A Straight Line to My Heart (15 page)

Yesterday had been rough at the start, but I'd patched up my differences with the Shark, and the stories I'd done with Joan in the afternoon had been just my speed. They were fun and they made me think that yes, this is what I want to do. When I left home this morning I was hopeful. Thought I was in with a chance here. And now it's pretty much over.

It's not until ten minutes later, paused at a set of traffic lights, that the Shark speaks again.

‘Tiff.'

That floors me – he knows my name.

‘Yes?'

‘Don't worry. You gave it a good try.'

I feel grateful, and teary. Keep it to myself.

‘Okay. Thanks.'

‘Just remembered I have to pick up some gear from home,' he says. ‘Got a couple of scrapbooks there you can look at if you want. It'll give you something to do this arvo till we work out what's happening with you. Just say if you're not keen.'

I don't want to hurt his feelings.

‘Yes, sure. Love to.'

The Shark tries to smile. His smile muscles probably withered away a long time ago through lack of use, so his attempt is stiff and icy. But that only makes it mean more to me.

‘You don't mind making a detour do you, Jord? We're not far away.'

‘Not a problem, man. You still at the Soldiers?'

‘Until they carry me out, son.'

Soon, tucked away in a back street, we find the Shark's ‘home'. It's one of those sprawling old-fashioned pubs that always seem to be built on a corner. The Three Soldiers. Down below is the drinking area and above it are rooms to rent, each leading out to a balcony closed in by a rail of wrought iron, dirty brown with rust.

The Shark winces as he gets out of the car – that dodgy hip of his. ‘Be back in a flash.' He totters off like a beat-up old crab. I smile to myself at the thought of him doing anything in a flash.

Jordie unbuckles his seatbelt and slumps back, eyes closed. ‘Our new baby, Isabella,' he mutters. ‘Poor kid's just started teething. We were up and down to her all night. I'm wrecked now.'

‘That's no good . . . so I suppose that means I can't talk to you, seeing you're tired.'

He opens one eye. ‘What do you want to talk about?'

‘The Shark, I mean, I don't get it. How come he lives here? He said he's been a reporter for forty years. Why hasn't he got a proper home? Where's his family? What's the deal with him?'

‘Your guess–' a yawn interrupts the sentence, ‘is as good as mine. Known him ten years and he never lets me in on private stuff. As far as I know the only family he's ever had is the
Eagle
. I'd say he was probably a drinker at one stage – they all were, the old breed of newspaper guys – that might be why he's got nothing now. But I can tell you one thing about him – he likes you.'

‘You've got to be joking.'

‘Dead set. He's showing you the scrapbooks. Do you think he does that for everyone? Nuh. He likes you. Believe it.'

‘But why would he?'

‘Dunno . . . Maybe it's because you say what's on your mind – even when it's complete crap.'

‘Oh. Okay.'

After another few minutes the Shark emerges from the pub clutching two bulky scrapbooks to his chest. I get out of the car and hold the door open for him as he lays them on the back seat.

‘Don't feel like you have to read any of this stuff,' he says. ‘It's only if you've got nothing else to do. They're a bit moth-eaten and worn, like me. Probably bore your socks off.'

On an impulse I give him a rub on the shoulder. Seems like he might need it.

He juts out his chin, nods, and hauls himself into the car.

Back at the eagle the Shark off-loads the scrapbooks onto my desk. ‘That should keep you busy for a while.' And then settles down in front of his computer and starts tapping at his usual frantic pace.

I open the first book. The paper is coarse and yellowing and the ink rubs off on my fingertips and leaves them smudged and black. There are stories on house fires and car accidents and council disputes. Nothing that excites me. I zoom from 1986 to 1988 in a couple of minutes – skipping and flicking. But then I feel the Shark's gaze, cold and penetrating. It's only a heartbeat before he turns away, but it's long enough for me to get the message. I am being so dense, so thoughtless. He is sitting right beside me and I'm dissing his best stories, his life's work – and he knows it.

I quickly flip back to the first page.

‘Shark?'

‘Yeah?'

‘There's so much good stuff in these books, I don't know where to start. Got any favourites you can show me?'

‘Oh, I can probably find one or two.'

He pushes his chair closer and begins leafing through the pages. A few moments later Andrew arrives and goes into his office. The Shark glances across to him and half-stands. I know that once they talk my time at the
Eagle
will be over. But Andrew picks up the phone, and the Shark stays with me.

‘Here's one you'd like. Young Darren – work experience – got him a beauty.'

I look at the photo of Darren: about sixteen or seventeen, curly hair. He has the Shark in a headlock. Both of them are grinning.

Joan walks in with a cup of steaming coffee. ‘Good morning, all.' She holds up a doughnut. ‘I bought half-a-dozen. They're in the fridge so the cockies won't get them. Help yourself.'

Right behind her is Jordie, munching on a chocolate doughnut.

‘You're the best, Joan,' he says before wandering off.

