Time's Long Ruin (18 page)

Dad opened his drawer and there was his vest, his nylon pants, his cardigan and jumper and potato sack undies. All folded up and put back in their proper spot. He closed the drawer, sat on his newspaper bed and noticed his cufflinks next to the lamp. He picked them up, looked at them closely and smiled.

Meanwhile, I hung the tea towel on the back of a chair to dry. I wanted to say something. I wanted to hold and hug and smell her.

‘Could you fix your room?' she asked.

I went to my room. She'd made my bed and left my orthopaedic shoe in its box on the cover. She'd even polished it. I sat down, picked it up and stared at my reflection. And what I saw, I think, was a mixed blessing.

Chapter Six

The trouble with time is that it goes, and is gone, and you're left standing somewhere unexpected, next to someone you met in a bookshop or bus stop and married and had children with and soon won't see again for the rest of eternity. In the end, it seems to me, time promises more than it delivers: fame, wealth, a trip to Fiji. And finally, if you survive long enough, you end up alone, minus the people you needed and nagged and shared nectarines with over the back fence – the people you smelt and argued with and envied. And there you are, standing in the rain, muttering, What was that all about? All that's left is memory, a sort of regret, of disappointment: Mum slipping on suds on the kitchen floor and cracking her knee; Eric Hessian's dog scratching itself hairless and red raw; the smell of gun oil as Dad cleaned his pistol; bakelite radios that never seemed to receive a sharp signal.

So, there I am, nine years old again, walking into the doctor's front room, listening as the bells danced like prayer bells and time fell in line with the ticking of a station clock. The room was quiet, humming from an unseen cooler, smelling of liniment, filled with Doctor Gunn singing a wordless song.

‘It's me,' I called.

‘Morning, Henry, haven't seen you for a few days.' Doctor Gunn emerged from his back room, wiping his hands. ‘Where have you been?'

‘Goolwa.'

‘Goolwa. Lovely. You've got a tan.' He touched my face and stroked my cheek. ‘Hey, I've got something for you.' He reached into his desk drawer and produced a small, black resin statue of Buddha.

‘What is it?' I asked, as he handed it to me.

‘The Buddha, the wise man of India.'

‘Thank you. Can I have it?'

‘Of course. I found it at a garage sale. I picked up boxes of good books last weekend.' He opened the door to his library and showed me. ‘See.' Then he started taking books out of the boxes. ‘Everything: Roman history, shorthand, F. Scott Fitzgerald. Honestly, some people just don't know what they've got.'

I stared at my Buddha, more interested in who he was and how he was worshipped. I could just imagine a temple in an overgrown forest with a giant, jewel-encrusted Buddha at its centre, and thousands of semi-naked savages bowed down at His feet. I could see guards bringing in a human sacrifice – a young, red-lipped girl swooning and screaming like Fay Wray in
King Kong
.

Doctor Gunn soon had me working in his library. He was busy next door with a patient, so I unpacked the new books and started to shelve them. I wondered why he kept his library locked. I assumed he was going to open it to his patients when the shelves were fully stocked. Why, I couldn't quite fathom. Dickens and bulging disks. Dislocated shoulders and West Australian wildflowers.

Eventually the doctor came in and sat in his chair in the corner. ‘So, tell me about Goolwa,' he said.

‘We went with the Rileys.'

‘The Rileys?'

‘Janice, Anna and Gavin.'

‘Ah. And how old are they?'

I shrugged. ‘Janice is my age.'

He crossed his legs and started stroking his chin. ‘I don't think I've ever met Janice. You should bring her in. She could help you.'

‘No, she wouldn't like . . . this. She just likes running around.'

‘A tomboy?'

‘Yeah.'

Doctor Gunn stood up and came over to me. He knelt down and started looking at the covers of books. ‘And what did you do at Goolwa?'

‘Fishing.'

‘Catch anything?'

‘Not really. Swimming, at Horseshoe Bay.'

‘You went swimming?'

‘Yes.'

‘Good.'

I stood up and took a few books over to the shelf. As I started shelving them Doctor Gunn came up behind me. ‘You forgot this one,' he said, slipping it in its alphabetical spot.

As he reached he stood close behind me. He pressed me between his body and the shelf, and I could feel him: his stomach, big and soft, his legs, firm, and what I recognised without really knowing – something I'd never seen, spoken or even thought about, something that not even Dad had ever mentioned.

‘That's it, slowly put them back,' he said, starting to rub himself on me, on my pants and around the side of my body. I was frozen. I knew I should move, but where, how? What would he say, what would he do? Would he scream at me, hold me there? Would he make up stories to tell my parents? About how I stole from him and did things in the back of his shop too filthy and dirty to mention?

‘And when you went swimming, what did you wear?' he asked.

I didn't answer.

‘Bathers?'

‘Stop . . .' I managed to whisper.

‘What . . . were they blue, or red, or did you go in without them?'

‘Please.' I tried to move but couldn't. The pressure of his body held me firmly in place.

‘Siddhartha Gautama, that's the Buddha's name,' he continued. ‘The Buddha is all-seeing, all-powerful, Henry. Do you know what that means?'

The bell rang and the door opened. ‘Henry, you there?'

Doctor Gunn retreated to his chair, sitting, crossing his legs. ‘In here,' he said.

Dad stepped into the library. ‘G'day, George,' he said, as Doctor Gunn opened a book and pretended he'd been reading.

‘Hello, Bob, Henry's been helping me.'

‘Good. Henry, Mum wants you home.'

