Limestone Man (5 page)

Ghost coral sounds dead, sir, the clever ones would say.

But there are real corals, still corals around where…

And I'd lose them in the reaction. As I was howled down.

Seems I wasn't allowed to trespass on Aussie territory. All I was doing was telling them about what I'd dig up in the sand at home. Coral the colour of pearls of arsenic. Coral like droplets of fog.

So much we used to uncover. In the limestone earth. Thousands of pieces of china, most with a pattern of blue flowers. Unrecognisable bits of iron. Old iron.

I never said to those kids they might find nothing in Adelaide. Course I didn't. But so little of the land had been settled. Not that it would have been an insult. Not at all. But you know what I mean.

You see, I was going to make an installation of everything I'd dug up. I thought of it years before I met Libby.

I kept all those bits in glass jars. The corals, the pottery. Kept them ready. I wanted to exhibit my own archaeology.

Then, one night, I threw them away. Went over to the allotment and dug them back in. Where they belonged.

But gooseberries were my favourite fruit at the allotment. My mother learned not to pick those gooseberries too soon. She allowed the fruits to darken. Until the skins were the colour of iron, she always said. The flesh softening.

Listen to me, she'd say. Wait a day. And a day would become a week and then she'd say again, wait a day. Listen to me. Wait a day. Are the skins bursting?

But no, they could never be sweet. Even then, after a day and another day, after weeks, they set my teeth on edge. Those iron
-
coloured goosegogs.

So on Granite Island I sat in the darkness and looked at the harbour lights. The penguins were snuffling and coughing in their burrows.

I imagine it was penguins making those sounds. I never saw any penguins on that visit to the island. I simply accepted what I was told. That this was where the penguins lived. But, when I think about it, perhaps there were no penguins.

Yes I waited at that table behind the chain in the dark. And I thought about my mother's plans to make an astronomical garden.

It was going to be in the back at our house. Under the apple tree. Well after we'd given up the allotment.

She had decided to plant red sunflowers that would be the same colour as Arcturus. Next she would grow a bed of blue flowers like forget
-
me
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nots beside a bed of orange flowers. Maybe marigolds, in honour of Albireo. This was supposed to be the most spectacular double star in the sky.

I'd looked at that star with Lulu during the drought. I can remember the night we searched for it, the Murray slummocking past, snuffling and coughing like those bloody penguins, the reek of mud and wet sand, Jupiter so fat it was reflected off the sea. The riverbanks were silvered the same as that solder they'd spilled at The Works.

I thought about that a long time. That memory of home. Then, slowly, slowly, I started to laugh.

You what? I asked myself. You what?

Because I had never talked to my mother about Arcturus. And certainly not Albireo. Everything I knew about stars I had learned from Lulu. I‘d never discussed the subject with Mum.

No, I had dreamed about the astronomical garden. It was all in my head.

It was all in my head.

The restaurant was full that afternoon when I was there with Lulu. There was a crowd on Granite Island, too many to be comfortable, too many on the horse ferry. And too many jumping off the jetty as we used to do on The Caib, jumping off the breakwater or a boulder at The Horns.

Jumping like that was dangerous at home. I recall a boy breaking his back and killing himself. His friend brought the body to shore. Limp as a rag doll. I watched him carry it in, the dead boy's head thrown back, his throat blue, his hair like seaweed. And his neck so white, so white…

David, the dead boy was called. Older than us. For years his parents used to leave bouquets on the nearest bench. They still do.

I'd think, I still think, when I look at those flowers, his mother's not even taken the cellophane off.

But I know I bought the sauvignon. I can remember the taste and the green colour of the wine. And the price. That bottle was ridiculously expensive.

I remember thinking maybe I shouldn't pay that much. But then Lulu called me stingy after I hesitated.

Yes, it was the best. Then I recall Lulu ordering wedges and me telling her, hey, I think you're putting on weight. And her answering, that's all right then boss, I'm allowed aren't I? I'm allowed.

I think I remember that. I think it happened. But look, if it didn't, if it didn't actually … happen like that, or if it happened like something else, does it … Does it even matter?

As far as I'm concerned, the astronomy garden is real. Yes, it was a dream. Of course it was a dream. But if I say it's real, then…

THREE

I

At the top of Amazon Street a pale sun, a sun greyly glittering. A sun of deadwhite coral. Around that sun a smoky aurora.

II

A man passed Parry in the fog, a man with a backpack. He was walking slowly and seemed to be searching for something.

These days, there were many such. Some with suitcases, some with black bags. Men usually. But Parry noted there were now women.

These people looked bewildered, almost lost. They stood on street corners, sometimes outside
Badfinger,
unsure of themselves. Some turned towards the sea. Some walked away from the sea.

These were people who had never visited The Caib before. All eventually disappeared into the fog.

III

Ghosts? asked Parry of Serene. Maybe. But every town is full of ghosts.

There was a man, he remembered, who collected cuttlefish bones. Sometimes they would find his stooks on the sand. Those cuttle pyramids yellow
-
white as bonfire smoke.

It was said he sold the cuttle in the local pet shop. Parry doubted it, no matter how abundant the harvest. Sometimes he had seen the man sitting on the stones of The Horns, whittling cuttlebone.

A sculptor, Parry had thought. An artist whose shavings lay like foam.

It took him years to realise the man had disappeared. He never heard what happened to him.

IV

Possibly the pink, suggested Serene. But you look good in pink, too. Well, sort of. And all the others are … black? Or grey.

