 'cos ya taught me to take words very seriously an' weigh everything up like a jockey does after a race, an' I remembered what ya said 'bout taking with ya something explicatious an' we both know what that is … There's a divinity what shapes our ends … They're your words, Essie, even if Shakespeare did think of 'em first.'

‘Forgive me,' she whispers again. ‘I'm a silly old woman.'

‘There's nothing contraceptive 'bout ya brain cells, Essie — we all know that.' Ossie pauses. ‘But brain cells what are very excellent can accommodate other people shaping their ends too, I reckon.'

‘I have been selfish,' she murmurs, ‘and I've hurt you. I didn't mean the things I said, Ossie.' She pulls a small handkerchief from her sleeve.

‘Aw Essie, don't cry. Ya look very anthropomorphic when ya cry. An' that's not very pleasant for either of us.'

She wipes her eyes. ‘There's blood on your arm,' she says.

‘A little bit of blood don't hurt nobody.'

With the end of her handkerchief she carefully wipes the red trickle away. She looks out into the fading day. Sees a sickle-shaped sun on the horizon, its rays lighting up the water.

‘The others will have left by now,' she says. ‘They could be here any time.'

‘See Essie, problem is, ya've never known how lucky yer are. That's not ya fault. People who are wanted don't know what it's like not to be. An' it's nobody's fault. It's just how things are —'

‘Ossie —'

‘People care for ya, Essie. Sheralyn, yer Marjorie an' all. They want to be with ya.'

‘Ossie —'

‘Even when Toad was being real differential people what cared for him were there, like he knew they would be. It was 'cos of them that ole Toad could be real experimental —'

‘Look —'

‘I reckon if anyone asked what's the best thing there ever was in the whole world, I'd say when ya turned round and someone was there. Someone who wanted to be —'

‘Ossie! Ossie!'

‘I won't leave ya, Essie. I'm never gonna leave ya. Ya can push me away, heave me off a very excellent cliff, an' I'll climb back up —'

He's been furrowing with his boot in the stringy grass. But now he sees she's left the seat. She's moving forward towards the water but not looking at the water. She's looking towards the sky, pointing up at the glass mountain.

‘Ossie, the peak — it's turning to gold …'

32

Like one brilliant blinding finger of flame, the gold light sweeps across the water world, and dies. At the very moment that the sun dies, it slips beyond the horizon into the sea.

On the grassy shingle people gather together in pockets. They look towards the mountains, to the glass peak, to the group of people further up the sand who walk into the water clothed, submerge themselves, dive and dabble where the gold for a moment has spread.

Now daylight's fading quickly. There's no twilight here, just light and dark. A soft wind floats off the water. The night will be velvety and warm.

The sand darkens as the sea and sky become one.

Ossie bends low and speaks quietly. ‘Essie, what happened to the boy soldier in the story?'

She looks up into a sky still not dark enough for stars. ‘He went out west and bred horses,' she replies. She doesn't tell of the facial reconstructions, of the artificial legs, of the many attempts to end it all …

‘It was his dream to have a horse stud right from the time he was little — and he did.'

Suddenly they both hear it. It's unmistakeable. Already the cavalcade has turned onto the dirt road.

She smiles at Ossie and takes his hand.

33

It's rained all day, steadily and soakingly. By mid-afternoon the street lamps are on, reflecting glowing balls shimmering in puddles. The rest is grey. Grey as the asphalt from which the plane trees grow. Plane trees are her favourite.

Leaning against a gnarled trunk on this soggy afternoon is Ossie. He lights up, watches a leaf glide swallow-like to the ground. Another and still another curl up and float off along the gutter grave.

It's winter almost. The dying time. Soon the last leaf will fall …

He pulls his jacket tighter and edges closer into the damp bark, and watches the rain paint patterns on the handlebars and chrome rails of his bike.

He said he won't leave her and he won't.

Cars slide past and pull in. He watches as people clip umbrellas up, slop through the car park and hurry up steps to the hospital entrance.

They took her straight here, the Butchers, the police, Carver an' Hambone. She was real bad in the car an' vomiting blood. Six hundred ks we drove without a stop. Like a procession it was — like we were escorting some big-time ambassador or someone. The three bikes were in the lead, Carver on my left, Hambone on my right, then the Butchers an' them an' the cop car bringing up the rear.

They took her straight here to the hospital. That was when — today? No, that was yesterday.

Through the rain he sees a familiar car nosing along the street towards him. It pulls up, a window is wound down and a blue arm waves.

‘Hop in.'

‘Hi Dan.'

‘Ossie, you look like a drowned rat.'

‘At this very moment the elements are more convivial than a police car, Dan.'

‘Jump in.'

In silence two sets of eyes survey the hospital.

‘What floor's she on?'

‘The 9th.'

‘Have you been in?'

‘No, only family — only if ya close.'

‘Life's tough, Ossie.'

‘Yeah.'

Suddenly the phone on the dashboard starts to ring. Dan O' Donnell picks it up and speaks into it, ‘Got to get going,' he says.

Again Ossie presses against the tree and lights up. If God's real, maybe He's crying. He's crying because one of his little children is about to cark it an' the rain is His tears. Dying should be done lashed to a sky that's grey with tears.

He watches people, cars, ambulances come and go. He sees a little red hatchback swing into a parking bay. The director of nursing flicks up an umbrella, runs up the steps and vanishes behind sliding glass.

He waits. A short time later there's Sheralyn again bundling down the steps towards her car. He races over.

‘Ossie, look at you!'