I stood, trying not to pant, or show my fear. I was in shock. I could hear them talking but didn't know what they were saying. He rubbed his . . . thing on me, I should've said, but didn't know how – didn't know whether I should say anything, should scream, or explode in fits of white-hot rage. I put the books I was still holding on a shelf, turned and looked at Dad. Doctor Gunn was looking at me but I didn't acknowledge him. Dad clamped his big hand onto my shoulder and led me out of the library. ‘All the best, George,' he said, shaking the doctor's hand.

‘See you, Henry,' Doctor Gunn half-sang. ‘Thank you for your help.'

I didn't reply. Dad nudged me. ‘Henry.'

‘Goodbye,' I managed.

We crossed the street to Don Eckert's grocery shop. I felt myself walking, but not walking. My arms were lumps of lead that swung without rhythm. My feet and legs were clay, heavy to lift, slow to respond. And my body was dull, senseless. My face, I think, was like the Reichstag at the end of the war.

‘What's wrong?' Dad asked.

‘Nothing.'

‘Nice of you to help him.'

I followed my dad into the shop and he bought a single onion for Mum's stew. Mary-Anne Eckert served him and said, ‘Don's not happy.'

‘Why?' Dad asked.

‘Those Arthurson kids. They've stolen again.'

‘What?'

‘Don't ask me. Don was funny last night. Said that you said you were gonna sort it out.'

‘I was. I am.'

‘Well, it's happened again. Those two need lockin' up.'

Dad shrugged. ‘They're kids.'

‘So what?'

‘What I mean is, it's a game to them. Doesn't mean they're gonna end up criminals.'

Mary-Anne gave Dad his change and folded her arms. ‘Wouldn't be so sure.'

‘I'll talk to them.'

‘I think you better. While you're at it, bring them in to apologise and repay us. Either them or the parents.'

‘Okay, tell Don I'm onto it. Tell him I'm sorry about the delay.'

Mary-Anne lifted her eyebrows. ‘I'll tell him.'

As we walked down Elizabeth Street, Dad shook his head. ‘Just because I'm a detective. Should tell them to pick up the phone. Why am I so agreeable, Henry?'

I looked up. ‘Sorry?'

‘What's wrong with you?'

I shrugged. ‘I think I'm sick of sorting books. Maybe I won't go anymore.'

‘But you enjoy it.'

‘Not anymore.'

‘Well, don't go then. You can't keep everybody happy. 'Specially Don bloody Eckert.'

‘I've got other interests,' I said.

‘Good.'

I pulled the Buddha from my pocket and showed it to Dad. ‘He gave me this.'

Dad took it and looked at it. ‘The Buddha?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why'd he give it to you?'

‘For helping him. But he said the library's just about done, so I don't need to come anymore.'

‘Strange.'

‘Why?'

‘Thought he enjoyed your company.'

I had no reply. I took the Buddha back and slipped it into my pocket. ‘This makes it hard, doesn't it?' I said, trying to change the subject.

‘What?'

‘Talking to their dad, after what happened.'

‘Oh well. I'll get their side first.'

‘Can I come?'

‘No.'

When we got home I went to my bedroom and stretched out on the floor, breathing deeply, trying to clear my head. Luckily I was in the position where I never had to see him again. But why did he do it, and what was he thinking? Why was he so sure I wouldn't say anything? Was he convinced that no one would believe me, or that I wouldn't shame myself? Or was it because he hadn't had time to threaten me? Either way I felt scared. Like someone I admired had hit me in the face with a hammer, and now there was no way of undoing the damage.

I looked up and Janice was smiling at me, almost laughing. ‘He lay on the floor, dreaming of her, thinking what he'd say and how he'd take her in his arms and make passionate love to her . . .'

‘You're peeling,' I said, sitting up.

‘So are you. Wanna play cricket?'

‘Where?'

‘The MCG. Where do you reckon? On the street.'

The usual batting order: Janice first. She used her old tennis racquet to hit a rubber ball all the way to the Greek church. Anna chased it and threw it back but missed and had to search through long grass and a hydrangea hedge to find it. Meanwhile, Janice ran back and forth between two fruit crates, counting, her runs shortening between the creases. ‘Hurry up,' I called to Anna.

‘Did you see where it went?'

‘In there somewhere.'

She looked up at her brother. ‘Gavin, come and help, you're meant to be fielding.'

But Gavin had other ideas. He was sitting on the gutter, spitting on ants. If they got free he'd spit on them again, until they got free again, at which point he'd either pardon them or step on them. He'd decided there was no point playing cricket – Janice wouldn't let him bat or bowl.

‘But you can't hit the ball,' she'd say.

‘Can.'

And when he'd try to bowl, a similar problem, Janice groaning and shaking her head. ‘It's going everywhere. I'd need rubber arms to hit that.'

‘So?'

‘You can field.'

‘Why?'

‘You're the youngest.'

‘So?'

So there he was, sitting on the gutter, moping, his head between his knees. ‘Gavin, go help Anna,' Janice called, but he didn't reply. Janice smiled at me as she piled on the runs. ‘Thirty-one, thirty-two . . . Henry took her in his arms and kissed her but she turned away. No, no, she said, I am promised to someone else . . . thirty-three, thirty-four . . . Who, he asked. Andrew Arthurson, she replied – No, he screamed, No!'

Anna stood up. ‘Here it is.' She threw the ball back and I caught it. Did you see that, I wanted to say, but guessed that no one would care.

Janice was getting cocky. She prepared for the next ball. ‘Come on, Page, at this rate I can crack a century before tea.'

I did my best underarm. I was no Neil Harvey – there was no run-up and no dramatic flair to my deliveries – but they did arrive at the right spot, slow enough for Janice to whack them the length of Thomas Street. Yes, she loved my bowling: she hit the ball full lob and it went flying, dropping and bouncing and rolling as far as Harriet Street. ‘Thirty-five, thirty-six . . . go on, Anna.'