I dress for the fog, said Parry. So I can blend in. But aren't we all creatures of the fog these days?

But why all the black?

I'm in mourning, he said. For my life.

No, why?

Got rid of my clothes in Oz, and my wardrobe hasn't recovered. But maybe there are things here Glan might like?

Okay, give him the pink.

Deal. It's his. If I can wear it just once more.

I'll hold you to that. But where did that blood come from? On the hanky?

Nose bleed. I walked into the door.

V

What we used to do, said Parry, was find a pebble. A round pebble, as heavy as possible. Or lots of smaller pebbles. From the heaps of pebbles near the slipway.

Grey or mauve or stonewashed blue, those pebbles. All the same, you'd think, but no. Every pebble was different.

Sometimes I'd have to go for pebbles like that for the garden or the allotment. My mother always had a use for them, even if it was only as part of the rockery.

Then I'd find one of our big pans and boil the water, making sure the pebble was fully immersed. Then added salt and a little pepper to taste. I'd boil that pebble for an hour, add more salt, and there it was.

Where was what? asked Serene.

Our soup.

Soup?

Limestone soup.

Serene looked around as though she was lost.

What did it taste like? she asked.

Limestone soup tasted like you would, straight after a swim off The Horns. Or like you if you'd dared to touch bottom at The Chasm.

Serene made a face.

Limestone soup tasted like the sea. It tasted like the sky. The air in Caib Caves.

Never been there.

Yeah, it tasted like Glan would taste. Straight after an afternoon swim. Or better, a midnight swim. Because at midnight, or any time in the dark, a swimmer tastes different from a swimmer in the day.

What colour was this limestone soup?

Grey, if I boiled a grey pebble. Pink, if it was a pink pebble.

But… said Serene. Stone soup? Why should I believe you?

Why shouldn't you believe me?

Serene held the pink shirt to her face.

Oh, what were you wearing? When you last wore this? It's a perfume I recognise. I've smelled it before.

And she breathed Parry in.

He smiled at her, that long
-
breasted girl in her gaudy. In her mauves and purples. Then he looked away.

FOUR

I

Something was coming down the street. A vehicle gaining colour and speed. But it maintained a stately pace, as if the mist was reluctant to set it free. Parry took another box of DVDs from the back of the car.

The vehicle was pink, Parry decided. And long. Yes, here it came. One of those limousines you saw nowadays. A stretchlimo that groups booked for evenings out. Chauffeurs in peaked caps, champagne flutes. You could hire it all.

Yes, here it came. Despite the hour, despite the weather, the limousine roof was open. A young woman, brandishing a wineglass, was standing up in the back seat, toasting it seemed, anyone who might be passing. But Caib Street was empty. All of The Caib was deserted.

It was about noon, Parry decided, and he had never known the town quieter. This morning he had passed the surgery. A man was lying on the gravel forecourt, maybe dead or simply unconscious.

Parry had considered his discovery. And asked himself why he should feel no surprise. He looked at the man's face. Aged forty, bruised cheek, hair matted. The sleep of oblivion. Inside, Parry hadn't had time to explain.

Yes, doctor's coming, said the receptionist. Thank you for telling us. The doctor is aware.

Outside once more, Parry had given the man a last look. How tenderly he had been sleeping, the mist around him like dry ice from some cabaret act, rising out of the ground in shreds, in industrial rags. The doctor was aware. Then everything was fine.

The pink limo drew level. The young woman, who was obviously drunk, and on her way to or from a party, toasted the street. He looked around. There was nobody else in view. So Parry waved his hand in brief salute.

Stop, the girl shouted. Stop.

And the car had come to a halt outside
Badfinger
. The front door was open, boxes piled around its entrance. Thirty
-
three, Caib Street, the only shop that boasted signs of life. Parry's shop.

No, the woman shrilled. No, no, no. I wasn't talking to you. I wasn't fucking talking to you. Or to any other dirty old men.

Another woman in the back seat stood up. Another blonde with a wineglass.

No. Not you, she hissed through a bridal veil. Never you.

The limousine gradually took off again, a pink blur soon lost in the fret. On the pavement, Parry stood looking after it. Then he started to manhandle another cardboard box.

Time to wake Glan. He shouldn't be allowed to sleep late. And it was late. Parry looked up at the window as if he expected the young man to appear. Glan, ghost
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pale, his hands clenched in his armpits. Shoulders and hairless chest shivering. Yes, it was time Glan revealed himself to the world.

Parry decided he'd make porridge for breakfast. He smiled to himself. Yes, porridge with a drop of Drambuie. To sweeten things up. Stop the anaesthetic wearing off.

II

Outside, the mist rubbed itself like a cat against the glass. Oh yes, Parry thought, he'd seen this mist before. This was familiar weather, ancient in the bones of anyone brought up on The Caib. Colder yet in the bloodstream of anyone fool enough to return.

What had he been? Possibly seventeen. Acne
-
eaten, unprepossessingly thin. Exams were coming up and Parry's regime was to work for three hours every night, then stop for supper. Strong tea, roasted cheese.

Then start again. Today, he could hardly credit such diligence. Such pointless resolve.

He remembered the television droning on downstairs, his hands over his ears. What was the time? Easter, but light nights at least. A blue evening sun intruded into the room. He screwed up his eyes and stared again at the notes. He had read the pages twenty times. But they made no sense. So he'd go out for an hour. To clear his head. He'd go out to see the whale.