The Glass Mountain (6 page)

17

He's in luck. This time there's no queue at the window. Just a young woman with a snotty-nosed baby. The woman is waving a ticket and going on about something.

The young bikie stands behind them and watches the buses, the travellers piling on and off. He fumbles in his pocket for the money and counts out the amount. The woman is still going on, heaving the child from one hip to the other. Behind them now a line has formed.

‘Next.'

Suddenly he's at the window and the woman has gone. He pauses, stares at the ticket seller.

‘Yes? …Yes?'

He moves away. His leg's throbbing where they put in the plate. The pain comes and goes, that's how it is now. He'll go tomorrow, get on that bus when this fuckin' pounding has stopped. He scrabbles for a pain-killer, tosses it down and limps off in search of a phone box.

In the centre of town is Wheels City. He stops, checks out the bikes locked together in their gleaming newness: the Hondas, Yamahas, Suzukis — the Harleys.

The phone box is at the end of the street, past the bakery, the bank and the supermarket. Past the pet shop with its sale sign in the window.

He slots in coins.

‘That you, Hambone? It's me, Nom … Look, I got this job see … yeah … It's real good, Hambone, mowing and stuff at this very excellent loony bin. Did Horse tell ya? … Yeah, the Big Man'd be real proud … Hey Hambone, can you tell Pres I can't be down like I said … Hambone? Hambone? (Oh fuck!) … Yeah Pres, I can ride no problems … No, Pres. No, I swear … Fuck Pres, I'm telling ya they're clean here … I haven't … No Pres, I didn't. I'm just reckoning that that's how things are in the country … Yeah Pres, it's only temporary like, but the Big Man'd be real proud I know …'Course it's legit … fuck Pres … what? … A letter? … Problem is the old guy I work for is pretty old, he don't write much, his eyesight's real controversial … yeah … but he reckon's I'm doing a real valuable job. Reckons I'm a natural mower … Pres ya don't have to do that … Ya don't… I'll get him to write to ya … I promise, Pres. I'll get him to write to ya today.'

He hobbles to the fountain and drinks. The air's thick. In their fields farmers tread hungry earth and study the skies for rain. In the square shoppers dump parcels and talk drought. A woman carrying dahlias plops onto a seat, pulls her flower pots closer …

Flower pots an' Miss Dunne. The year of HER walking out an' the Big Man an' his kid wandering in some Jurassic fog …

It's packing up time and Miss Dunne is tying shoelaces. Miss Dunne, fat like Humpty Dumpty, wears things that are hand-knitted over pendulous breasts. Miss Dunne is the one ya remember ‘cos she's kind. An' now it's packing up time an' he's put his fist into the Goose and the Goose is honking loudly.

‘Austin, you've had your third warning. You'll have to stay in.'

The Year 2s file out.

‘You can clean the blackboard,' says Miss Dunne and starts stapling paper. Miss Dunne loves her little ones, her litttle urchin with the soft black eyes especially. She looks up. ‘Austin, you can go faster than that.'

The board is clean.

‘Alright, off you go. And no more pinching and punching, do you hear?' Miss Dunne continues stapling. Again she looks up. ‘You're still here?'

‘Them orchids —'

‘What about them?'

‘Will I water 'em?'

Miss Dunne stares, drops the stapler. Of course, the child doesn't want to go home, that's why he's naughty at packing-up time. ‘Austin,' she says, ‘come here — do you feel well? Have you got a pain?'

The child shakes his head.

‘Is — er — everything alright at home? Are your mum and dad good?'

The child nods.

‘Actually,' Miss Dunne says with a smile, ‘I was thinking of appointing someone to look after the pot plants. Would you like to?'

Nod nod nod.

