The Glass Canoe (17 page)

The sound made Liz open her eyes. They held him up on the cord so she could see.

Her lips moved. Very softly she said, ‘Well, bugger me!' And rested. They waited, still holding him up.

‘Is he all there?' she said.

They held him closer, turned him round, showed her the face and ears, the arms and legs—right number of fingers and toes—and his little prick and balls.

The slowest smile moved the corners of her mouth and the puffy skin under her eyes.

She said no more words, but the smile stayed until her bottom jaw dropped. By that time the cord was cut, the little fellow washed all over and wrapped up and put in one of those cots with the wheels on in a big room with about sixty other newcomers to the world.

They cremated her and gave the ashes to the bloke she lived with in the station waggon, but he thought
they might get lost or something and gave them to her husband to put on the mantelpiece.

The husband took the boy and got his married daughter to live in and look after him along with her own three.

They had a big party up at the house to wet the baby's head and everyone went. So many went that the publican—who knew about it the required number of days in advance—told his casuals not to come in, and helped in the bar himself.

There were four fights and the police came around three o'clock. One stranger wandered over towards the Lake and got himself drowned in one of the eighty-foot holes, but the party was for the baby and Liz the Large, and no one took much notice of this event.

ANAL PASSIVE, EFFEMINATE, BORN LOSER

Sharon kept Sibley's mind under the bar for me till I asked for it. The next page in the pile was ‘Attitudes of Drinkers'.

‘People in authority exploit them, are distrusted and held in contempt. Success and achievement felt to be beyond their control.

Chance—lotteries and gambling—take their place.

Activity leading to long-range goals is futile. Short-term gratification only.

Physical labour acceptable to gain present needs; no value in itself except for sportsmen in training.

Upward mobility by any member amounts to rejection of the group.'

I skipped the figures and graphs and test results. The last pages contained Sibley's conclusions. I took a quick look, wondering if the other guys had read much of it before they brought it home to the pub. I was certain they were his rough copies; he'd gone off somewhere with better copies to work it into proper shape for his thesis.

‘Drinkers: Conclusions.

High incidence of educational retardation.

Deceitful, suspicious, intolerant.

Marked tendency to be aggressive, quarrelsome, provocative and disobedient to rules of society.

Tendency of weaker status drinkers to be timid, fearful.

Weaker drinkers show disproportionate number of specific psychogenic disorders.

No cases of severe mental deficiency apart from physical damage. Some disorders referable to degree of emotional deprivation, few cases of affectionless psychopathy.

Few disorders with overt psycho-neurotic symptoms.

Few individuals with well-evolved obsessive-compulsive, phobic or dissociative syndromes or free-ranging anxiety states, apart from thirst for drink.

N.B. These observations require further testing.'

There was a last page headed ‘General Speculations'.

‘In my opinion drinkers cannot be raised to our level of civilisation in a single generation.

Drinkers are a relic of the oldest type of man.

Perhaps they should be confined to their drinking areas and left alone.'

I read it all and was folding it ready to give to Sharon to keep in case anyone asked for it, when a small bit of paper fluttered out, unattached. It was hard to tell, but the ink looked newer than the rest. It said, ‘Their customs and language may be more complex than I imagined. They well may be a wasted minority with valuable potential.'

An afterthought, I suppose. I wonder what made him change his mind.

I hoped Sibley was tucked away somewhere trying to make head or tail of us. I looked up and there was Mick watching me. And the King, over his shoulder. In another group Serge's round face was turned slightly towards me. They watched my face for a bit, looked down at the papers, then back to the guys they were with.

Something came into my head. Some words. One of Sibley's papers had words—words like ‘anal passive, effeminate, born loser'. I hoped they'd given me
all
the papers. I hoped they didn't find
that
bit of paper.
Hoped real hard.

FORTY-THREE MINUTES AND BLOOD

On the course a woman caught me fair on the breastbone with a low ball from the first tee. My breastbone is fairly solid, I think, and although I felt it a bit and there was a lump under the skin, no bruise came out and nothing was broken. She didn't apologise, just swore at me for getting in the road.

It was one of those balls that you see coming, they curve and you move to one side, but they follow you and it seems inevitable that you'll get hit. And you do.

The ball bounced off my chest into the end of the stormwater drain there, which is about three metres deep. The pipes are underground most of the way, but at their far mouth, water gets round the end pipe and scoops away the earth.

It was a horrible lie for a ball. She'd made a lousy start to her round.

‘Why didn't you get out of the way?' she asked me. ‘Now look what you've done.' She was about forty, with a strong chin like a man. It was Ladies Day. She didn't ask where it hit or whether it hurt.

‘I suppose you'll go crying to the committee now,' she said. ‘There's no complainers like men. Always think they're hurt when they're not.'