‘Hey, Joanie. Do you remember Darren?'

‘Oh, yes. Hard to forget that one.'

The Shark turns to me. ‘Told him there was a bank robbery. I run down the street with him to the Commonwealth. Get to the corner, grab hold of his shirt, push him up against the wall and say, “You wait here, son. I'm goin' ahead. Don't you move till I come and get you.” Then I go back to the
Eagle
.'

For the first time since I've known him, he laughs.

‘Darren turned up here about two hours later,' Joan says. ‘And let me tell you, he looked very confused.'

‘Was he ever.' The Shark nods to himself, his face creased up with a smile. ‘He was crooked on me for a while, but he got over it. I made it up to him by getting his mug in the paper – good result all round.'

‘Did he become a journalist?'

‘No . . . that's rare. Been quite a few years now since anyone went on with it.'

Joan pats my hand. ‘But I have a feeling our Tiff will.'

The Shark lets it go without comment and returns to the scrapbook.

‘That's Harold Cummings.'

Another photo, this time of a guy in his mid-forties.

Joan clicks her tongue. ‘That was so sad.'

‘Aw, I don't know.' He keeps looking at the photo. ‘Yeah, he died too young – left a good woman behind, three great kids. All that was sad. But he had a fine old life, Harold. He was a newspaperman, and good at it. That's as much as anyone could hope for.'

‘I suppose,' Joan says, but she doesn't look at all convinced.

The Shark thumbs through some more pages till he gets to the story of a plane crash.

‘That was a bad business. Five dead. All of them in their twenties.'

‘Didn't you get an award for writing that one?' Joan asks.

‘Highly Commended: Country Newspaper Awards. That's as close as I ever got.'

‘You should have won it. You deserved to.'

‘Thanks, darl. It might have done better but we got an ad in at the last minute. They chopped out half my story and put in a quarter-pager from Woolies for cheap pasta sauce and olive oil. The ad comes first every time – law of the jungle. That's the newspaper game.'

‘But you still love it, don't you?' I ask.

‘Love might be a bit rich.' He closes the book. ‘But yeah, I suppose the job has its moments.'

‘Well I must get to work.' Joan moves back to her own desk. ‘I've got some calls to make. Don't forget the doughnuts.'

‘And I better go over and see the boss.' The Shark stands and stretches. ‘He'll want an update on what stories and photos we've got.' He looks searchingly at me. ‘And any other news I might have.'

A part of me wants to tell him I've changed my mind. I feel like that's what he's hoping to hear. There's so much I like about the job, the people . . . 

‘Shark.' It's Andrew.

‘Yes, mate?'

‘Could you come here for a sec?'

‘Sure thing.'

The Shark walks across the room. Standing at the doorway to Andrew's office, he turns and gives me a fleeting, regretful look – telling me I missed my opportunity. Then goes inside and Andrew closes the door behind him.

I try to occupy myself by reading some of the plane-crash story:

Witnesses described an inferno and a thick black cloud of smoke that billowed from the wreckage seconds after the crash.

My concentration wanders and I find I'm looking up at the Shark and Andrew. And now they're looking at me. The Shark's probably just told him that I can't cut it. I force myself back into the story.

The pilot was a twenty-seven-year-old Brisbane man with four years' flying ex–

Andrew takes a phone call. It's only brief. He nods to the Shark. And now they're walking over to me . . . and I can't get my eyes off them.

All of a sudden I have a feeling this isn't about the job. It's much more than that. I see it in their faces.

Andrew speaks first. ‘Tiff. Your family's out in the front office.'

My family?

‘They rang a few minutes ago to say they were on their way. We've been waiting for them. I'm afraid it's bad news.'

Can't talk. Can't think.

The Shark clamps a hand on my shoulder. ‘I'm sorry, Tiff. I'm really sorry.'

I run through the office crying and throw myself into Bull's arms. Zoe's with him and she hugs us both. Somewhere in there I hear Bull say, ‘It's Reggie', but I already know that and then it's all a blur, what we say and do and how we get to the car. Then I'm in the back seat with Zoe and she's stroking my hair, trying to calm me. It's not working. I'm wide-eyed and gasping and there's thick glass between me and all the words coming from Zoe and Bull. I hear them but they sound faraway and they don't make any sense. It goes on and on like that, being stuck halfway between here and hell, and then I feel the tyres bump over joins in the bitumen and everything clicks into place and I sit up and I'm shivering and I just can't stop.

I'm in the first row at the funeral home, flanked by Zoe and Kayla. Bull's in front of us, looking all official in his grey suit and tie. He'd be more at home directing traffic, but today he's directing the ceremony. I know he's nervous.

There are still a few minutes to go before we start; time to play the song Bull picked: ‘I Did It My Way'. The lyrics might be corny, but they're not when Elvis sings them.

