The Glass Mountain (9 page)

8

‘I want to see you, Ossie.'

The director has run into him where the passage meets the hallway. A minute or so earlier, Ossie had spied a small person propped by a window and had wandered over. ‘Hi Max, how ya going?'

Nod nod nod.

‘Done over any banks lately?'

The man nods a head too big for a body. The bones are soft, continue to grow, to bandy his legs. A nodding gnome …

Now the director has waylaid Ossie in the corridor.

‘There's something I must talk to you about —'

‘Got a couple of things to proposition you with too, Sheralyn. It's Max's birthday next week, the day the music man comes with his very excellent little songs an' all —'

‘That's right.'

‘An' I thought how recuperative it'd be to have a quite elegant cake an' some white an' blue streamers — the shade of Max's favourite team — an' a little dancing round an' about …'

‘Well, why not?

‘An' Sheralyn, now I know how very excellent it is to have a place that ya belong to with ya own little bed an' ya own fireplace an' a shelf above it for your own things …'

‘So, you're happy there?'

‘Yeah. An' Bob left me a chook, a whole sanguineous chook, cooked too. Course it was too much for me …'

‘You threw the rest out?'

‘Ya don't throw out good chook, Sheralyn. I took it down to the park.'

‘Oh … And what else did you want to see me about?'

Foot-clomping down the passage announces the arrival of the Major, today ferociously upstanding and ready for war. He fixes a blinking eye on the woman in blue, removes a phantom beret, and puts his hand over his heart.

“… mid the war's great curse stands the Red Cross Nurse/She's the rose of no-man's-land,” he sings.

Nurse Sheralyn Rose smiles.

Bristling whiskers face Ossie. ‘Private Jones, back to barracks. On the double.'

The old soldier bends down, heaves an invisible pack onto his back and marches off to the Front. A Front where sunflowers grow.

Again the director smiles. ‘What else was it, Ossie?'

‘I was just cogitating on the possibility of something. Just thinking …'

‘What were you thinking?'

‘Well, there's this spot by the river, see, with fish an' dragonflies an' all. An' I was thinking how very excellent it'd be if I could show it to Essie. Take her on one of my days off.'

‘Just the two of you?'

‘Yeah.'

‘I'll have to think about it. Are there steps to climb?'

‘Ya gotta get through brambles and stuff, but she wouldn't mind.'

‘Brambles and stuff?'

‘Little brambles and stuff.'

‘I'll have to think about it.'

‘It's special like in
The Wind in the Willows.
Like in the bits she reads to me.'

‘One of the nurses would have to go with you.' Sher-alyn leans forward and lowers her voice. ‘Essie's very frail —'

‘Essie don't have much respect for doctors an' anyone else what tells her what to do.'

‘Ossie, she's old.'

Ossie sniffs, pushes back a twist of hair. ‘So the nurse would have to hang about?'

‘Yes.'

‘All the time?'

‘Yes.' Sheralyn pauses. ‘But I think a small party for Max is a very good idea.'

‘With a key stuck attentively in the cake … An' keys are likely to be plentiful in a very excellent cake shop.'

‘Max's hardly twenty-one.'

‘No, he's a locksmith, an' a key to a locksmith is centrifugal indeed.'

‘Well, in that case —'

Ossie starts down the passage, then turns back.

‘By the way, what did ya want to see me about?'

9

On a warm velvety night a man and a woman stroll hand in hand, their talk punctuated by moon watching and caramel kisses.

‘So, why the formality?'

‘When an official complaint's made, Sherry, it's gotta be investigated.' Dan O'Donnell slips his arm around a blue waist, gives a squeeze and continues. ‘But certainly the whole thing was a non-event. The Butcher woman reckoned she saw Ossie bowl over some old girl and steal her purse but didn't stay at the scene so she didn't get the woman's name. Her main gripe is that Ossie's a bikie and a bikie's a thief and a thief's not fit to be in a position of trust. Particularly at a nursing home — particularly at the nursing home where her mum is. With no one to corroborate her story it'll be put on file and that's it.