He does. He waters them so well they cark it, but Miss Dunne buys more and this time they don't. An' the principal comes in an' says they're very excellent an' he gets an elephant stamp. An' after school he heaves out the carpet sweeper an' there's not a single drop of shit left in the caravan by the time he's finished …

Above the hills the clouds are dispersing, the sky watchers also. The young bikie joins the exodus, takes the road that leads off to the left …

At the Crisis Centre he scrubs at stains, then hangs his shirt on a rail outside the sleeping quarters to dry. He sits on a step, lights up and continues to think of school — of letter writing and Miss Turton.

Miss Turton, Year 6, is not a Miss Dunne. Miss Turton is thin, wears a moustache and has sawn off lips.

‘Austin Ingram.'

‘Yes Miss?'

‘I want to see you.'

Miss Turton wipes her glasses, puts them on, sees her pupil more clearly. Sighs heavily.

‘Austin Ingram, you're the sort of child that gives teachers a breakdown. You are untidy, undisciplined, unreliable, uninterested. You clown your way through the day. Then you give me this … Read what I've written. Aloud.'

‘I would be proud to claim this essay as my own. A+'

‘You should use such a skill to advantage.'

The young bikie grins. He suddenly remembers the pile of papers on the nurse's desk, all with letterhead.

In the activity room there's a bin for newspapers, envelopes and stuff. He finds some lined sheets not even used. He selects a few, smooths one out and starts writing. Screwed-up balls of paper gather on the table.

Tonight the place is full, with men mostly and all older than him. Some have no teeth.

At the dining table, meat floats in gravy with potatoes. He puts down his fork.

‘Yer finished?' The plate is whisked away.

Tonight only one bed is left free for emergency.

The young bikie pulls the blanket higher, his knees up, and listens to the rhythmic creaking of beds, the muffled grunting and moaning …

The night deepens. Under blankets, grey lumps stir, snore, occasionally cry out, often cry. It's okay to cry in a crisis and this is a crisis centre.

The yellow-eyed dog that belongs to the place pads in, curls up under somebody's bed. The dog's permanent, the people aren't.

He lies under his blanket and stares at the shapes, the peeling plaster patterns on the wall. He traces a dog's face, a rainbow, a baby's pram, a clipper ship …

In the sky beyond the window rides a silver moon. Silver leaves tap nervously on glass. The dog growls softly. Someone coughs, turns over, sighs.

On a ceiling full of shadows the young bikie makes out a table, a chair, a small grey person in the dark sitting on a bed … Another shape. It's that of a flower pot. The shadows move and now the flower pot's become a bowl and it's one that he's seen recently. Then he remembers the pet shop and he's suddenly had an idea …

18

He examines the bowl he saw the day before. Outside people are gathered around a table piled with things marked down. Beside it a cocky is screeching ‘Hello'.

The young bikie picks up the price tag. ‘Fuck that,' he says. He strides inside and up to the counter. ‘How come that bowl out there was $9.50 yesterday and $12.95 now? The same fuckin' bowl?'

The man at the register reels back — he's seen snakes. The fact is he's scared of things that crawl, dislikes animals generally. Gets allergies.

‘I'm only minding the shop,' he whimpers. ‘I don't make the rules.' He wants to add, ‘This is what you get for helping people out — anxiety and abuse.'

‘Fuck that.'

The boy hangs around outside, sifts through what's marked down. Picks up the bowl and holds it to the light. ‘Hey, he's walking off with your stuff …!'

‘Stop him!'

The chase ends at the lights. ‘Gotcha!'

‘I've called the police,' says the unhappy shop-minder. He whistles up a rat. ‘Guard him, Genghis.' The miniature Jack Russell's tail begins to wag violently.

A crowd gathers, studies the bikie, the trembling shop-minder, the street for police …

There's a squeal of tyres.

‘Not you again!'

Blue eyes, blue hat takes a deep breath and starts by addressing the plaintiff. ‘We'll get your side of the story first.' He takes out his notebook, makes notes, then flicks over a page and turns to the accused. ‘Now you.'

People crane their necks to hear. Jostle for positions …

‘Well,' says the law. ‘Have you checked it out with Sheralyn — I mean the director of nursing? I mean, maybe keeping a fish in her room is against the rules.'