‘How is she?'

‘I just put my head around the corner.'

‘An' the pain?'

‘She's asleep, I'd say heavily sedated.'

I can't help the world crashing around you once more, the director says silently. And aloud, ‘How about coming back for lunch?'

‘It's okay.'

‘I thought you might have gone.'

‘An' not said good-bye to you?'

‘Well, your friends can be — persuasive.'

‘They're over at the camp site.'

A quick silence falls. Together they gaze through raindrops, pause at a window.

‘Perhaps it's best if you don't go in at the moment, Ossie.'

‘Sheralyn, ya don't have to agitate yerself 'bout me.'

‘I'm not so busy that I can't agitate myself to set up a camp bed in the shed while you're here. Hope you don't mind the smell of paint.'

‘Thanks Sheralyn. That little shed's very personable to me.' Ossie sniffs, and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

‘You alright?'

‘Got a cold,' he replies.

‘Here, take this.' She thrusts her umbrella into his hands.

In the failing light Ossie continues his vigil, hears the rain pitter patter against the umbrella, against the leaves still hanging on …

34

There's things he must do.

The first is to get flowers. Flowers don't mean much to some but to her they're sorta like sunshine, what gives life an' all.

‘Can I help you?'

‘It's gotta be pink an' mauve …'

He's walked into a flower shop. Flowers are everywhere. They flow from baskets, from buckets, from copper urns and plastic tubs. They hang from the ceiling, clutter the floor, spill out the door.

The florist, be-ribboned as her blooms, bustles about.

‘Pink and mauve what? Roses, daisies, carnations, lavender?' She pauses. Smiles.

‘We're thinking of our grandmother, aren't we?' (She's done this before.)

‘Yeah.'

‘All fresh today, straight from the garden. You tell me how much you want to spend and I'll do the rest.'

He has no money but the lady has given him an idea.

‘Thanks,' he says with a grin. He jumps on his bike and makes for the Home.

He'd said, ‘Essie, if yer get up yer'll see something.' She's in bed and she won't get out. And he's heard Sheralyn, who's in the room, saying she'll feel better if she does.

‘If ya get up ya'll see something,' he repeats.

‘Oh Ossie —'

‘Something very excellent.'

‘Soon —'

‘Something that took a lot of hefty energy, too.'

‘Oh Ossie —'

‘An' it's for you.'

‘I'll get up soon, promise.'

‘In your colours, like a footy team.'

In their bed beneath her window, the pink daisies and mauve lavender wait, their faces turned to the sun.

The daisies were out, all petally an' pink when they rode off a hundred years ago last Friday, and the lavender too. An' most likely Sheralyn will have some very excellent paper an' maybe some ribbon for bundling flowers an' all.

People stare as he walks to the lift. It's visiting hours at the hospital, so a lot of people are there. The doors slide apart. Ding! A man presses buttons 7 and 8. ‘What floor?'

‘Nine.'

Ding!

The sign above the silent passage says ‘Oncology'. The nurses station is empty and there's not a sound, no movement but that of swirling shapes on a computer screen.

Now a door opens and someone carrying a tray glides noiselessly past.

‘Yes?'

‘Will you give these to — …' He stops, he won't say the name. If he does she'll really be here.

‘Who?'

‘Essie. Mrs Ellis.' He thrusts the posy into the woman's hands and turns to go.

‘Who shall I say they're from?'

‘She'll know,' comes the reply.

The helmet's the next thing.

He polishes it with his sleeve though it doesn't need it. It's hardly been worn, only been wayfaring once …

‘Sell it, Ossie,' she'd said. ‘Or better still, give it away.'

At Fenwick's a man raises spaniel's eyes, shakes his head, shuffles off through ancient lamps and is lost in junk. The op shop ladies think it's lovely. ‘But we don't get much call for those, dear.'

‘It can go on my stall, Sunday week.' exclaims Mr Trash and Treasure, then adds, ‘I only take thirty per cent.'

Ossie crosses the road to the bicycle shop. There's no smell in the world as beautiful as the smell of a bicycle shop. The sweet tang of rubber and grease. He remembers this smell. The second-hand bike shop down the road from the caravan park where they'd bought his little three-wheeler had the same smell.

Inside, a boy of about ten is peering around, touching things, caressing rubber and chrome, like once he did.

Outside, the boy's mother is pacing, watching. Ossie recognises the look. It's a hungry look and anxious — proud too. The not-enough-of-anything look.

‘Come on, Jackie,' she calls.

The boy doesn't argue, just goes.

Together they walk to the lights and cross the road. Ossie follows.

‘Hey, you gotta bike?'

The boy turns and the woman too.

‘You gotta bike?' Ossie repeats.

‘Na.'

‘Before ya get a bike ya gotta have a helmet. This here's a very excellent one. Belonged to a wayfarer, real champion one an' all. Said to give it to someone who's keen on bikes. Who'll take real good care of it.' He shoves it into the boy's hands.

‘What are you doing? He can't take that. Jackie, give it back.'

‘They've gotta off-load it.'

‘Jackie!'

‘They've gotta car now.'

‘Aw, Mum …'

‘Jackie, give it back!' The woman looks at the ground. ‘We don't want — …'

‘You'd make this particular person feel very excellent if you'd take it.'

‘Aw Mum, pleeeeese.'

‘Yeah, please.'

The woman's shoulders droop. She's lost again. And won too.

Ossie grins and the boy grins back. A chipped front tooth grin, broad and beautiful. He hugs the helmet to him like a baby.