Time's Long Ruin (24 page)

‘Read the Bible,' the priest bellowed. ‘You won't find the real Jesus, but you'll find other things: how He loved and hated, how He dreamed and planned, how He was forgiving but quick to anger.'

As red welts flashed across Dad's vision.

‘How He was patient.'

And Mum, in the woodshed.

‘And in the end, ready to sacrifice everything for love.'

Silence. The air-conditioner chugged valiantly. The one-finger pianist turned it off and it died wheezing. Dad looked at me, smiling, pulling another face. I laughed, and Janice looked at me and laughed too. And then both mums looked at us with their eyes and jaws clenched.

As Dad thought, It doesn't matter. It really doesn't matter. Nothing matters.

We walked home via the Acorn deli. Mum shouted all of us our own bottle of Coke. This, I think, was her way of saying, See, God isn't so bad. After God comes Coke and after Coke comes salvation.

On this particular Saturday night the streets of Croydon were filled with music. The Greek church had set up marquees in its carpark and there was singing and dancing and lamb on a spit. But no Aussies. As we walked past Dad said, ‘Pity they didn't invite some of us.' But stopped there. That's the closest he'd ever come to being racist – wondering why his neighbourhood of string bags and plum trees, of all people as one, had become two.

Saturday night: music, a chainsaw, Elvis Presley emerging from a front bedroom shrouded by persimmon trees, curtains blowing out and catching in the branches, a few girls inside dancing but stopping when we walked past. A baby crying, its voice loudening down a hallway. A Singer sewer somewhere. Television rifles and Indian war cries settling on someone's parched Santa Anna. A gang of kids on bikes almost running us off the footpath.

I always thought bikes looked fun. I'd always longed to ride one. I always wondered why Janice and the kids never had one. I never asked Bill or Liz. But maybe that was Janice. My sister in all but blood. Whispering, If Henry can't ride, then none of us will.

We arrived home and changed back into our day clothes: T-shirts with sauce stains and ripped shorts. The mums made popcorn and refilled our Coke bottles with cordial. Then we all settled down in front of the television. Soon there were just voices, high violins, ads for toothpaste and the hum of our tired, grey tube.

Meanwhile, Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, poring over the accounts: bills for gas and power, a new air-conditioner and installation, new clothes (that Mum was still wearing; Dad had collected the price tags from the bedroom floor), insurance and car repayments. He'd drawn two columns on the back of a sheet of Gavin and Anna's mural paper and labelled them:
Money In
,
Money Out
. The former had one number, his wage; the latter, everything else. As he studied the figures he ran his hands through his hair and kept scratching the tip of his nose.

Mum wasn't good with bills. At the end of the month Dad would go to the bank and enquire and they'd always say, Two pounds, Mr Page. Or, One pound. Or, Two and six. Or, Last week there wasn't enough to cover your mortgage. So, there was only one thing for it. He would have to do the sums, calculate the housekeeping, withdraw the cash and say, Here, this has to last you until the end of the month.

‘Ellen,' he called, from the kitchen.

Mum stood up and kicked off her shoes. ‘What does he want now?'

She walked into the kitchen and Dad said, ‘Look at this.'

She looked at his sums. ‘So?'

‘It doesn't add up.'

‘So?'

‘We can't live like this.'

Mum didn't seem concerned. ‘It was the air-conditioner. You wanted it.'

‘It was for everyone.'

Then he made the mistake of looking at her dress.

‘What?' she asked.

He tried to back-pedal. ‘It's everything. I was thinking, maybe, I could do a budget – work out how much for food, outings.'

‘But I do that.'

‘Well maybe I should.'

‘Why?'

‘Look at this.' He tapped his pencil on the paper. ‘Ellen, we've hardly got the mortgage down.'

‘We have.'

‘When did you last look? We can't afford to be – '

‘What? Buying clothes?'

Dad shook his head. ‘No.'

‘I can't remember the last time I bought myself something. And isn't that a coincidence? The same day you've gotta go and do a budget.'

‘Ellen.'

‘You think I'm selfish.'

‘No.'

‘Do you hate me?'

‘Ellen.'

‘You do. I exist for more than cooking your bloody tea. Have you ever thought that? Have you ever thought of me? Have you ever asked me?'

She stopped and stared at him. Her face was red hot. Janice looked at me and raised her eyebrows, as if to say, I know, I've seen it all before. Worse. She looked at her mum but Liz was staring at the television, refusing to acknowledge the voices, the words they formed, the anger they were filled with, and the bruised and broken love they communicated.

‘Well, I don't want 'em then,' Mum screamed.

She grabbed a box of matches from the stove, stormed down the hallway and into the front yard. She took off her clothes and threw them onto the grass. Finally, she lit a match, held it above the pile, looked to make sure Dad was watching and then dropped it.

We all stood on the verandah, watching as the clothes burnt in a sort of magnesium flare that eventually spluttered and died. Then Mum pulled her knickers from her bum and turned to Dad again. ‘There, you can cross those off your list.'

Rosa stood in her front yard watching. She waved, unsure of what to do. ‘Hello,' she said, and we almost laughed.

Mum stormed down the drive towards the backyard, walking uncomfortably on the gravel. She went to pull a shawl over her shoulders but then realised there was nothing there. The next thing we heard was the door of the woodshed closing.

Liz looked at Dad. ‘I'll go talk to her.'

Dad sighed. ‘I just asked her about the bills. I didn't mention the dress.'

But Liz looked unconvinced. ‘You kids go in.'

And so Dad was left alone, on the verandah, the words still in his ears:
You'll never find out, Bob Page
.

