Time's Long Ruin (15 page)

Vans. Sort of. The Rileys had done better. Ours was stumped. The tyres were flat, cracked, discoloured, pissed on by a thousand visiting dogs. Only two of the windows opened and the pop-top roof was propped up with a couple of old forks. All of the beds dipped in the middle, which Dad said made it easier for reading at night. The mattresses were threadbare and foam spilt out the side of mine like a mortar wound. ‘It was cheap,' Mum explained, as she wiped cobwebs and mouse shit out of the cupboards. ‘Just somewhere to lay your head, eh?'

Dad just raised his eyebrows, closed his mouth and smiled strangely. This was his I-won't-say-what-I'm-thinking expression.

But Mum was right. I was soon in the Rileys' van and then we were all off, exploring. We took Bill's rod down to the river and tried to cast off. Janice was first, landing the sinker in the reeds. A tall, blond boy of about thirteen, kitted out with his own rod and box of hooks and sinkers, edged his way over to us and said, ‘You'll have to throw it in the middle.'

‘I know,' Janice replied, indignantly, trying to reel in her line, by now firmly lodged in the reeds.

The boy handed me his rod and took Janice's. With a few tugs he had it free. He cast off into the middle of the river, looked at Janice, smiled and returned the rod. ‘What you using for bait?'

‘A sausage.'

‘A sausage?'

‘We had a barbecue.'

‘Want some corn?'

‘Reckon they'd rather a sausage.'

The boy smiled. ‘Suit yourself.'

It was nearly dark, but that meant nothing to the caravan kids. They were still out everywhere, riding around on bikes parents had just managed to cram into boots of old Holdens. The caravan kids wore over-tight shorts and bathers and were brown. After a few days on hot sand, gravel and hard bitumen roads their soles had hardened. They'd forgotten the rules of civilisation. Visiting was allowed anywhere, anytime. Bedtime was whenever dads ran out of beer. Clothes were worn for days and showers were unheard of. And it was the same for parents. The kids were off somewhere, no point worrying where. No one had to watch their language or avoid farting in mixed company. Men could be seen with their shirts off: as it turned out, no one's body was worse than anyone else's. Dishes were left to pile up in sinks and dirty clothes soon formed small mountains in the corner of vans.

It was a village, and people had become primitive, and liked it.

With the last gasp of daylight the fathers approached us. ‘Mum says it's time to go in,' Dad explained, swigging a beer and handing it to Bill.

‘No thanks,' Bill replied, looking out across the still, grey-green water and smiling; thinking, perhaps, how he might keep things perfect for a while. ‘Now, you're doin' it all wrong, Janice,' he said, reeling in the line and preparing to cast off. He looked at the boy beside us. ‘What yer usin'?'

‘Corn.'

‘Corn? What's that for?'

‘Redfin.'

‘Fish eat corn?'

The boy lifted a bucket and showed us three redfin. Bill waved at him and whispered, ‘Corn my arse,' and we all laughed. Then he cast off. The line flew through the air, hit a speed limit sign and fell into the reeds. We all broke up. Gavin rolled on the grass beside the river and Janice had to stop him from rolling into the water. The corn boy looked at Bill and smiled and Bill gave him a wave. ‘Hit it first go,' he said. ‘Takes years of practise. Could you do that?'

The boy shook his head. ‘No.'

Bill reeled in the line and it became tangled in a ball the size of an apple. The boy looked over and said, ‘You'll have to cut that off.'

‘I know,' Bill replied. ‘I know what I'm doing.'

The boy only smiled.

‘I've been fishing since I was four,' Bill told him. ‘Just a bad day.'

We left the boy with his bucket half-full of redfin and walked back to our vans, scratching fresh mosquito and fly bites. ‘Like to give him a slap,' Bill whispered to Dad. ‘Bet his father's a bloody doctor or something.'

