Death in Brunswick (5 page)

What's the use, I'm too old for her. She was laughing at me. I'll have to find someone like Prue, I suppose—someone my age—someone tall and blonde. Anyway Mother wouldn't…

Gentle self-pity overcame him. It was not unpleasant in the warm sunlight. As he came to Stewart Street he realized that he was halfway to his friend Dave's house.
I
will
go and see Dave—he always makes me feel better.

When Carl could bear to think about it, his friendship with Dave puzzled him. They were so very different. Dave was short and powerful. His arms were literally as thick as Carl's thighs. He had had polio as a child and it had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other.

This gave him an extraordinarily solid, purposeful gait. He and Carl, with his nervous, leggy walk, looked together like a comedy duo.

Carl was totally apolitical, but Dave had been a committed revolutionary socialist all his adult life and on principle always worked at the hardest, dirtiest jobs. At the moment, to Carl's distaste, he was a gravedigger.

They did have some things in common, however: hard drinking and music. Dave loved opera with a real passion and Carl, though too fidgety to go to concerts, loved baroque chamber music. He had a good ear and some taste. They both collected early be-bop records and had a romantic devotion to Charlie ‘Bird' Parker.

Some of the happiest nights of Carl's life had been spent with his friend, drinking huge amounts of whisky and listening to grand opera played on Dave's expensive stereo. Towards the morning they would listen to Bird and drunkenly mourn that long-dead hero.

Now these pleasant orgies had stopped. Dave had married and his wife disliked Carl. Still, Dave was Carl's only friend. Carl knew that Dave laughed at him but he really didn't mind. He had a deep respect for the other's common sense, his easy humour. Although theoretically Dave constantly suffered for the oppressed and wanted to disembowel the bourgeoisie, Carl had never met a happier, more contented man.

Soon Carl turned into Dave's street. It was poorer, grimier and more depressed than his own. There were no trees, the edges of the footpath were crumbling, half-filled potholes scarred the asphalt. Dark children played around a rusty, abandoned car, their shrill voices filling the air.
Shit! It must be school holidays. God! June might be home.

Dave's wife was a teacher. Carl approached the house cautiously. It had been a rather pretty weatherboard cottage but Dave had three children and their depredations and Dave's indolence had led the house into irreversible decline. Broken toys littered the front path and some depressed rabbits cropped the ragged lawn. An old neutered tomcat watched them with lazy patience.

Carl couldn't see June's car so he walked up the front path, avoiding the toys and keeping an eye out for rabbit shit. He could hear opera—a swooping voice against angry discords. Dave was home.

He walked straight into the front room. Dave was sitting on an old sofa changing a baby's nappy. The baby was crying loudly; the noise was deafening.

Dave looked up and grinned. His big brown face was heavily lined and his beard and short curly hair were grey; a faded black T-shirt was stretched across his thick torso. His feet were bare and massive like a Picasso peasant's. Rude good spirits filled the room. He wiped shit off the baby's bum and deftly tucked the disposable nappy into a plastic bag. Carl averted his eyes. He saw with surprise and some envy that the music was coming from a video. A tarty-looking blonde shrieked from the screen.

‘Carl, my boy, how are you, comrade?' Dave shouted above the din. ‘Just in time for lunch. Have a beer! Have a baby!' And he thrust the squirming child into Carl's arms and lumbered from the room.

Carl, his mouth twisted with distaste, quickly set the baby down on the sofa.

What the hell is its name anyway? Vladimir or Germaine or is it Shulamith? No, it's a boy—Jesus, what a noise!

He found the control by the screen and turned the sound down.

What is it? It really isn't so bad, although it's giving me a headache.
He found the cassette cover.
Lulu.
A bit modern for Dave. He pressed the off button on the video.

Lulu. It's like Lilly—I must
not
think about her.

Lilly was Carl's daughter. He remembered her early childhood and winced.

Dave's so good with them. I'm just not a father—Dave's so good at everything. Sometimes he shits me. Where did he get the money for that video, for instance? With three kids and everything—Jesus.

Carl was working himself up into a jealous rage when Dave came back, holding two cans of beer in one great hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other.

