Time's Long Ruin (35 page)

‘Excuse me?'

‘You know what I feel like? A nice cold milk.' He sat down on the lounge on a pile of freshly ironed clothes.

‘Not there.'

‘And Mister Melack just drinks water.'

‘I'd like you to leave.'

‘Bill Riley?' Dad repeated.

‘Now.'

‘Or maybe your husband knows him?'

She folded her arms and stared at Dad. The iron sighed as Dad pulled knickers and lemon-scented singlets from under his bum. ‘Bill Riley?' he smiled.

She stormed into the kitchen. Bert followed her and started explaining what had happened.

‘Shit, when did this happen?' she asked.

‘Yesterday.'

‘Well, I tell you, I could've gouged out his eyes, but this . . .'

And Bert continued. Did you know he had kiddies? How many times did you see him? What did you do about the bubba? Where did you have it done?

Meanwhile, Dad sat back on the lounge. This, he figured, was the sort of thing Bert did best. He had a way with people. He was open and honest and said what he thought. If your fly was undone in a crowded lift, he'd tell you then and there. If you had BO he'd turn up his nose and hand you the deodorant he kept in the glovebox of the Melack Motel. And yet because of the
way
Bert said things, people didn't seem to mind. He wasn't a smart arse and he didn't pretend he was better than anyone else. He just dealt with facts. The world was made up of a billion facts and most people were trying to ignore them or change them or blame someone else. Bert could see the what and the why. He was the kid in everyone's class who said, Miss, someone's shit themself. And although he got a clip around the ear for saying it, he was generally always right.

The woman returned to the lounge room with Dad's milk. She put it down on a coffee table in front of him, and said, ‘Of course I was angry, bloody angry. After that day, at the hospital . . . I never heard a word from him. Not even a phone call.'

Dad sat up and took his milk. ‘Wouldn't have thought you'd want to hear from him.'

She looked at him sourly. ‘It's not the point.'

‘It's exactly the point.'

She chose to ignore him, and looked at Bert. ‘So, I admit, I sent him a letter. I typed it so he didn't know it was me. I pretended to be Joe, my husband. I said I'd found out and that I knew people who owed me favours.'

Dad shook his head. ‘Stupid thing to do.'

‘He's the one left me to deal with it.'

‘He didn't. He helped you resolve it. Then he did the best thing he could: let you be.'

Bert finished his water and left the glass on the ironing table. ‘Listen, it's not relevant. Missus Sayer, all I want you to tell me is that there was nothing else to that letter. You were just angry?'

‘Yes.'

‘Your husband doesn't know?'

‘No. It's terrible, I feel so bad now.'

Dad shook his head. ‘So you should.'

‘I didn't take his kiddies,' she shot back.

‘From now on, you wanna watch who you fuck,' Dad growled, wiping sweat from his forehead.

‘Piss off.' She grabbed the glass from his hand. ‘You can get out.'

Dad smiled. ‘Just remember, lady, all of this gets written down, and typed up, and filed. And do you know who they give the key to?'

‘Get out.'

Dad stood up. A pile of singlets fell to the floor and he picked one up and held it against his chest. ‘You do a good job of ironing,' he said, turning and straightening a Hans Heysen print on the wall. ‘And a beautiful place too. You're gonna be here years I reckon.'

Bert stood up. ‘Come on, Bob.'

‘Be such a waste if things didn't turn out. Nice schools for the kiddies. Nice schools are they?'

‘Bob.'

As they drove along Main North East Road, Bert said, ‘You're gonna get yourself into trouble one of these days.'

Dad almost laughed. ‘That slag? Did you see how clean that house was? She isn't gonna risk paradise in Hillcrest Gardens.'

‘So why did she fuck Riley then?'

Dad shrugged. ‘Ah, now there's a mystery.'

They returned to Semaphore and parked on the esplanade. Jim Clarke was sitting on the step of the van smoking a cigarette. Dad got out of the car and approached him. ‘Anything?'