When we got back to the vans our mums had made up our beds. I would be sleeping with the Rileys: four of us, crammed into a double bed. Each of us smelling of zinc cream and stale sweat. Me and Janice on the outside, singing along with Bill and his ukulele.

‘Quiet, sleep,' our parents said later, as they sat outside smoking borrowed cigarettes. ‘You've got a big day tomorrow.'

‘Doing what?' Janice asked.

‘Never you mind. It's a surprise.'

As Bill continued serenading us: ‘
How's your sister, Hannah?
How's your darling pa? How is your brother Charlie? Hannah!
How's your ma?
'

People returning from the shower blocks stopped to share a few verses. One man dropped his shampoo, bent over to pick it up and revealed his arse to half the park.

After midnight the mums went to bed and it was quiet. A few ducks had come up from the river and settled down beside the dads, waiting for a feed. All I could hear was the hum of a compressor and a few birds singing; a group laughing, outside another van somewhere; Liz sleeping, breathing deeply, turning and cursing the mattress; Bill strumming a chord and picking a few notes, saying, ‘Your mystery man . . . what was on that piece of paper?'

‘Christ, Bill, I don't want to talk about him. I couldn't give a shit.'

‘Where'd they find it? Rolled up in his watch pocket?'

‘Yeah.'

‘What did it say?'

‘
Taman Shud.
'

Bill sat forward. ‘The End?'

‘Yeah, The End.'

‘Of what?'

‘Who knows? Who cares?'

I turned and looked out of the small window and could see them talking. Bill leaned forward and stopped strumming his ukulele. ‘It must have meant something.'

Dad sat back and continued drinking. ‘It was from a nine hundred year old poem,
The Rubaiyat
. The last verse goes, “
And when yourself with silver footfall shall pass, Among the
Guest's Star – scattered on the grass, And in your joyous errand
reach the spot, Where I made One – turn down an empty glass.
”'

Bill smiled. ‘See, you do care.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘You remembered it.'

‘Heard it so many times.'

‘“Turn down an empty glass” – that's beautiful. Sounds like he was trying to tell us something.'

Dad shrugged. ‘What?'

‘He'd had enough. It was suicide.'

‘Or made to look that way.'

Bill stopped to think. He stroked his chin. ‘You know, I'm learning to like this fella, whoever he is.'

‘Good, you can find out for me.'

‘Sounds like he got himself into trouble.'

‘We've guessed that,' Dad said. ‘But what sort of trouble?'

‘A woman, of course.' Then Bill leaned forward, and whispered. ‘I knew this bloke . . . he was on with this girl. And you know what happened?'

‘He got her pregnant?'

‘Exactly. But the girl was married. The husband was a wog, filthy temper. Rich. And he had mates, plenty of mates, Bob.'

Dad seemed interested. He leaned forward until his face was only a few inches from Bill's. ‘And?'

‘Well, nothin' . . . 'cept this guy lives in fear of his life.'

‘What happened to the girl?'

‘Had an abortion, I think.' Bill paused, his eyes drifting over to distant gums. ‘Stupid fella, eh, Bob?'

‘Very.'

‘I told him, You should migrate. Where? he says. Yugo-bloody-slavia. Anywhere. I got family, he says, kids. Where am I gonna go? . . . and what
can
he do, Bob?'

Dad stopped to think. ‘Depends on what this other fella's likely to do.'

‘That's what I told him. He says he just doesn't know. Doesn't even know if she's told her husband. Just doesn't know.'

Bill was staring at the ground. Dad looked at him, assuming his best detective's face. ‘This poem,' he said, ‘it's about living life to the full, and having no regrets.'

Bill looked up. ‘This fella, he's got regrets.'

‘Sounds that way.'

Silence, as ducks retreated, realising there was no hope of any food. ‘Why would he disguise his identity?' Dad asked.

‘Eh?'

‘The mystery man. Trying to hide the fact that he's a spy. And then someone does him in and goes to all this trouble to confuse us. Which only makes everyone more interested.'

