Volcano Street (9 page)

‘You’re in Honza’s class? I hope you’re a better pupil. Both my sons, such terrible pupils! In Czechoslovakia, I study to be an engineer. Here, I am a lowly clerk. But didn’t I hope better for my sons? Pavel should have gone to university, done something with his life, and what happens? Stupid boy! Ends up in a hardware shop.’

Skip was about to ask where Pavel was when she saw him on the other side of the room, serving drinks. Did he mind being a waiter? As always, he looked happy enough, but then a glass smashed in a far corner and he jumped a little and reeled around. Mr Novak hurried off to help.

Left alone, Skip applied herself to the canapés, not without gusto, until a lady – Rhonda Sweetapple from the Greyhound? – looked at her snoogishly. She felt as if she were at school and it was recess. Time for a circuit. She slipped off to explore the house. Behind the Sanctum stretched long darkened corridors, branching in two directions, with a skylight in the ceiling at the point where they met. She peered into a bedroom. Everything smelled new. The kitchen, silvery in moonlight, might have belonged to a restaurant. Copper pans of many sizes hung from hooks above a wide range. Open shelves displayed big jars of preserves and little jars of spices. Skip opened a jar of something and smelled it. She wrinkled her nose. Wine bottles lay in a crisscrossing rack. Yellow-gold candelabra, spaced evenly, thrust up in a line down the middle of a long table that appeared to be made of railway sleepers.

Skip felt sad as she made her way back to the Sanctum. The Novak house hinted at a permanence she had never known. But perhaps
the impression was false. After all, it was just a house. And it was in Crater Lakes.

In the Sanctum, Mrs Novak huddled beside Marlo on a sofa, muttering intensely as if confiding sisterly secrets. Marlo looked tolerant, even indulgent. A picture on the wall, an abstract swirl, churned above their heads like a mushroom cloud.

Snatches of conversation drifted in and out of Skip’s awareness.

‘… So I asked the cretins’ (Mr Brooker’s voice was loud) ‘which ones liked opera. Groans, of course, from the usual suspects. “Well, looks like some of us will be off to the library to do revision while the rest of us hear this opera,” I said. “Pity. Because this opera is
Jesus Christ Superstar
–”’

‘… You’ve heard she’s writing a novel, I suppose?’

‘Deirdre? Painting and ceramics, now writing – whatever next?’

‘The story, I gather, concerns a young girl’s awakening one burning summer in the Tuscan hills –’

‘… Yairs, so the boys hired a van and went all over England, John O’Groats to Land’s End –’

‘Me, I say you should see Australia first –’

‘… What
is
this about Deirdre’s big announcement tonight? She’s been dropping hints like confetti.’

‘Howard Brooker’s in on it, of course.’

‘Mr Stick-His-Oar-Into-Everything? No doubt –’

‘… But Howard, what’s this Webber bloke trying to say? I’ve heard it’s blasphemy, pure and simple.’

‘Of course, there’s no resurrection in
Superstar
…’

Skip was nerving herself for a second raid on the canapés when a spoon clinked a glass. The Sanctum fell silent. She craned her neck; the clinking had come from Mr Novak, but he gestured at once to his wife, who stepped into a clear space beneath the chandelier that illumined the long room.

Under bright light, Mrs Novak looked older than she had seemed
at first. Her face, which had seen a lot of sun, was withered, and her neck speckled and reddish, ridged with tendons that stood out like wires. Smiling, she waited for the applause to die down, then began, speaking with seeming casualness, though Skip sensed the emotion behind the words. Tonight meant a lot to Deirdre Novak. And so, no doubt, did Howard Brooker.

‘Thank you, my good friends. Some of you know that this is a special night. But if you’re still wondering what it’s all about, it’s time to tell you. Lord knows we do our best here in Crater Lakes. It’s all of you’ – she stretched out her arms and the bangles clattered – ‘who provide this town with what culture it has. We’re lucky. There’s Mr Heinz’s art club.’ She gestured to Rolf Harris. ‘There’s Mrs Boucher’s pottery class.’ A plump matron blushed. ‘We’ve the book club. We’ve the library. We’ve these evenings in the Sanctum. But something’s missing. It’s been missing a long time.

‘The Crater Lakes Players was once a thriving concern. What happened to the Players? One of our triumphs, and we let it lapse. We were wrong, wrong!’ The admission, it seemed, was a significant one for her. ‘We need a local drama society. Oh yes, we’ve talked about this before, dreamed of it. But we needed someone, a man of vision, to turn our dreams into reality. Well, that man’s here. He’s come amongst us only this year, but already he’s a force to be reckoned with. You know who I’m talking about. Howard Brooker, tell us about your vision.’