Chapter Seven

Bill relaxed on the front porch of his house with Dad. I sat in my bedroom, next door, listening to their voices drift over in the late, cool part of the evening. Bill's car sat in the driveway covered with a thin layer of dust and mud splatters along the side. This, I heard him explain, was from his first day out, when he'd visited a dozen tin-pot towns strung together like Christmas lights by corrugated dirt roads. Rain had fallen all that morning and the night before, softening up these too-narrow tracks that soon melted into sloppy red custard. And for the following three days there'd just been hot, baking sun. So now he had to waste half a day cleaning his car.

Bill had only been home an hour. He was still in his suit and tie, sipping a glass of warm, murky water. ‘People won't spend money,' he said to Dad. ‘Some of those pubs are shameful. I'd say to 'em, You gotta tart this place up, people'd come from miles around, and they'd say, They do anyway. I'd say: Some do, but you got a population around here of . . . how many? And they'd laugh: It's not the South Australian Hotel. That's the problem with country people: no drive, no ambition.'

‘Maybe they're happy,' I heard Dad say.

‘We'd still be livin' in caves if . . .' He stopped. ‘Just the same. Gonna stick to the city from now on.'

‘Aren't you going to Clare next week?'

‘After that.'

One of them farted and both of them laughed. The engine of Bill's car creaked as it cooled. ‘Know what happened in Robe?' Bill continued.

‘What?'

‘Just between you and me.'

‘Long as it's nothin' . . .'

‘No. I came down from my room, when was it, Friday night. Got a table and ordered some food. There's this girl – '

‘Bill – '

‘Na, listen. Wouldn't have been older than twenty-two or three. She's sittin' across the room, readin' this magazine. Then she looks up and says, Hello, just like that, Hello . . . Hold on, I'm thinkin'. G'day, I reply. Next thing she comes over and sits next to me. Tells me she's the publican's daughter. I tell her who I am and she says, You're wastin' your time here. See these lace tablecloths? We had these when I was a kid.'

Bill stopped talking. There were only birds, and bells ringing somewhere, and then Dad saying, ‘Christ.'

And then, I suppose, more whispering.

‘You wanna be careful, Bill,' Dad said. ‘Otherwise you'll end up like that mate of yours.'

‘Eh?'

‘With that girl up the duff.'

‘No, nothin' like that. She was just friendly, and bored.'

‘You're a married man.'

I imagined Bill as Robert Mitchum, reaching across the lace tablecloth and running his index finger the length of the bored girl's jawbone. Or other things. Taking her hand and kissing one finger at a time – stopping, smiling, saying, I've run out of things to kiss. As a not-so-coy Elizabeth Taylor smiled and said, No you haven't.

Either way, I think Dad had heard enough. ‘What about this mate of yours?' he asked.

‘Hasn't heard a word,' Bill smiled.

‘See, what did I tell you? I bet she wasn't even pregnant.'

‘That's what she said.'

‘And you believed her?'

‘Wouldn't you?' Bill stopped. I imagined the way he was looking at Dad. After a few moments he steered the conversation back to the Robe Hotel. ‘That bastard wouldn't even buy a tea towel off me,' he said.

‘Well, he was a small thinker, Bill.'

‘Absolutely.'

As, I guessed, he stared at Dad and thought, You sly bastard, and Dad smiled back, returning to Bill's other dilemma. ‘Maybe she didn't tell the husband,' he suggested. ‘Maybe she was just trying to scare your mate. For stickin' his dick where it wasn't welcome.'

‘It was welcome alright.'

I opened my diary, retrieved from the rabbit hutch when I'd gone to check on Mum. I'd gone down the side of the house, across the back lawn and quietly opened the chicken-wire door to the hutch. Then I'd gone inside and removed my spy-hole brick. Mum was sitting on a pile of stumps, curled tightly into a ball, staring at the ground. Her stomach had formed a concertina, her bum was hanging out of her knickers, and her legs were white and marbled, flecked with a thousand stumps of hair. But she wasn't crying, or even sobbing – just staring. As though she was watching the Hindenburg crash.

Mum, I wanted to say, what's wrong?

But there was no point. I wanted to stick my fingers through the hole in the wall and wiggle them and make her laugh. But she wouldn't. She would just look at them and stare back down at the ground.

I took a pencil and started writing:

Derek's Van. A Vaudeville. Part One. Derek's van pulled up
in front of 7A. Derek got out and opened the back door.
Pregnant women started getting out. Some had small bellies,
some were nearly due. As the women got out they went and
stood in Bill Riley's front yard. Derek closed the door, got in
his van, started the engine and drove off. The women moved
closer together to form a choir. Then they started to sing Bill's
favourite song: ‘They're All Fine Girls'. Bill came out of his
house wearing a suit, a boater and carrying a cane. His face
was pale with make-up. He blew them all a kiss, smiled,
winked and started a soft-shoe shuffle.

Part Two. The choir stopped. Bill finished with a flourish
and looked them over. Thank you for coming, you're a
wonderful audience. I'd like to tell you about my mother-in-
law . . . hold on, where do I know you from, young lady?

Kadina.

I never forget a face. And you, my dear?

Whyalla. June thirteen.

And you, young lady?

Penola. August just been.

Yes, yes, when I toured Mary MacKillop's school house?

That was my sister.

As the girl beside her frowned, holding her belly . . .

Just them Mum came walking down our driveway. She'd put on a frock that had been hanging on the line. She walked with long, heavy steps that were full of purpose. I looked out of my window and watched as she turned at the end of our drive and walked off down Thomas Street.

‘Ellen, where are you going?' Dad called from the Rileys' porch.