‘My Nan wasn't allowed to keep her cat,' whines a voice.

‘Neither was mine. Her dog neither …'

‘It broke my Uncle Albert's heart to leave his horse …'

‘My old mum …'

‘Fish are very clean,' interrupts an old trout. ‘And very quiet.'

‘It's still a pet. And my Nan …'

‘Thank you.' The man in blue reckons it's time to wind up the investigation.

‘She sits on her bed in the dark.' The accused is addressing the crowd. ‘An' what is very excellent for goldfish is the sun.'

Eyes turn to the tanks of flitting fish recessed in the almost complete darkness of the wall.

The keeper of the law turns to the plaintiff. ‘Well,' he says, ‘what I think is this. If, as you say, the owner marked these things up last night, that's what they're worth.' He turns to the accused. ‘So just pay up and we'll forget the whole thing.'

A thin brown hand opens to reveal a crumpled ten-dollar note. ‘All I got.'

The constable leans forward, slips three dollars on to the counter and whispers, ‘His mum just died.'

‘Ahhh,' murmurs the chorus of listeners.

Constable Dan O'Donnell propels an arm in a denim jacket out into the street.

‘You know, people like you make things very difficult for people like me. One's never quite sure whether one should give them a medal or lock them up.'

19

The next day he's been to the bank and is back at the pet shop. One hand is busy balancing a bowl, the other is holding a plastic bag with a fat goldfish swimming in it.

‘I heard about your mum.' The pet shop man, the definite article, whips four dollars from his wallet, slots them into the till and, in a further rush of munificence, hands him a larger than normal bundle of fish flakes. He thinks, some do it hard too soon.

The day's crisp as biscuit. The leaves swirl like dancers and the pin oaks in the square are a mass of flame.

At the nurses station stands Sheralyn Smythe and she's smiling.

Room 23 is the same. The boy throws open the door, ‘His name's Henry,' he says.

Silence.

‘Here's his dinner. Henry likes eating in the morning an' he needs sunshine. He's gotta have sunshine an' light too. If he stays in the dark he'll cark it an' if he does someone's gonna be fuckin' mad.'

Silence.

Then, ‘What's your name?' she says.

The young bikie makes no reply.

‘What do they call you — your friends?'

‘Nom.'

‘Nom?'

‘Short for Nominee. I'm not a proper member yet.'

‘But your real name?'

Silence.

‘What does your father call you?'

‘Kid.'

‘Your mother?'

‘Austin. Austin Ingram.'

‘Austin.'

‘Problem is' — the boy pauses, then goes on — ‘Problem is my mum don't like anyone else using my name. She's possessive like, right from when I was little. This is the first time she's let me out on my own. I'm an only child, see.'

He can't seem to stop talking. ‘I got more toys and stuff than anyone, anyone in the class. Books too. Dad'd bring home a book every single payday and Mum'd read it when I was in bed. She'd read to me every night, just the two of us, never miss … There was this one she'd read over an' over about this fuckwit called Ossie. Ossie with a fuckin' O. A real deadshit …' He stops.

‘What happens to him?'

‘To who?'

‘Ossie.'

‘He ends up a fuckin' hero.'

‘Ossie with an O.'

‘It's just a fuckin' name.'

Silence.

In his bowl, Henry darts and dives. From her bed Mrs Esther Ellis peers.

‘He's a very happy fish,' she says.

‘Not in here he's not. Henry'd rather be outside, see. Out in the sunshine is what he likes —'

Silence.

‘— An' when it's cold an' dark he comes in like people do —'cept he's a fish.'

‘You're a strange young man and clumsy, but —'

‘He's yours, see. An' I'm not fuckin' clumsy. I could handle a 1950 Panhead when I was seven. Fuckin' brilliant they all said, even the Pres. He reckoned nobody ever done that 'cept the Big Man. He could've …'

‘Your father?'

‘Top rider, my dad.'

‘I meant —' the woman pauses, thinks of how a face can alter with a smile. ‘I meant clumsy in a different way.'