I hadn't said a word. Wasn't even rubbing the spot.

Just for the sake of it, I watched her play the ball.
I knew she'd pick it up and put it higher and not penalise herself for the hazard, so I kept watching. She hit it and by some fluke the ball bounced off a rock and went straight up the fairway. She looked round in a superior way. As if I'd think she was a good player.

Four hours later I'd knocked off and had a shower and was getting in the car, off towards the Cross of the South.

I heard the sound of studded golf shoes on the bitumen and there she was.

‘Does it hurt?' she asked, and her voice wasn't raucous.

‘Forgotten all about it,' I said.

‘I'll rub it for you if you like.'

‘Rub it?' I said foolishly.

‘I'm a physiotherapist. Come on, follow my car, but park a few houses further on.'

Why not? I followed her. It wasn't far.

Why does the car go faster just because you put more gas in? Why doesn't it just give louder bangs? Anyway.

In her bedroom she wouldn't let me touch anything. Not her breasts, not her hair. No kisses to warm her up.

‘You don't know,' she said. ‘You men don't know how to make love.'

Eventually in I get and the natural thing starts to happen. As soon as she detects that I'm on the way she
goes whack! right on the nuts. Talk about hurt.

‘You just wait for
me
.
You don't know how to make love. The more I see of men the more I like golf.'

The pain didn't go for about another ten minutes. I know, I caught sight of the time on my watch, on a chair near the bed.

There I stuck, rasping away. And I mean rasping. Every now and then I'd take a side look at the watch. It got to forty-three minutes before she arrived.

When she came she really went off, screaming, kicking and scratching, her hands gouging deep scratches in my back till I grabbed them both and held them behind her back, trying to stay in the saddle.

When she subsided, she said, ‘Well?' Still puffing.

I said, ‘You're different.' It was all I could think to say.

‘They all say that,' she said derisively.

Poor bastards, whoever they were. I was in a mess. The old feller was red raw, with two long cuts on top. I don't know what was inside, but it must have been two sharp lumps of gristle hanging down. They dug channels into him and I went home to drink at the Cross with my tail well and truly between my legs.

Forty-three minutes. Christ, I needed a physiotherapist to fix up the damage. She'd rubbed it for me all right. Ladies Day.

When I rang my darling I put off seeing her long enough
for him to heal up.

‘You won't forget?' she said.

‘No, I won't forget,' I said. I felt rotten putting her off. She never put me off. She was always breaking other arrangements to fit me in.

‘Are you sure
you
won't forget?' I added.

Weak, wasn't it?

‘No, I won't forget. It's in my little book.'

‘You might overlook it.'

‘I've underlined it. I won't forget it if I've underlined it.'

I knew she wouldn't forget. I went back to my beer.

It wasn't a happy day. I don't think the other guys would know why more fuel makes the engine go faster, instead of just causing bigger explosions, but I wasn't going to ask. It
must
have made bigger explosions, maybe that was the key. And the bigger bangs pushed the shaft faster and the next one faster still. So the effect multiplied, everything went faster.

That was it. I'd worked the bastard out. The day was worse than ever. Another mystery gone. I picked up the underneath pages of the Great Lover's paper without disturbing his crossword. Miracle Operation, it said. Bone marrow replaced. They'd fixed up some sick kid that had bad blood.

Blood? Yes, it was made in the marrow and the marrow was in the bones. But how did the blood
get out? I've seen all sorts of bones, and eaten plenty of marrow, but the bones were sealed at both ends, weren't they? How did the blood get out?

I gave him back his paper. Maybe it wasn't such a bad day.

A GREAT DAY FOR A FIGHT

For generations back, guys competed for the body and shape that you took into your heart and had in your mind when you were in her and even when you were miles away. The shape of her in you that warmed your insides whatever the weather. For generations back, guys clobbered each other. And it was good.

If I didn't feel so alive on the field and in the Cross on the alert for a sudden swing, maybe I wouldn't feel so alive when I caught sight of my darling in the distance with her body full of life in shape and movement.

Maybe without the itch of healing cuts and the halo of bruises round the eye sockets no one would get the dry mouth of desire for his darling. Just thinking about her I felt alive and strong and nearly brought the schooner glass down on the red bar to smash it for the sheer joy of the feeling flooding through bones and
blood. I had to stop myself bashing my fist against the bar. A broken hand is a drawback.

I even had to stop myself going up to the boys and saying Let's clear the pub.

Calm down boy, I told me. Calm down, monster.

I put my free hand in my pocket and looked outside at the world, away from the inviting faces that could easily wear blood and swelling.

