The Glass Mountain (7 page)

21

An autumn evening is cold. As darkness falls the chill bites deeper.

It's midnight. On the railway platform roof the rain beats steadily.

On a seat under a blanket a teenager lies. He feels for the small rough square beneath the newspaper pillow, then snuggles down for the night.

In the early morning comes the wind. Before the rising of bird and sun, in the stark wastelands to the east it begins its wail. Gathers strength.

The young bikie stirs, pulls the blanket higher. Things shudder, rise, spiral, flap, float. Newspapers take wings.

He springs awake, reaches under the pillow, jumps up, looks along the platform, onto the line …

As light is breaking the workers at the mill in the next town straggle onto the station. Find it empty. They blow on their fingers.

‘Look at this,' says one.

‘Where'd you get that?'

‘Was caught behind the bin there.'

It is a drawing of two people, beneath which someone has written ‘OSSIE AND ESSIE'.

PART 2

ON
THE ROAD

“He had the world all to himself, that early summer morning. The dewy woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still; the green fields that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere, seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company.

Toad, however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him clearly which way he ought to go …”

The Wind in the Willows
Kenneth Grahame

1

Two people stand at a window. It's that after-eating quiet time of low music and sleep.

On the lawns by the giant oak, a drama is unfolding before an audience of lavender and leaf. The two watch as one of the players stands as though about to exit left.

‘You wonder, don't you …'

The director turns to the young aide. ‘You wonder what?'

‘What he's after. What he's up to.'

‘I'm not sure that he's up to anything.'

‘Some think you're taking a risk.'

‘I've been watching.'

They stare into silence.

‘Maybe it's the other way around.' The aide is studying the next scene being enacted. ‘She's different,' she remarks, ‘but only when he's with her.'

‘Perhaps they understand each other,' replies the director. ‘In any case it's more than any of us could achieve.'

Now the sun has gone and the stage beyond is cast in shadow.

‘He's off today.'

‘Yes.'

‘Looks like they're playing the last act. Pity really.'

In the distance two heads lean together. And apart.

‘I caught him talking to Glenda,' continues the aide, ‘Telling her to forget about her effing baby, that it was never going to be found and to get on with her life.' She pauses. ‘He gave her a flower.'

‘What did she do?'

‘Put it in her hair and followed him around. He doesn't seem to realise that if you're here you're either ga ga or ready to croak …'

‘I'm not sure that that's such a bad thing.'

‘His mother's dead, you know.'

‘Actually she's not.'

‘That's what he says.'

Someone has joined them at the door. The woman with her doll edges closer.

‘Come on, Glenda.' The aide takes a skeletal arm and leads her away.

In the silence of silk roses and lengthening shade, Sheralyn Smythe dreams. It's that sort of day. Her gaze wanders from the action beneath the giant oak to where an aged gardener in cloth cap and overalls clips at hedges. She observes him glance up, drop his clippers and amble over.

‘Wanted to see ya, Sheralyn.'

‘What's up, Bob?'

‘Well, it's like this. The brother's sixty. Haven't spoken to the bastard in forty years and then I get this invitation to his booze-up.'

‘You going?'

‘Dunno. Spend all that money on the bugger?'

‘Do you have to?'

‘By the time I get there …'

‘Where?'

‘To Phoenix.'

‘Phoenix?'

‘Bloody Arizona. By the time I get to Phoenix …'

“She'll be waiting …”

‘Who?'

‘A song.'

The old man jaws on. ‘There'll be no song about here. Be a bloody jungle in five minutes in this weather. Ya'll need to get someone —'

‘Yeah, yeah.'

‘If I come back an' find me roses an' me daffies have snuffed it… A lot of damage can be done in three weeks.'

‘Three weeks?'

‘Three weeks in this weather'll do a lot of damage. Ya'll need to get someone.' Old Bob pushes up his hat, scratches his head and thinks.

The director is thinking also.

‘Of course,' the old fella mumbles, ‘I could just not go.'

But Sheralyn won't hear of it. ‘Bob, your brother will be so happy. Life's too short, Bob, too short. And while we'll miss you dreadfully, there's no need to hurry back.'

2

By the giant oak one of the players is about to exit left. He stands, tries to disengage his hand. It's held tighter.

‘I've gotta go,' he says, and pulls it free.

‘Ossie!'

‘I've gotta go.'

He won't walk, won't drag it out. He'll run. Limpity limp, limpity limp.

‘Ossie!'

He turns.

‘Good-bye, Essie.'

He won't stop again, though he hears her calling. Perhaps the words are ‘Thank you', or something else.

No matter how fast or how long the sail of the windmill turns, it returns to where it began.

As his mind returns to the very first time he saw her in the light.

It was late morning. He'd pushed open the door, found her room empty and grabbed a passing nurse.

‘She's not there,' he'd said.

‘You'll find her outside.'