Tonight we'll be hearing lots from the King, and even more from the Beatles. Bull's bought a new set of speakers for his stereo and hooked up some heavy-duty lights; we've stocked up on meat and finger food and cake. This is going to be the best barbeque Gungee Creek has ever seen. And at exactly midnight we're switching off the lights and all you'll see is–

The music stops.

‘Right,' Bull says. ‘We all ready?'

I'm not, but like everyone else, I mumble ‘yes'.

‘Then let's get this show on the road.'

I take a look around and find that the chapel is almost full. You're a star, Reggie.

Davey said he'd try to make it, but he wasn't sure if he could get off work. He's been great. We've been talking and texting heaps. He wanted to come over before now, but for a while there I didn't feel like I could face anyone. No sign of him today. I'm about to turn around when a hand waves at me from one of the back rows. I see Joan smiling. She's driven a long way and she hardly knows me. That really undermines my resolve not to cry.

‘The old bloke hated sad funerals,' Bull says. ‘He told me if anyone howls, he's gunna come back and haunt them.'

I dry my eyes as fast as I can.

‘So don't say you haven't been warned.'

A ripple of laughter rises above the sadness we're all feeling.

‘Another thing he didn't want was anyone making a speech about him. So to use his own words, “If you feel like saying somethin' – put a sock in it.”'

- - + - -

I think back to the day Reggie died. Wolfie's coat was still crusted in dried mud when Bull and Zoe brought me home from the
Eagle
. We filled buckets with warm water and sponged her down, and all the time she stood perfectly straight and still, even though she usually runs from water.

Earlier she'd slipped into a trench that the council had dug to lay some new drainpipes. We knew about that because Reggie had told Bull when he rang him at work.

Bull had the conversation locked in his head, word for word.

‘“The Wolf got herself into a ditch and it was boggy and she couldn't get out and she was startin' to panic.”

‘I'm sayin', “Take it slow, Reggie. Nice and easy.” He's breathless and wheezing like he's got asthma.

‘“It's all right now. I got her out. There's mud and crap everywhere but I got her out.”

‘But how are you, Reggie? You don't sound too good. You want me to come home?'

‘He tries to answer but he starts coughin' and then the gasping gets really bad and – and then the phone hits the floor.'

Bull called ahead for an ambulance and drove home with the siren of his cop car blasting. He and the ambos arrived at the same time, but there wasn't a thing they could do for Reggie. The ambos said it was his heart.

Wolfie squatted outside his door with her head tucked between her front legs. Big brown eyes alert for the door to open.

Bull peers at the checklist he's working from to see what's next. Charlie Dent has just delivered his rousing version of ‘Clancy of the Overflow' – another favourite Banjo Paterson poem, and Mrs Muir has recited ‘Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night' in her soft and gentle way. I helped Bull put the list together, so I know what's coming.

‘I want you to take a few minutes now,' he says, ‘to remember Reggie: his life, what he was like – well, you know what to do.'

My mind goes roaming again, this time to Gungee cemetery where Kayla and I held our own memorial service two nights ago. We ate crispy-skin chicken from Chans. Kayla drank a lot of bourbon and a little Coke, and I did the same thing, but back to front. We told ‘Reggie stories' to each other, and to Monnie and Grogan Nash, and Kayla asked them to ‘please, please, keep Reggie safe'. By the time we left I think she was a little bit drunk. Maybe I was, too.

When I open my eyes the chapel is still quiet. I look at the one thing I've been trying to avoid: the coffin.

Well, Reggie, at least you didn't have to suffer a long drawn-out death from some kind of cancer. Bull and I never talked about it, but I think we both thought that's what your test results would reveal. I know I was scared. So glad you beat that one.

One other good thing is that as far back as I can remember, you were loved, by me and Bull for sure, but by so many others, too. And now you're decked out just the way you wanted; in your oddball little hat with the feather in the brim, footy socks and boots, white shorts, the No 1 jersey, and – your most prized possession – the blazer given to you for fifty years' membership with the Gunners.

You're all packed and set to go, Reggie . . . I just wish I could really talk to you.

‘Hey.'

I feel Kayla's welcome hand on my back.

‘How you goin' there, Tiff?'

‘Goin' fine. You?'

‘Hanging in there.'

Bull peeks at his watch. ‘Right. We have to move it along now. There's only one more thing to do, so if you'd please be upstanding, while we sing a song that Reggie truly loved.'

Dusty strolls to the front of the chapel and acts as conductor for the Gunners' players, past and present, and we all join in as they belt out the club song.

Givva the gun, givva the gun,

Givva the Gunners' try.

In Gungee mud you'll find our blood,

We're Gunners do or die.

It's the most sniffly, weepy, nose-blowing version I've ever heard. Reggie's going to be doing a lot of haunting. He'll have to take the names of everyone here.

We haven't won for fifty years,

But that don't mean a thing,

We're gunna do it one day,

And that is why we sing.

We hear the low whirring of a motor as the chapel's silver curtains are slowly drawn in front of the coffin.

Givva the gun, givva the gun,

Givva the Gunners' try!