The birds weren't flying for fun and swooping for joy; they were dead scared to stay in one place for long. Big bastard birds were waiting in the sky to tear them to pieces. And the little birds had to pounce on their own dinner in their spare time from guarding their backs.

In the street, at the lights, men were rotting in their cars, fighting nothing, only fearing: fearing crashes, fearing cops. Their blood whitened in fear and got thin. In weariness they rested their heads on women who wished them far away, preferably to a battlefield, where chance could take them off. Chance could provide another diversion.

The smell of uneasy peace hung over the world. The stale stink of peace hovered over the country's industries and business and workers when by rights they should have been at each others' throats as the system decreed they should.

The same stink floated under the barnlike roof of the pub and across from side to side of the red bar. I was thirsty, but not for water. And for more than beer.

It would be a great day for a fight. Milling round the red bar up to the ankles in red blood.

Let's get off the subject.

I can't.

Don't tell me Christ didn't work all his life for the moment when they put the crown of thorns on him and blood ran down his face. The blood made him what he was and what he became. Blood was his motto. The violence of the authorities simply co-operated in his plans.

He could have let well enough alone. He could have gone along with the status quo. But no, he had to stir things up, cause division in the community, set brother against brother. He chose the violent way to push peace.

Why? Because there's no other way. His intrusion into public life was violence. (Who elected him? Who elected me to write our tribe?) Same as any action has its violent angle. Think about it. Whatever takes place, someone or some thing suffers. It may be good or bad, but that's opinion. It's unavoidable, and that's how it is.

The Good Shepherd? Why do you think he saved the lost sheep? For the pot, of course, and let a poor old wolf and his family go hungry. It boiled down to who would get to eat that sheep, that's all. Kindness?

Out at the juniors' game that Saturday afternoon there was something of a disagreement between us and them.
When something like this came about, there was no audience: all were actors.

The ref gave eleven penalties to our two. That was enough. They were our kids, we were responsible. We couldn't let our kids go down the drain and nothing done. The opposition support thought otherwise.

It was a strange ground, we were on a hill and decided to descend to press our point of view. We descended.

‘Stop!' someone cried.

Stop be buggered. Bodies hurled themselves down the slope. Not just leaping over the white fence. Diving.

Just before the clash of the two sides a peculiar sound rose from the ranks of the guys closing in on each other. It was like a wail, but it was no wail. It was like a howl, but more than a howl. It rose. It rose more. By the time contact was made it was one solid wall of sound, a battering ram of yell, a vast engine aimed in at the centre. Then the roar stopped abruptly.

As if it had never been, and the whole mass settled down to action. Grunts, squashy punches, the brittle sound of nose bones. The creak of fence posts ripped out, nails and all. These took over.

Blood ran fast and red and healthy. Satisfaction warmed me like a blanket.

Turning the other cheek made no sense here. It would make an impression for sure; it could become
a joke that would never die. But win, lose: who cares? The fight's the thing.

Once I heard a voice calling Meat, Meat, above the tumult and the shouting, but there was no way I could answer.

I got some spatters of red, then a spurt of someone's blood in both eyes. I put my hands up to wipe it away. Several fists came to visit. I side-stepped, saw another movement, and ducked. But the movement was only a shadow. I ducked straight into two uppercuts.

My lights failed; left, then right. I wanted to see, but the eyes refused to open. The lid muscles weren't strong enough to lift all that swelling; under the skin, blood filled both sockets.

I couldn't see to see. Out of action. I stumbled out of the fight looking for a fence to guide me back to the gate, like a blind man in the dark looking for something that wasn't there. The swelling took three days to go down. I didn't even see who clobbered me.

The day wasn't entirely wasted. In the taxi I began to laugh, which made the driver sneer. I laughed so much I nearly burst and told him to have a beer with the change.

Blackie welcomed me, so did Alky Jack. I held my eyelids open with both hands to see where I was going.

‘What's the other bloke look like?' said Jack.

‘Didn't clap eyes on him, Jack,' I said and Sharon brought me my beer—my food and drink, and at the end of every day, my sleep.

The blood mood had passed. All I wanted now was to get pissed.

‘I think I'll iron myself out, Jack,' I said to him. ‘Are you going to get drunk with me?'

‘Going to!' he roared. ‘What do you think I've been doing here all day? Going to!' He was very derisive. ‘I don't go round wasting my time fighting. The day's for drinking. When I can no longer talk all day, think all day, drink all day—that will be it. Finish.' He had the hide to sound angry as well as righteous. ‘Until then—all day every day—me.'

I stood there, wondering who I'd get drunk with. I not only wanted to be drunk myself, but the cause of drunkenness in others.

In a quieter voice, Alky Jack added, ‘Well. Maybe at the end.' And paused. ‘At the end, maybe I'd even trade the beer for another few minutes.'