She is. She's there in the walled garden, sitting on a seat. Beside her is Henry, gleaming goldly in the sun. Others lie or move around and about, but she sits alone.

She's tiny. She's the little flower you find by the roadside, the sort you want to pick and pocket. ‘I know how you came by him,' she says. ‘Sheralyn told me. Dan told her, Constable Dan, that is.' Her eyes are pure forget-me-not. ‘It brought me back to my childhood …'

‘Ya went fishing?'

‘We kept fish — and other things … Thank you, Ossie.'

‘You need a hat,' he replies, ‘or that fuckin' awful umbrella.'

Here and there on trolley beds and lounge chairs, Near Death lingers. Close by, skeletons shuffle. Glenda passes by rocking her doll. A thin woman balances on an imaginary wire. A man in a dressing gown paces up and down, conducting as he sings.

Ossie studies Henry.

‘That's a happy fish,' he says. ‘Probably the happiest fish in the whole fuckin' world, knowing, like he does, that he'll eat on to old age.'

‘Yes, Ossie.'

‘There ya go, grinning again.'

From somewhere comes the ringing of a bell, from overhead the gossiping of birds.

Essie watches the boy, hears his listening.

‘I have to go,' she says.

‘What did ya mean when ya said ya see better in the dark?'

‘In the dark you can imagine things. Be where you want to be, see who you want to see. It's quite simple.'

‘C-c-c-coming, Essie?'

A man rather like a koala with a fringe of hair and aeroplane ears hobbles past. He carries a large sketchbook.

‘Yes, Horace.'

She goes to get up, coughs, coughs again and collapses onto the chair. Now a dressing-gown paces forward, a wire walker circles the seat …

Ossie watches the moving observers, sees that the tiny woman sitting there is trying to conceal something. ‘Whatcha got in ya hand?' he says.

‘Nothing.'

‘There's blood on ya hanky, on ya little lace hanky.'

‘I've got a funny loose tooth at the back. It bleeds sometimes.'

‘What did ya have to hide it for then?'

‘Just attention seeking.'

He feels a hand like a feather on his arm.

‘Henry will miss you,' she says.

Now all at once the garden is deserted and the pacers, conductors, wire-walkers and sleepers, gone.

He wonders how spring can come to birds an' bees an' flowers an' trees. An' some not know it — spring is without this city wall.

At the verge of all experience lies memory.

“There is a green hill far away without a city wall.” The minister man sings loudly, has to above the wind, the heaving an' blubbing, the whispering an' mumbling. Then they start up big. All dig “Jesus wants me for a sunbeam”.

I am eleven an' I'm wondering why the city nobody's singing about hasn't got a wall an' why it should have one anyway an' I can't think of one that does unless it's a very poor city that wants one but can't afford it or a very old one like in the days of Ben Hur when they put ladders up to climb in an' since this is a hymn we're singing (at least the minister man is) perhaps it's all a piece of shit anyway.

Seems as though I've assumed his philosophical position already an' they haven't even heaved the Big Man down six foot yet.

He pushes open the iron-laced gate … Closes out the city inside its wall.

It swings shut behind him.

3

He stops, takes out the screwed-up packet, the last cigarette and lights up. In his pocket coins jingle, though there's not enough for the bus.

It was earlier that day he'd made the call …

‘Hi Pres … yeah I'm okay — you okay? Pres, ya didn't send the dough … Yeah, I'm working like I said, didn't Horse tell ya? … I'm proving it to ya, Pres, I am, honest. Didn't ya get my — the letter? He said he'd write … What? Ya can't believe that, Pres. I can't fuckin' well write good like he can … Well, I just reckoned it's good. I didn't read it but he's grown-up like — old really, so it should be … Yeah, I know you're responsible for me. I know that, Pres, you're real good to me … I am coming back, honest … Aw Pres, ya gotta believe me, I got real gardening hands, warts an' all … Yeah, I'm listening … Oh no, Pres, don't do that … I'll hitch … Don't send anyone … Carver! … No, Pres, no … I'll be back today somehow, honest I will … Friday? … Not here, they can't come here, here's full of loonies having heart attacks what brings the police … Pres, are ya listening? Pres, are ya there? Pres?'

His boot's full of gravel. He empties it out …

There's a silence here by the roadside, not a bird twittering. No house, no fence, no car, no field of flowers. Just emptiness. The world stops at the Big House …

The road where he stands goes nowhere, ends in a field, a field without a city wall. He's walked it to find out.

He draws in the smoke till the ash burns his fingers, till there's nothing left … You couldn't call that a stub.

He gets up, drops the plastic bag, his case, and walks off in the other direction. The wrong one, the right one. The sun is warm on his back. A rabbit scuttles across his path, dives into a bush. There's a buzzing in the air, a buzzing of heat and tiny life.

