The Glass Mountain (5 page)

14

By the time he reaches the township it's late afternoon. That time of echoes and lengthening shadows when the hills beyond grow blue.

‘Nom!' An arm is waving as a little blue beetle spins to a stop.

‘I was just thinking of you,' says Joanna Murphy and smiles. He looks the same as when he left, except now a rather frayed belt is keeping up the jeans and the T-shirt has obviously been washed.

He watches her watching him. ‘Thanks,' he says.

‘For what?'

‘Someone went an' bought this very excellent shirt knowing that my best colour's black.'

‘You need a hat too,' comes the reply. ‘You must wear a hat in this weather.' The speaker pauses. ‘Am I sounding like your mum?'

‘No,' says the young bikie, ‘yer not.'

‘I was just going for a coffee. They've got the best cream buns at Chinwag.'

They choose a table outside and sit together, as in patches and pockets across the landscape the blue deepens.

‘You're pretty,' remarks the boy.

‘What?'

‘Under all that ugly nurses' shit.'

There's a spluttering of coffee. ‘Nom —'

‘Yeah?'

‘Are you looking after yourself?'

‘I eat heaps.'

The nurse smiles, thinks, that's what the kids out of Belsen said. ‘I'm pleased we bumped into each other,' she says.

Silence.

‘How's the Centre?'

‘Okay.'

‘It's only temporary you know.'

The woman would say more but the words she wants are deep. Or not deep enough. Instead, she says, ‘Did you ever find the lady you told me about? The one whose purse you found?'

‘I've been all over —'

‘Tell me about it.'

He does. ‘… An' the cemetery's a very excellent place to be, but she's not there.'

‘She's not with us either. Have you tried the nursing homes?'

‘Nursing homes?'

Joanna Murphy takes out her mobile, gets a number and makes a call.

‘Not there. Last try.'

The charge sister smiles, picks up a pen, and takes his hand.

‘Hold still,' she says. ‘I'll draw you a map.'

At the same time, at the place marked by a cross on the young bikie's hand, a meeting is in progress.

The woman at the head of the table ticks names off a list, invites another to make a report. Then the meeting is open for questions, discussion, argument, diagnosis, prognosis, procedural positions, current medications, alternative treatments —

Everybody has a say. Things work best in a democracy …

‘Essie,' she says, addressing a group of four.

‘No change,' replies one.

‘She still comes to meals, she knows she's got to eat … But other than that, she just sits in the dark …'

‘This is her fifth month.'

Another looks towards the Chair, ‘Anything from the family?'

A shake of the head.

‘It's depression. Low-grade chronic depression.'

‘And she's been given the best room in the house.'

‘That was luck. It'd just become available.' The director scrambles for her notes. ‘What have we got her on?'

‘She's on enough to make her rattle already …'

‘I've tried to talk to her —'

‘Me too.'

‘And me.'

‘I've tried to get her among the trees and flowers, to smell the sunshine. Out of that bleak room. But the answer's always a sweetly said no —'

‘But firmly.'

‘I've tried threatening her, bargaining with her —'

‘Essie's sharp.'

‘That's what makes it so sad. She knows what she's doing.'

‘And that's?'

‘Speeding up the process. She knows she's dying and she's got nothing to live for.'

There's a short pause, the length of a sigh.

The director smiles. ‘We must do more,' she says. ‘We must find a way.' She stops, picks up her pen, her list. ‘Next, the Major. Dr Sweet believes —'

Time is up. Dr Sweet's beliefs will have to wait.

It's always like this.

15

The young bikie peers through wrought iron, pushes lightly at the mitred gates. Now he can see more clearly the winding gravel drive, the oaks and elms casting murky shadows on the sweep of lawn. And beyond, like a huge black bat with wings stretched left and right, Camleigh Gardens Nursing Home. By moonlight.

He moves forward through shadows, past stardust on roses. He sees lights like cats eyes glow from the spreading wings. The house is in darkness.

A light breeze swishes leaves. In the distance a dog barks.

He tiptoes over gravel to the tessellated porch. By the door, in swirling calligraphy, are the words ‘Night Bell. Please ring loudly'.

And suddenly, as though by some magic signal, he's flooded in light. He steps out of the porch lamp's golden beam and quickly makes his way back across gravel. And the silence of the grass.

He's been awake since midnight, has counted the hour by the town hall clock. Soon he'll be free of it, of her. Of all of it. He'd told Pres he'd already given it back. He must sound different or something when he lies. They'll send Carver next …

He walks through the silent town, washes at the fountain and waits for daylight to break.