‘Nothing. No one on the Croydon train saw them.'

Bert came over and stood in the shade of the van. ‘Everyone's back at work today.'

Jim smiled. ‘One thing: Suburban Taxis have volunteered forty cars for the day. Apparently Bill used to work for them.'

Dad looked surprised. ‘He never told me that.'

‘I've got them doing carparks, shopping centres, couple down at the wharves. Told them to look in the wool stores too. All them factories around Gillman, right through to Outer Harbour.' He looked up at Dad. ‘Wondering whether we should ask to drain the Patawalonga?'

‘Wait. He would've taken them further.'

They both looked at him. ‘He?' asked Bert.

‘Where's Bill?' Dad asked.

‘On the beach,' Jim replied.

Dad and Bert found him staring out to sea. ‘You're red,' Dad said, trudging across the soft sand towards him, holding his shoes and socks in his hands.

Bill felt his face and neck. ‘Am I?'

‘I'll get some cream.'

‘No.'

Dad stood beside him, looking out. ‘We've just been to Hillcrest Gardens,' he said.

Bill didn't look surprised. ‘What did you think of her?'

Dad smiled. ‘Not what I was expecting. Something out of an ad for Persil. How did you . . .?'

‘Bunch of us were at the pub. Someone was leaving to go to New Zealand. There was this group of birds, and they all looked young and single. She was tanked. One thing led to another.'

Offering to drive her home. Pulling into the carpark of Scotty's Motel, watched by a twenty-foot high concrete Scot wearing a kilt and playing bagpipes. As he heard a distant drone, and saw hips and a bum that still slipped comfortably into a miniskirt, a top with one too many buttons undone.

‘She was just trying to get back at you,' Dad explained. ‘The husband never knew. He wasn't a threat to anyone, judging from his picture.'

‘And his singlet,' Bert smiled.

Bill shook his head. ‘Little slut. Typical. Yes, I made a mistake, but she did too. But some women, they don't think that way, eh, Bob?'

‘No. You're lookin' red, Bill.'

‘I'm fine. So there's nothin' there can help us?'

‘No. No criminal gangs in Hillcrest Gardens, Bill.'

Bill was silent for a full minute. ‘Must have asked a hundred people,' he whispered, eventually.

‘They've got forty taxis out, Bill. Half of Adelaide.'

‘At least it might have explained things, Bob.'

‘Eh?'

‘That bitch.'

‘No one else you can think of, Bill? No one you owed money to?'

Bill looked at Dad. ‘Wouldn't I have told you, Bob?'

‘Someone in our street?'

‘Con. Yeah, Con, I hate his guts.'

‘I'm just trying to help, Bill. When you drove a taxi?'

‘No, Bob, believe me, I haven't made many enemies in this life. If I had . . .' He fell silent.

‘Somethin' will come up,' Bert offered. ‘It always does.'

‘Bullshit,' Bill shot back, glaring at him. ‘What, you gonna tell me they got on the Gawler train? Janice? A girl that gets As for everything? “Dad,” she says, “we're still doing grade three work. When are they gonna make it hard?” When are they gonna make it
hard
?'

Bert turned to face the ocean. ‘Dunno, Bill, it's got me. Wrackin' my brain tryin' to think.'

But Bill's thoughts were off in the distant breakers. Anna was floating there, in an inner tube, in a pool he'd improvised in his backyard: a large piece of plastic strung up between a fence post and three trees, filled with water, and kids. The twine broke and his pool emptied everywhere. Anna was carried off, across a Santa Anna ocean, left wallowing at the far end of the Semaphore jetty. ‘Remember when the Yangtzee flooded, last year?' Bill whispered, standing motionless between Dad and Bert. ‘Ten thousand dead. And a week later everyone had forgotten.'

‘The search is just starting,' Dad said.