‘Ya gotta look after Henry real affectionate like.'

‘I didn't ask for a fish.'

‘Mums an' dads didn't ask for kids, but they got 'em, didn't they?'

Silence.

‘You'll want to see how he's getting on I expect,' Mrs Esther Ellis replies.

20

On the following morning a figure in crumpled blue trudges along the passage to the entrance and droops onto the nurses station.‘We've got a new resident, did you know? A fish called Henry.'

The director turns from the computer. ‘I know.'

‘I found it in the garden and Essie wanted me to bring it in. I told her, ‘When I'm finished.'

“It's getting cold,” she said. You know Essie! When I got back it was on the table in her room.' Another yawn. Rose Wiley has been on night duty, ‘Oh sorry'. She pulls herself up, flexes her shoulders.

‘Drive carefully, Rose,' says Sheralyn Smythe.

The glass doors slide shut leaving the director alone. She turns, swivels in her chair, twiddles a pen, stares into the vaporous early morning. Then reaching for a phone, she dials a number.

‘Darling, do me a favour. Can you look into your stone-thrower? He's been around a bit … You know about that? … Yes, it's swimming around in her room … I see … That, I don't know. He might be at the centre, he may even sleep rough. Anyway, Dan, find out what you can … His name's Austin Ingram.'

The Director of Nursing's day rolls on, gathers momentum …

At 3 o'clock she looks at her watch, jumps up, gathers together an armful of papers and hurries down the passage.

‘Sorry I'm late,' she pants. ‘The hospital rang. Somehow Harold's medication got lost in transit … Right. Let's get started … Dr Sweet's prescribed a change of diet for some. We'll get to that later. You can start the ball rolling, Jodie.'

The ball rolls. The coffee cups pile up.

‘Next, Essie Ellis. Over to you, Kate.'

Sister Curran is middle-aged and fleshy, with a birthmark on her cheek. She folds her hands and delivers her report.

‘Thank you, Kate.'

‘That's not all.'

‘Yes?'

The woman pauses. ‘I want to say something while everyone's here.'

‘Go on.'

‘It's about — him. He's still around and to be frank with you I don't like it. It's not as though anything's changed. She still sits there in the dark. Certainly I've seen her take that fish out, but then she's back again. And as for him with his filthy boots all over the carpet. I told him to go and wipe his feet and was told to fuck off. I won't be spoken to like that by him or anybody else. As for Essie, well, she's a lady, she'd hate that sort of vulgarity. And now he's here again. Heaven knows what he's saying …'

What, in fact, he is saying right at that very moment is ‘If ya want to fuckin' die, stop eating.'

In shadowy silence she sits.

‘But make sure it's you what carks it an' not Henry. Henry wants to live, see. Some people reckon a fish's little brain don't know much, but I reckon it's a lot more understandable than some people's. Specially some people what want to fuck off and die just 'cos they reckon everything around is not very excellent.'

Silence.

‘Go,' says Mrs Esther Ellis. ‘And take your fish with you.'

‘He's not mine. An' I know yer looking after him 'cos he's getting real hefty. Which means ya like him. Which means if ya stop eating he stops eating too an' that'd be a very sad day for Henry 'cos he's a nice little fish and don't ask for much 'cept to swim around in his little bowl and nibble his fish flakes.' The young bikie pauses, and peers closely. ‘What are ya grinning at? Don't think I can't see ya, 'cos I can …'

‘Hang on!'

The Director of Nursing is hurrying down the passage, waving an envelope. ‘For you. It was handed to me as I came out of the meeting.'

The young bikie stares at the envelope, at the nurse. He opens it slowly. A small piece of paper falls out. It's a drawing, a cartoon sketch of two people. One old, one young. One small, one tall. One sitting, one standing. Both have long faces and frizzy hair.

‘That's from Horace, one of our residents,' says Sher-alyn Smythe. ‘He was a cartoonist on the
Globe
. Horace sketches everybody.'