Mr Brooker’s vision! Was it time to go back to Auntie Noreen’s? Her English teacher, Skip had decided, was a bighead and a bore.

Fresh applause broke out as he joined his hostess in the middle of the room. Another man might have been embarrassed by the fulsome introduction, but Mr Brooker took it as a matter of course. He wore a green corduroy jacket over a floral shirt, crotch-hugging jeans with a chunky belt buckle, and elaborate reddish cowboy boots. He blew out smoke in a long stream.

‘Deirdre’s right,’ he declared ringingly, as if challenging anyone to disagree. ‘A town this size needs a good drama company. That’s why Deirdre and I have decided to launch the New Crater Lakes Players.’

The cheers were loud. A lady cried, ‘Bravo!’

‘Oh, I know there’ve been a few attempts at reviving amateur drama here in the Lakes. I’ve heard’ – his tone was bantering – ‘there was a nice production of
Salad Days
a few years back, and of course the high’s put on a show or two –
Oliver!
last year,
Bye Bye Birdie
the year before – but we’re talking about a much more ambitious scheme.

‘People say you can’t be ambitious with amateurs, you have to pander, you have to patronise. I’ve never believed that. It’s my conviction that first-class drama, acted boldly, must find its audience. Deirdre’s shown me the scrapbooks for the Crater Lakes Players, who last performed over twenty years ago. She hasn’t looked at them in all that time. Not keen to revive old memories. I understand. She’s always been one to look forward, to embrace the future. Well, so am I. But it’s the past that shows us the way to the future. And those who forget the past will never surpass it. Shall we do better? I think we shall.

‘We’ve laid out the scrapbooks on the baby grand. Have a look, my friends, and marvel at what was achieved:
Man and Superman, King Lear, Oedipus Rex
. The New Players will carry on that tradition. We’ve booked the King Edward VII Theatre for the third week in November. We’ll be holding auditions this week, then rehearsing every Tuesday night, Thursday night and Sunday afternoon here in the Sanctum for the next six weeks.

‘I suppose you’re wondering what we’re going to perform – and I can tell you that no, it won’t be
Salad Days, Oliver!
or
Bye Bye Birdie
.’ (Urbane laughter.) ‘Drama, real drama, should challenge and confront, not comfort and coddle. The New Players must start where the Players left off. That’s why the first production of the new group will be the last of the old: one of the most powerful and demanding
plays in the modern repertoire, a groundbreaking classic about the prejudice and small-mindedness of a provincial town …’

While Mr Brooker poured out his rhetoric, Skip edged her way back through the crowd. Where was Marlo? Now Mr Brooker was going on about somebody called Henry Gibson, the man who had written the play – excitedly, he called Henry Gibson a genius, a revolutionary, but all the time it sounded as though Mr Brooker was saying what a genius Howard Brooker was for appreciating Henry Gibson, who was too difficult for everybody else. Too boring, more like it. Skip could bet he was as boring as Mr Brooker.

Skip thought about making for the back fence and finding her way home but then remembered what had happened last week. In a corner of the Sanctum was a staircase, a dark metal spiral that corkscrewed into the ceiling. When applause rose again and Mr Brooker bowed like Sir Laurence Olivier taking a curtain call, she spirited herself up the stairs and emerged on the roof terrace, a broad expanse lined with garden furniture and droopy potted ferns.

Freedom! For a time, at least. She stepped towards the parapet. The garden shone purple-grey beneath an unclouded moon; the sky was a dark blanket, scattered with glitter. She stretched out her arms.

A voice came. ‘Reckon you can fly, do you?’

Skip whirled around. In the shadows some feet away was Honza.

‘When did you get back?’ she said coolly.

‘Mrs Lumsden run me home. Her car really smells. Ain’t got no husband to clean it out, poor cow.’ As usual, the boy was scruffy, the tails of his plaid shirt hanging over his jeans. From a pocket of the shirt he drew out a pack of Marlboros and a box of Redheads. ‘You smoke?’

‘Yair, I smoke.’ What was this, a peace offering? Skip hung back, reluctant to take her place beside him. He flipped open the Marlboros, pulled up a fag and extended it towards her; then he struck a Redhead, bringing it to her face. Drawing in the smoke, she did her best not
to cough. Both squatted, as if to use the furniture would be weak, even shaming.

‘Do anything good today, then?’ Skip asked, as if she cared.

‘Smoked out back. Kicked the footy round. Chess.’

‘Lummo plays chess?’

‘Well, kind of. I got him in checkmate and he upset the board.’