The road washes away, ends in a crumbling of little bits. The buzzing's louder, it's inside his head. A singing field …

He walks on. He thinks that if he keeps walking he'll reach the centre, or the end. Or both.

Come to that place where the wind alone wanders …

And if he never leaves would anyone know? Ever? Would anyone care? The answer is the shortest word in the world. Except for I. But there'd be no I any more.

Less than a crow's fly from where he stands, Sheralyn Smythe is moving with great speed. Legs scissor sharply across the lawn.

‘Where is he?' She peers closely. ‘Essie, what's the matter?'

‘He's gone.'

‘Already?'

‘His bus leaves at four.'

‘It's twenty to now.'

‘Sheralyn!'

‘Yes?'

‘Bring him back.'

The director takes off, streaks through grass, jumps into a little red hatchback. Tyres squeal, gravel rises, falls …

‘You've got a flat!'

There's a scrabbling for mobiles. ‘Marion, I need the bus. Right now.'

‘It's at the garage. Remember that rattle —?'

‘I've got a flat!'

‘Is that all?'

‘Just give us a hand. And Marion — run!'

There's applause from a window as the little red rocket takes off down the drive. At the station it skids to a stop. The bus is already throbbing away. ‘Hey, you can't park there.'

The driver leaps out, pushes past people, through luggage carriers and crates, scans the travelling crowd, hurtles back to red wheels, zoom zooms down the main street past schools and churches, factories and farmhouses, past the station, over the railway line.

At the side of the road a young man stands, thumb pointing west. His hair is a fizz of black curls. He wears a tired leather jacket, raggety jeans and scruffy boots. His body, like his face, has a lean and haunted look.

‘Hello.' The Director of Nursing gasps, smiles, takes a deep breath. ‘Don't suppose you know anyone who'd like to make some money?' she says.

4

Ossie is inspecting roses. Black spot spreads easily, according to Bob's gardening book. He makes for the shed. He can't stop grinning. He's got a job, he's got money, an' Bob's cottage'd have to be the most excellent little cottage in the whole world an' it's his for three weeks … An' as well as all that, he gets time off to go fishing in this real personal place he's found on the river. 'Course he's seen disapproval in the eyes of some, but Sheralyn just shrugs it off with a smile. He'll make her a cake … Essie'll help. An' there's this very excellent book in Bob's cupboard what describes how to whisk eggs an' that when baking things …

He looks along the shelves for the rose spray then stops. They're here, as he knew they'd be. He watches from the door as the Harleys thunder into the drive.

It is Carver, this time with the Turk. He watches as they dismount and ease off their helmets. Sees the Turk flip back his matted locks, and the other, who's hairless, claw a shaven scalp. Carver is different, cruelly so. They're wearing summer gear, sleeveless denim vests, black cowboy boots and jeans.

He moves out of the shed.

‘It's Nom. Hi ya, Nom.' The Turk leads the march across the lawn, unaware that bringing up the rear is Generalissimo Sheralyn Smythe at her most dictatorial.

‘I'm in charge here,' she announces.

Carver stares, spits, grinds a black heel into turf. ‘Git ya stuff,' he growls.

Ossie looks from the nurse to the Turk, from the Turk to Carver. And back.

‘Didja hear me? Git ya fuckin'stuff.'

‘Stay right where you are.' The director speaks slowly, ‘Nom works for us. He's employed as our gardener. And if you make any trouble I'll call the police.'

‘This got nothin' to do with the frickin' cops.' Carver leers menacingly. ‘This private business, lady.'

‘And this is my property.'

Silence.

All the while the Turk's gawking in this direction and that. ‘Can't see no loonies.'

‘Doesn't the garden look just too beautiful?' Another figure in blue has joined the party. Rose Wiley, right on cue. ‘See what the boy's done! Go on, look!'

Black goggles sweep circularly. ‘Too fuckin' beautiful,' croaks the Turk.

His fellow viper strikes.‘Where's the ole geek then?'

‘Away. He's in America, in fact.'

Carver gnaws his finger, spits nail. ‘Till when?'

‘He'll be back in —'

‘A couple of weeks,' pipes up Nurse Rose.

‘Perhaps,' corrects a smiling Sheralyn.

Silence.

‘Better ring Pres,' announces the Turk.

‘Perhaps I should talk to him,' suggests the director.

The two vipers clump over to a rose bed and make the call. Heads nod and wag.

‘Pres says it's okay, Nom.'

‘But ya come back, see.' It's Carver speaking. ‘At the next meet an' no fuckin' argument.'

‘When's that then, Carver?'

‘Three weeks. Same meet like before, same location. Pick ya up …'

‘Nom.' The Turk leans forward intimate-like. Breathes stale cigarettes, beer. ‘Ya can save fuckin' money in the fuckin' country if ya fuckin' clever. For wheels.'

‘Yeah Turk,' says Ossie, ‘ I will.'