At last a jaundiced sun creeps over the silent hills and once again he stands at the mitred gates that lead to the gravel drive. And her.

Now, by the light of day, the black-winged bat is nothing more than a stately home with outbuildings that spread east and west.

Glass doors slide back as he approaches. Inside, the nurses station is empty. Then suddenly from the oval desk comes the shrill ringing of a phone, followed by footsteps.

‘I'll be with you in a minute.'

The speaker is in blue. She's youngish and blond. She studies the stranger as she talks to whoever is on the other end of the phone. Finally she says, ‘Can I help you?'

‘I want to see Mrs Esther Ellis.'

‘Are you a relative?

‘No. I'm — nobody.'

The woman pauses for a moment then presses a button. ‘Jodie, Essie has a visitor. Would you escort him to her room?'

A second figure in blue appears. ‘This way.' He follows her along cream carpet that turns to vinyl; past doors open and half open, past feathery fronds, hanging violets and wheelchairs in rows. Past women in green with clattering trollies.

‘You, Sir!'

The young bikie stares into grey pyjamas and a hedge of hair.

‘You failed to salute a senior officer, Sir. This constitutes a grave dereliction of duty. Salute, Sir. Salute or you'll be thrown in the brig!'

‘Barracks, Major!' barks someone from behind. There's a wheel to the right and the man's gone.

At the end of the passage the nurse stops. ‘Here we are.'

The door of number 23 is ajar. He knocks. There's no answer. He peers inside. The room is in darkness, though he can make out a chair, a table and a figure sitting upright on a bed.

‘You Mrs Esther Ellis?'

‘What do you want?'

‘I've got ya purse.'

Silence.

‘I said I've got ya purse.'

Silence.

‘I took it, see. An' I want to give it back … An' I'm sorry.'

Silence.

‘Listen, I've gotta put the fuckin' thing back in ya hand.'

Big silence.

‘Do ya want it or don't ya?

Further silence.

‘An' whatcha doing in the fuckin' dark anyway?' His hand gropes for the light switch.

‘Don't do that.' The voice is veiled, the sort you could trip over.

‘Why not?'

‘Just leave it there.'

‘Where?'

‘On the floor.'

‘An' then some deadshit comes in an' flogs it —'

‘Leave it.'

‘— an' you'll reckon I didn't give it back …'

Mrs Esther Ellis, Room 23, North Wing, scans the tall lanky frame standing in the square of watery light. ‘Just leave it,' she repeats.

‘My very excellent boots nearly carked it nosing round for you.'

‘I will see it.'

‘Oh yeah?'

‘I can see what I want to see better in the dark.'

‘That's bullshit,' says the boy.

‘Time,' says a voice at his elbow.

At the nurses station the director is accounting for moneys spent. She looks up as footsteps approach. ‘We use a code to get out,' she says and goes to the door.

The young bikie stops. ‘Do they all sit around in the dark?'

‘No.'

‘She does.'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

But the fair head has already returned to her desk.

And the doors have hissed open.

It's mid-morning and the bus station is a-bustle.

He leans against a doorway and lights up, watching coaches swing in and out of bays. He likes watching coaches, likes to imagine where they're heading and which ones he'd choose. From somewhere megaphones blare destinations for the army of travellers who stand around clutching baggage or are squeezed up along seats.

He stubs out his cigarette and joins the line at the window. He gets to the grill. ‘Right through.'

‘Concession?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Day or night?'

‘Day.'

‘Night's cheaper.'

‘Okay.'

He fumbles in his pockets and pulls out a note. A card tips out with it. Hers. It's slipped from her purse.

He looks at the ticket seller. Hears the voice. “As you make your bed, so must you lie on it.”

‘Fuck!'

16

The morning's pale, a bush paleness … like the McCub-bin.

At the gallery the Year 5s dip fingers in the moat, splash water. ‘Sir, Brendan did it.' Push and pummel through sculpture, by paintings … One gets left behind with the shape of aloneness, the colour of pain. With ‘The Lost Child'.

The teacher draws the group together, takes another head count. One's missing.

‘He's over there, Sir.'

‘Austin Ingram, would you keep up … What's the matter? Are you sick?'

The young bikie moves through the McCubbin morning, smells the sharpness of eucalyptus after rain, the thick humus of earth. The road that leads to Camleigh Gardens winds through paddocks where sheep and cattle graze. He stops, leans on a fence, lights up, stares into an Arthur Streeton and walks on.