‘Don't you like
Lulu,
my boy? Never mind, wait till you see what I got from England!'

He crammed two sandwiches into his mouth and took a big swig of beer. Carl had to smile—Dave was like a big kid. He took a sandwich and opened it cautiously.

Shit, health food bread.
It always hurt his teeth.
Still.
He sat down. They ate and drank together in companionable silence for a while.
This really is a nice room.

Books lined the walls and the sun slanted through a well-shaped bow window. The baby was quiet.

Dave finished eating and lay back, propping the baby on his gut.

‘Where's June and the kids?' asked Carl nervously.

‘Down at her mother's. Don't you worry, comrade,' said Dave, grinning. ‘How are you getting on with
your
mother?'

‘Ah, Dave, you wouldn't believe what it's like! I have to go to church with her on Sunday.'

‘What!' Dave was convulsed with laughter.

‘No, but wait, Dave. I've got to tell you. Jesus Christ!'

And Carl told his friend what had happened the previous night, leaving out only his sexual debacle. The history was punctuated by Dave's shouts of laughter. He found Carl irresistably comic. But when Carl came to the will he became quieter.

‘More than a hundred thou. That's serious money. And how is she?…I mean, sorry, comrade, but how long will she last?'

‘Jesus, Dave, it's not funny. You should have seen the breakfast she put away this morning. The quack reckons she's fine, and Christ, Dave, she's really cracking the whip.'

‘Well, old chap,' said Dave, laughing again, ‘you'll just have to cop it, won't you! Yes, a new Carl from now on, a respectable citizen. Yeah, and back with your missus it looks like.'

‘Oh Dave! Don't.'

Carl was desperately trying to change the subject—Dave was no help at all.

‘Anyway, Dave, talking about respectable, what about the video? I never heard of a revolutionary with a National before. And what's that? A home computer?'

‘Ah well,' said Dave comfortably, ‘it's for the kids.'

Carl looked at him lying back smiling.
It's all right for him!

A new and terrible thought came to him.
Suppose the old bag wants to stay longer? Suppose I have to look after her for years—I'd go mad and that's that.

He wrenched his mind away.

‘And how's the bone yard?'

Dave worked part-time at the Coburg cemetery.

Originally he had started there as a joke, but now he thought it was one of the best jobs he had ever had.

‘Great, comrade, you don't know how beautiful that place is. Lovely old trees, lots of birds, no one on your back. I'm doing a grave this arvo actually. There's an Italian funeral tomorrow. I'm going down when June comes back.'

Carl lit a cigarette nervously.

‘Well, I better get back to Mum, I suppose.'
Christ, I couldn't face June today.

‘No, no, stick around, mate. I want to play you something.'

Dave got up and fed a cassette into his stereo. He sat back, his arm round the baby, and smiled happily at Carl.

There was a quick slurry of cymbals, some heavy thumping piano and then, suddenly, an alto sax burst into the room—fast, feverish and beautiful. Carl sat up in amazement.

‘Jesus, that's
Bird
! But it sounds so…'

‘Shush. Listen.'

The alto danced and span, mocking an awkward trumpet, and finished with a chord sequence so complex that Carl was left floundering behind. Dave stopped the machine.

‘How about that!'

‘It's so
clean,
it sounds like it was recorded yesterday. Where did you get it?'

‘There's this guy in England—he's remastered a lot of Bird's old nightclub tapes with digital something. Anyway you can order them, and I got this one yesterday. Isn't it great? Doesn't that make you feel better?'

‘Yeah, I guess so, but poor Charlie.' Carl felt sentimental and melancholy. ‘Live hard, die young.'

‘Jesus, Carl, don't be such a wimp!'

‘No, it reminds me of work, nightclubs and that…I told you about that Mustafa. You know, the guy who gets me the pills?'

‘Well, what about him?' Dave said impatiently. ‘He's pissed off, hasn't he?'

‘Yeah, but there's something going on there I don't know about and it worries me—that Greek prick who runs the place is as sneaky as a shithouse rat. I don't know, that place
scares
me.'