Bill shrugged. ‘Dunno.' He picked up his ukulele, strumming and singing quietly as Dad looked on. ‘
Oh Sally's got a
little boy, It looks just like its pa, And then the words I stammered
out, Hannah, how's your ma?
'

The next day was Victor Harbor, and a trip across the jetty to Granite Island on the horse-drawn tram. We sat on the upper level, staring out across a shallow sea covered with dinghies and boats and an old paddle-steamer. Janice watched as our Clydesdale shat on the jetty without even stopping. ‘Disgusting,' she said. ‘People are going to step in that.'

‘People need to watch where they're going,' Bill replied.

Janice didn't like horses. She believed they'd been superseded by cars and trucks, and that they should all be taken to the knackery. This dated back to one winter's day when we were walking to school, when she stepped in a fresh, caramel-coloured horse pat. ‘Shit!'

We laughed as she tried to wipe it off on some wet grass. When we got to school she took off her shoe and rinsed it under a tap, but it didn't help. Ten minutes into morning story, when everyone was gathered on the floor with their legs crossed, Mrs Chittleborough sniffed a few times and looked at us. Then she thought better of it, continuing the story. But a few minutes later the smell was even stronger. She stopped reading. ‘Okay, children, line up please.' So there we were, standing in a line, as Mrs Chittleborough went along behind us checking our underwear.

‘Sit down,' she said.

We sat down. Then a boy called Michael Barker turned to Janice and pointed. ‘It's her, she's got poo on her shoe.'

Janice's face turned to stone. ‘Have not.'

‘Have.'

Mrs Chittleborough took Janice outside and she returned without shoes, her socks unwashed and full of holes. And again, Michael Barker: ‘Look at her socks.'

Janice grimaced and gave him a dirty look. She sat at the back, biding her time, waiting until recess and then finding Michael, dragging him behind the lunch shed (as a small crowd cheered and clapped), managing to throw him into an industrial rubbish bin. ‘There, let's see who smells bad now,' she said, as Michael tried to climb out of the bin and she pushed him back in. Then a teacher arrived, grabbed Janice by the ear and dragged her off to the office.

So, as far as Janice was concerned, allowing animals to shit on the road just wasn't on.

We bought ice-creams from the kiosk and walked around Granite Island, searching for penguins under the giant, moss-covered boulders littering the hillside, looking like they might tumble into the sea at any moment. We ran through forests of native pines and stood on the edges of cliffs like Robinson Crusoe in search of a white sail. Our parents warned us to come away from the edge. They'd heard stories of cliffs collapsing and waves dragging children onto the jagged, granite rocks. But we knew better. Accidents happened to other people.

Then we returned to the caravan park.

Four o'clock, kids everywhere – riding, running, rolling on dead grass and bruising their ribs on sprinkler heads. Dads fishing, again, but tangling the line, again, as the corn boy looked on. Beer, barbecue and then bed – this time in my own bunk.

The next morning I was woken from a dream. It was Dad's voice, loud, sharp, insistent, and then Mum. ‘I want to go home.'

‘What about Henry?'

‘You should've thought of that before.'

Dad whispered, but then got louder. ‘Christ, he's your son too. You don't care if – '

‘No.'

Silence. I lay still, trying not to move, to give myself away.

‘You awake, Henry?' Dad called.

‘Yes,' I replied.

‘Want some breakfast?'

I didn't want to get up. I could feel sand and crushed chips in my bed from where Janice and the little ones had camped out with me the previous night. We'd made a flannelette cubby, shining torches in each other's eyes as we told ghost stories to feed each other's dreams.

My sheets were ripped and starchy. I could pull them up over my head and hide from the horrors that followed me to the Goolwa Caravan Park, entering my van and filling it with the smell of horse shit. My mother's horrors. As one Ellen doll emerged from another, smaller and meaner, determined to make our lives difficult.