As he starts across the lawn he sees a police car sweep into the drive, followed by a most unexpected confluence of colour. From the left comes blue eyes, blue hat, from the right, blue eyes, blue dress, and both are making for the tree he's behind. The spreading oak that stands in conspicuous isolation in the centre …

‘Well!' says the nurse.

‘You!' says the law.

‘Who?' says the nurse.

‘The stone thrower.'

One in blue turns to the other in blue.

Silence.

‘Well,' says the policeman.

‘Well,' says the nurse.

‘Fuck!' says the boy (though not out loud).

From behind glass doors eyes goggle.

The nurse looks from the policeman to the young bikie. ‘Well,' she says, ‘you've come to visit, I suppose.'

He stands at her door and pushes gently. A single beam of sunlight spills onto the carpet, painting shapes of sadness on shadow.

‘Ya still sitting there?'

She's as she was before, on the edge of the bed, staring, it would seem, into thick velvet. She may never have moved. Suddenly she starts to cough, puts a handkerchief to her mouth, coughs again …

‘Ya know what you are?'

Silence.

‘Ya know what they call the shit yer going on with?'

Small silence.

‘Attention seeking. That's what.'

Very small silence.

‘There's this kid, see. An' his teacher goes up to his mum an' dad an' says like he's attention seeking 'cos he fucks off to the dark …'

‘What do you want?' The sound floats in the air, like bubbles.

‘It fell out.'

‘What's that?'

‘If ya turned on the light or opened the fuckin' curtain or stuck yer head outside ya'd bloody well find out.'

Again silence.

Once more she puts the handkerchief to her lips.

‘You've returned it,' she says. ‘Now go.'

‘I'm going. But wherever I go, wherever it is, ya won't find me sitting in the fuckin' dark — fuckin' attention seeking.'

Silence.

He moves into the room, puts the card on the table, glances at the small person still with a handkerchief to her lips and breathes in the faintest of lavender. He pauses, ventures further, gets to the end of the bed. ‘Ya know,' he says, ‘it's dumb to stare at nothing. At least get a flower to look at. There's some very excellent lavender out there. An' I bet yer got a couple of snaps stuck away in ya little cupboard an' all …'

Silence.

‘Like a shot of the old man.'

Silence.

‘My mum's got one of me, right there in her purse. Every time she has to fork out, there's me staring at her. Reckons it makes her real appreciative …'

Silence.

‘There are no photos left,' she says.

‘What?'

‘There'll be no photos left.'

That's what his mum had said …

She's leaving an' she packing things into a suitcase. Her things. Like the shoes HE's given her. She likes shoes an' he's given her heaps. Red ones an' yellow ones an' black ones with these spiked heels an' tiny little straps. It's almost full, her case. Of her. If she's thinking of anything else it's gotta be so small ya'd hardly notice. She suddenly looks around.

‘Austin! God, what are you doing? Stop! Stop that ripping up! There'll be no photos left. I've got to have something to keep — to remember. No, Austin, no. Not that one! Please … please leave me with something! Oh God! Not the baby ones! … Oh Austin …'

I stand in a patchwork of shredded bits and say, ‘I wasn't born, see.'

Sheralyn Smythe the nursing director is walking down the passage to the kitchen when she sees the young bikie coming towards her.

‘Sorry about your mum,' she says.

‘What?'

‘Losing your mum.'

‘Oh.'

‘By the way, what were you doing behind the tree?'

‘A tree is a very excellent place to think behind.'

‘For some maybe.'

The director pauses, then says, ‘You know, you're the first visitor she's had. Even if it was just to return a purse.'

‘It's fuckin' stupid to sit in the dark.'

‘She comes down to meals, but that's all.'

‘Fuckin' stupid.'

‘We've all tried …' Sheralyn Smythe watches pit vipers curl down an arm.

Beyond a window to the left is a walled garden. Here sunflowers and lavender grow. From a fountain rises spray in which birds splash and splatter and the dappled sunlight warms frail skin. People are asleep on lounge chairs, deck chairs and beds on wheels that face this way and that. Someone conducts to something on the radio, a claw swings up and down, in and out of beat.

The young bikie swings around. A person is standing beside him, a grey person in a dressing gown, holding a doll. She rocks it in her arms and moves on.

Sheralyn looks up. ‘Her baby died.'

‘How?'

‘Disappeared thirty years ago. They never found the body.'

At the desk a blue phone rings. The director picks it up and watches the figure crossing the lawn as she speaks. She sees him pause by a flower bed, pick something and put it to his nose.

She watches him walk on, sees hair black as coal burnished by the sun, a limp.

Now it's the red phone that rings. Sheralyn Smythe lifts the receiver and reaches for her pen …