A pale hand ruffles blond hair, lips trace a pink ear. ‘So,' Sheralyn murmurs, ‘you didn't learn anything —'

The voice moans, murmurs back, ‘Only that getting Essie in here was set up by the son-in-law's doctor brother …' A nibbling of lobe. Delicious.

‘And how did Ossie handle it when you questioned him?'

‘Not real well.'

Sheralyn pulls up. ‘What do you mean?'

‘He lied. When Bill asked if he'd ever been in trouble with the police he said no. In fact he repeated it.'

‘Was that recorded?'

‘Yeah. I told him later that it wasn't a good idea to lie to the police, that they had a habit of finding out. I also said I knew about the foster homes and the detention centres and the breaking and entering —'

‘What did he say to that?'

‘His exact words were, “If you're a gaolbird you don't get jobs. No one'll trust you.” I said, “ Sheralyn did.”'

‘And?'

“‘Sheralyn's different,” he said.

They wander on. Dan pulls a wildflower from the grass and weaves it through blond hair.

Sheralyn fingers the petals, puts one to her lips and sighs gently.

‘What's up, sweetie?'

‘I've got this feeling, Dan —'

‘What feeling?'

‘It sounds silly — it's as though something's going to happen. Something that I won't be able to stop. That nobody will.'

‘What?'

‘I don't know, it's just a feeling. I can't explain it —'

‘You're gorgeous, Sherry, but sometimes you get a bit carried away.'

They stop, kiss, and amble on.

‘Dan —'

‘Yes?'

‘Why would you be taking leftovers down to the park?'

‘Like what?'

‘Roast chicken.'

‘That's where the derros hang out.'

Sheralyn pauses. ‘I wonder —'

‘Why are we talking like this? Why are we talking at all?'

‘Ummm, Dan.'

‘Ummm, Sherry. You smell good, like my mum's food cupboard.'

‘Ummmmmmmm …'

10

In the activities room white and blue streamers twirl and turn, and balloons, also white and blue, hang in bunches and from time to time go ‘pop'. And now everyone's moving in and very soon there's much singing and clapping and eating and talking. And there's scones and sausage rolls and ham and lettuce sandwiches on the table and on the floor too, as well as sliding down chins and extended body parts. And in the centre is a cake with a very large key growing out of colourful, creamy swirls.

On the piano the music man is warbling:

“When the red red robin

Comes bob bob bobbin'

Along, along

There'll be no more sobbin'

When he starts throbbin'

His old sweet song

Wake up, wake up, you sleepyhead

Get up, get up, get out of bed

Cheer up, cheer up, the sun is red

Live, love, laugh and be happy.

What if I've been blue

Now I'm walking through

Fields of flowers

Rain may glisten

But still I'll listen

For hours and hours

I'm just a kid again

Doin' what I did again

Singing a song

When the red red robin

Comes bob bob bobbin' along.”

This leads to more clapping and singing and bob bob bobbin' and dancing in ones and twos and groups as well. And wheelchairs clickety clack in and out like knitting needles. And around them Glenda, with her baby, circles clockwise, anticlockwise, a flower in her hair.

‘M-m-may I have this dance, Essie?'

‘Yes, Horace.'

And Rosie dances with the new resident. And Marion with the Major. And others with others.

And in the centre of smiles and laughter, on his deckchair throne, King Max nods.

And now Nurse Kate Curran weaves her way through a tangle of streamers and wheelchairs and grabs Ossie by the arm. Together they bob bob away.

‘I wanted to say something to you,' she gasps. ‘What's that, Kate?'

‘You're doing well. People have noticed.'

‘The garden is looking very excellent, that's true. Thank you, Kate. An' I'm sorry I'm standing on ya feet.'

And now it's time to cut the cake and this leads to more singing and clapping and nod nod nodding from the birthday king. And dancing too, again with a clapping accompaniment as Ossie takes to the floor with Sheralyn.

‘Bob'll be back on Friday,' she puffs, as Ossie gives her a twirl. ‘You know I'd keep you if I could.' Another twirl and a half. ‘Believe me.'

‘It's okay.'

‘Of course — oh gosh, let's sit down for a minute.' They weave streamers off a couple of chairs, ‘Of course,' the director repeats, ‘if, for some reason, there's money in the pipeline —'

‘I'm not gonna be a gardener anyway,' Ossie replies.