‘“When are they gonna make it hard?” You reckon she got lost? Look at this place, you couldn't get lost if you tried. She was reading novels in grade one. She'd read anything:
Pollyanna
, the gas bill.'

Bert told him about the pasties and pie.

‘It just gets better,' he replied. ‘So we should be lookin' for this fella, eh, Bob?'

‘We are: tall and blond.' He pointed to various people along the beach.

A lifesaver walked in front of them. He wore black bathers and a red and yellow cap and carried a roll of orange bunting. Bill stepped towards him. ‘Eh, mate, were you here yesterday?'

The lifesaver shook his head. ‘I've already been asked four times.'

Bill took another step. ‘So what?'

‘I'm gonna put a sign around my neck: No, I haven't seen the lost children.'

‘Listen, you little turd.'

Dad and Bert held him back. The lifesaver had a Mr Atlas chest, caramel-coloured skin and snow-white hair sprouting from under his cap. He turned to face Bill. ‘You alright, mate?'

Dad and Bert walked Bill towards the dunes. ‘Come on, there's not much more to do here,' Dad said. ‘Let's head home and check on Liz.'

They left the lifesaver alone on the beach. Heavy black clouds were gathering behind him, the wind starting to blow in off the Southern Ocean.

And as the storm came, the beach emptied.

Meanwhile, back at Thomas Street, I can imagine Liz sitting in the girls' room with Janice's desk drawer across her knees. The breeze comes in the window, and it's fresh and cooling, lifting and dropping the curtain with the regularity of slow breathing. She picks up a pale-blue certificate and studies the handwriting.

The Argonauts' Club
Before the sun and the night and the blue sea No 34 in the
good ship Diogenes has stood faithfully by all that is brave and
beautiful . . . has sought adventure, and has discovered much
of wonder and delight, merriment and loveliness, and shared
it freely with fellow members of the Argonauts' Club.

The Order of the Golden Fleece is awarded to a faithful
rower: Janice Riley

Liz felt herself crying again. She wiped tears from her face, held the certificate under her nose and smelt the cardboard. It was Janice. It smelt of love and merriment, of nutmeg, turmeric, coriander and a thousand other spices she'd discovered on her journeys in the
Diogenes
, as she crouched beneath the radio on the smoker's stand, praying to God that they'd read the story she'd written and sent to the ABC. Shooshing Gavin and Anna. Telling her dad that
Life with
Dexter
could wait.

‘And now, a story from
Diogenes 34
.'

‘That's me! Gavin, run next door and get Henry.'

A few minutes later Mum, Dad and I were in the Rileys' living room, listening intently over the drone of Ron Houseman's ‘Bonny at Morn'.

‘The good ship
Diogenes
broke in the swell and started to take water – goodness me, boys and girls – but Jane knew she could save her family. She jumped overboard and swam a mile in storm seas to the nearest port. Then she found a small boat and started rowing back towards
Diogenes
. Now, children, can't you all imagine the storm? Jane was a very brave girl. Continuing . . .'

Liz could still see us kids, lined up on our knees on the floor, our mouths wide open. She could hear the Argonaut's theme, as mellow as ever, fading in her ears as a broken mast drifted out to sea. But we were all saved – all together, rowing back to shore. She smelt the certificate again. ‘Janice,' she whispered, as the curtain brushed her cheek.

She was looking for clues. Mum had suggested it: a phone number, a note promising to meet someone, a shop she might have detoured to visit. Liz had already found a scrap of paper with names and phone numbers and asked Mum to ring them.

‘Hello, Lisa, you're one of Janice's friends? I know, I know, that's why I've rung. I was wondering if you've heard from her in the last few days . . . no, a friend of the family, dear . . . Missus Riley is too upset.'

There were stories about how Janice could look after herself, how Mrs Riley shouldn't worry, about the time Janice helped someone with this, or lent them that, or cheered someone up when their gran had died. So, see, she must be okay. I was gonna come see Mr and Mrs Riley but Mum said no, wait, they'd have too much on their mind . . .