Skip wondered how to tell Honza what she thought of him. Imagine: to talk about Lummo and not even mention how Lummo had treated her! She saw herself springing up, grinding her fag underfoot, telling Honza to fuck off.

The boy blew smoke rings and looked up at the moon. ‘Good night for stalking,’ he said. ‘Ever go stalking?’

‘What’s stalking?’

‘You go out late. When you’re meant to be asleep.’ He seemed puzzled that she didn’t know this. ‘Everything’s different in the dark, like another planet. Pav and Baz, they used to do it. They went all the way into Volcano Street. You go looking for the ghost of Crater Lakes, see.’

‘What ghost?’ Skip scoffed.

‘Big as a house. With fangs dripping blood.’

‘Bull.’ Screwing up her forehead, she did her best to smoke like Robert Mitchum in a movie she had seen at the Ozone. She wasn’t very good at it. But neither was Honza. ‘Pav and Barry Puce?’ she said after a moment. ‘They were mates?’

‘Baz used to scrape on our bedroom window. “Night stalker, come … Night stalker, quick!” – that’s what he’d whisper. I wanted to go too. Buggers never let me. I’d lie awake, wishing I’d followed them. They’d be gone for hours.’

Wind creaked in the trees. The patio below had been quiet with the Sanctum doors closed. But now came voices, speaking low. Skip squinted down. Two figures stood in the darkness. Honza looked as if he was about to say something; hushing him, crouching, Skip
pressed her face between the parapet’s pillars, straining to hear the soft words.

‘I can’t convince you? You’re perfect for Petra.’

‘Me? I’m no actress.’

‘You don’t know till you try.’

‘Mr Brooker, I know it means a lot to you. But I couldn’t commit myself to the Players.’

‘You’re a tough cookie, Miss Wells.’

‘Marlo, if you like.’

‘And I’m Howard. I get enough “Mr Brooker” at school.’ He scuffed a boot against the paving, sipped from his glass, and went on, ‘You and I are much alike, aren’t we? Both in bondage. I’m bonded – that’s the word they use – to the Education Department of South Australia. They paid for me to study and so, for two years, I’ve been where they’ve sent me. Last year Renmark. This year Crater Lakes. Still, could have been worse – Oodnadatta, Coober Pedy. Exile, all the same. And you, Marlo, have been exiled too.’

‘You seem to know a lot about me.’

‘No secrets here! In a few months my bondage will end. I’ll go travelling. London. Paris. Decadent Berlin and the Côte d’Azur. You’ll get out too. I can’t see Marlo Wells stuck in Crater Lakes. But while you’re here, make the best of it. Join the Players.’

‘We’re not alike, Howard. You finish your two years and you’re gone. What’ll I have after two years at Puce Hardware? I wanted to study too. And I can’t.’

Skip was alarmed. Nothing Marlo said was unfamiliar to her, but something in her sister’s tone, in the way she said
Howard
, made her seem like a stranger.

She crushed out her cigarette. She hated cigarettes.

Mr Brooker moved in front of Marlo, angling his long body as if at any moment he might press himself against her, lumpy crotch and all. ‘You realise, don’t you, that all you have to do is
sit
those exams?
They’re public exams. You don’t have to do them at Adelaide Ladies’ College. Any school in the state will do.’

‘I can’t go to school. Puce Hardware, remember?’

‘You’re a clever girl. What were you taking – English, French, Latin? I’ll coach you, and what I don’t know I can get my colleagues to help with. You got yourself a scholarship to that snooty college, didn’t you? You’ll get one to uni. A few months and it’s goodbye, Crater Lakes!’

Marlo stepped away from him. ‘Why help me?’

‘At the high, I’ve got class after class of cretins. You wouldn’t believe the idiots I’m supposed to teach. White trash, they’d call them in the States. I spend my days shouting at them. Then I meet the one person in Crater Lakes who wants an education, and she’s denied it. I swear to you, I’ll see you through those exams.’

‘You’ll be busy with the Players.’

‘Not every night. Tomorrow’s Monday. Are you free?’

Marlo hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘One thing: Auntie Noreen mustn’t hear of this. Let her think I’m rehearsing the play. She’ll ridicule that but won’t really care. Studying, that’s different. She’ll try to stop it.’

‘Our secret. You have my word.’ He might have said more, plunging, horribly, into still deeper intimacies, but to Skip’s relief Mrs Novak intervened. Crying that charades were about to begin, she grabbed Mr Brooker’s arm and led him indoors. As he went, he called back to Marlo, ‘You
will
be Petra, won’t you?’