‘No?'

‘No.'

‘What then?'

‘Dunno.'

Sheralyn smiles. ‘We won't lose touch,' she says.

Ossie smiles back, 'cos he knows when a person means it.

The piano man plays on and now Horace is sketching everyone. And then somebody says, ‘Where's Ossie?' And somebody else also. And Glenda, with her baby, circles at the door, clockwise, anticlockwise, a flower in her hair.

‘He just popped outside for a minute,' says Essie with a smile.

‘F-f-f-for a c-c-cigarette.'

‘Possibly, Horace.'

He has. He's leaning against a winding trunk, lighting up. Swirls of wind lick at his cheeks, cool the blood.

The singing and the dancing he's left behind, the happy stuff, so thick ya could carve it, halve it. There's a slice for everyone …

Essie'd said, ‘Ossie?' in that way, in that ‘I know you' way.

He'd said, ‘Gotta get back.' Not, ‘It's just too good, too perfect.' He hadn't said that. He hadn't said, ‘Don't ya know yer gotta pay for happiness big as this? An' when yer right in the middle of it an' ya know it's real an' it's not just what's in books — ya gotta get out case ya do something crazy like, an' spoil it.'

He watches smoke rings curl and fade upon curling leaves.

“Happy birthday to you/Happy birthday to you …”

He remembers a particular day and a tree like this, its winding trunk climbing high to the sky.

The day's long when ya high to the sky among curling leaves. Ya see bees, birds, little flying things that dart about, all so busy. See the kids coming home from school, hear a branch crack an' Jelly Gelbart look up. Angus Gelbart sits in the front, wears gear with labels an' leather.

‘You're gonna get it, Austin Ingram. I'm gonna —'

But he's not, not tomorrow anyway. I've smashed his face in. He's not gonna be doing much at all …

I go home an' turn on the box. See colours an' shapes come an' go till night. Into night.

Well into night he comes back, dark from drink.

‘Whatcha doin'?'

‘Whatcha think?'

He stumbles, falls. He's stretched out, asleep an' snoring, right in the bathroom doorway. I have to step over him to pee. I get into bed, pull the blanket up, an' think cruel.

The next morning I smell something. It's coming from the kitchen. It's sausages an' mash what I like. An' he's there an' he's serving it up on my plate.

‘I'm sorry, Kid,' he says. ‘I forgot.'

I don't reply. He's got to say it to mean it.

‘Happy birthday.'

Silence.

‘I haven't got ya nothin' — presents are kids' stuff anyway — but I reckoned ya might like to do a spot of fishing —'

‘It's school.'

‘An' then we could call in on this little pub I know. Serves up the best steak sandwich. Have ya first beer.'

‘It's school.'

‘Fuck school. Pres reckons you're the smartest kid out. Tells everyone, the Pres. does. Well?'

‘Okay.'

I have forgiven him. I can't help it.

I have the best day it's possible for a person to have without carking it out of sheer happiness, like they do in poems and stuff. An' we fish till it's dark an' we catch 'em too. An' we go to the pub an' eat steak, not in a lump of bread, but with real chips an' tomato sauce. An' I drink beer, an' the barman, who knows the Big Man, pretends not to look, an' I have the next and the next. An' the whole world starts slow-dancing upside down an' gets faster and faster. An' then I throw up. An' they laugh an' I laugh. An' maybe my head's an X-file but it's a happy one …

An' in the morning, when I still feel worse than somewhat, I find a note. It's on the end of my bed an' it says, ‘I O U a Harley (second-hand), love Dad'.

I read it over and over. I know I'll never get it, that it's all shit. But I cry just the same because it's too perfect. Everything is …

He'd said he was sorry, had tried to make me laugh. Had told me all those sad unfunny jokes I'd heard a million times …

Had said he loved me, had said the very words.

I never did, I never said them. I watched him try harder and harder and never said them.

Real purpose there was there. Real purpose.

Was it me who made him do it?

Was it me who pushed him over?

Was it?

I am eleven.

And five days after the best day in the world, my dad is dead.

I'll never trust happiness again.