‘Now, Carl, you'll be right. Just take it easy. Listen, if you have any trouble with them just ring, and I'll be down. And don't worry about your mother. Just keep on the right side of her and pretty soon she'll get sick of living over here and fuck off back to your sister—OK?'

‘Jesus, Dave, would you really come down there if…'

‘Yeah, but only if you really get in trouble though, Carl. Just take it easy! I don't know, you're like a chook in a thunderstorm. Now piss off, old boy, I have to go to work soon, and June'll be home in a cunt of a mood after her mum's, and you know how she likes you!'

Dave, carrying the baby, put his heavy arm about Carl's shoulder and led him out to the gate. It was getting hot.

‘See you, Dave. Listen, thanks. I know I'm a bit…'

‘Go on, mate,' said Dave gently. ‘Just take it easy and I'll see you soon.'

Carl walked away with Charlie Parker's alto spinning in his head.
Good old Dave.

*

Dave watched Carl's spindly figure recede into the heat haze. Shaking his head, he went inside, returning with a rug. He lay down in the sun with the baby. Soon he was dozing.

He was wakened by the crash of the front gate. His two little boys ran in, followed by his wife.

‘Hi, Dad! Look at what Nanna gave us.'

They were both brandishing video games.

‘Hey! Fantastic, kids!'

‘Can we play with them now, Dad? Please?'

‘Yeah, go on, boys.'

And they bolted inside. He looked lazily at his wife, who was standing over him. She was a tall stooping woman, in a T-shirt and grubby cotton pants. Her temples were shaven and her short hair was dyed orange. She had a badge over one sagging breast: ‘Dead Men Don't Rape!' She peered at him shortsightedly.

‘God, Dave! Look at this front yard! I
asked
you to clean it up.'

‘Ah, sorry, babe. I had a bit of a snooze…'

‘And look at Leon, will you! Christ, Dave!'

The baby had rabbit shit smeared over its face. She snatched it up, wiped it with the edge of her T-shirt, and began suckling it.

‘And I didn't want the boys to start playing with those rotten games till we had at least had a discussion. They're so
violent,
those games. I couldn't stop Mum buying them—you know what she's like. Those boys—they're getting so—so
masculine
and you just don't help!'

She stamped her foot. The rabbits scattered.

Dave turned over onto his stomach. Watching his wife breastfeeding always turned him on and the sun was warming his groin. But this was not the time.

‘Yeah, well, sorry, babe. Listen, go and put the kettle on. I have to go to work soon.'

‘Oh, Dave!'

She turned and marched angrily into the house.

Dave stretched and looked at his watch. He sighed and got up. His size eleven working boots and socks were on the front verandah. Putting them on, he clumped into the house. Zaps and whistles came from the front room. He hesitated and went on. There was no time, but he just loved video games.

Going into the kitchen, he found his wife holding the baby with one hand and making the tea with the other. He held the pot for her while passing his hand over her buttocks. There was a big bulge in the front of his jeans.

‘Just piss off, Dave!'

She fended him off with the baby. It started to cry.

‘Now look at what you've done! And I've told you not to wear your working boots in the house. What time are you coming home, anyway?'

‘About six, I s'pose,' said Dave. ‘I thought I might go to the pub for a while.'

‘Don't you dare. This is Friday. You
know
I've got my course on Fridays. You'll have to feed the kids.'

‘Oh yeah, OK, what course is that? I forget.'

‘Assertiveness Training. Jesus, Dave, you
know
that. Boys! Boys! Turn that down!'

She bustled into the front room.

Dave followed, slowly sipping his tea. He heard cries of ‘Oh Mum!' as the video was stilled.

‘Now go outside and play.'

The boys clattered out. He found her looking suspiciously at an ashtray.

‘Who's been smoking?'

‘Ah yeah. Well, Carl was round…'

‘That wimpy little prick! What did he want? I'll never forgive him for what he did to poor Prue and that lovely little girl!'

‘Now, babe, it wasn't all Carl's fault. I mean, Prue
is
a lesbian.'

‘No wonder, and what's wrong with that, anyway?'

‘Oh right, honey, yeah, but listen! How about this!'