Death in Brunswick (7 page)

‘Yeah, don't worry, Mick, just put the props in and I'll have a spell.'

The afternoon passed peacefully. By four, the grave was at Dave's eye level. He was going carefully now. He shoved the probe down. At six inches it met a slight resistance. There was a wooden thud.

‘Hey, Mick, nearly there, mate, you better do the rest. I'm too heavy.'

He heaved himself out with one push of his big arms. Mick got into the hole, groaning, and scraped away at the remaining clay, throwing it out with practised flicks of his shovel, keeping his feet carefully at each side of the narrow grave shaft.

‘Yeah, you too heavy for this job, Dave. You might put your foot in something you don't want!' The old man sniggered—a dank, heavy odour rose. ‘You smell that? That old body water, you know?'

‘Yeah, I know, Mick, get on with it.'

Soon Mick's shovel scraped the top of the coffin. He cleared it carefully. It was black and split. Mick prised at a crack. He could see wet, tattered, greyish cloth.

‘Not much left of this one, I don't think. You want to see? Just be bones.'

‘Get out of there, you old ghoul. I thought you had some respect for the dead.' He helped the old man out. ‘You think we better take the props out, Mick?'

‘No, might rain tonight. We just cover up box.'

They threw a thin layer of gravel over the coffin and packed up the tools.

They started to walk slowly back down the hill.

‘You take the tools back to the shed and then you better go and hide for an hour, Mick. I'll go and have a word to Bluey.'

Mick took the barrow and bore off to the left, towards the shed built in the pretty leafy section where the Chinese were buried. There, a tiny lacquer red temple gleamed through dwarf willows. In it was a stone where devout Orientals burnt fake money for their relatives' use on the other side. Dave's workmates thought the custom barbarous and funny, but Dave, seeing the extravagance of European funerals, wasn't so sure. He often wondered what a Chinese-Australian heaven was like.
Great dim sims no doubt.
What an odd interesting place the cemetery was.
Bugger June—I'll stay here as long as I can.

*

He trod back toward the front gate, plodding down and up the hills. He was a little weary.
You need a fucking motorbike in this place.
His limp was worse. He stopped for a while and massaged his knee. The weather had changed suddenly in the Melbourne way; it was becoming cloudy. The breeze had become chill; it whined around his ears, thin and bitter. Nearby a fallen-down bluestone chapel, commemorating a long-forgotten pioneer, loomed against the grey sky. Beyond was the Jewish section.
I bet that's where old Mick hangs out like a cobwebby old Transylvanian bat!
He trudged on, smiling.

He heard a radio and, coming round a great old vault, came upon two groundsmen. They were pulling up weeds in a desultory way and listening to the races. They were all that was left of the twelve gardeners that had worked here in the fifties. The decline and fall of a graveyard.

‘Hi ya, Clarrie! Hi, Arthur!'

‘How ya goin', Dave? Finished, have ya? Coming down the pub after?'

‘No, I can't…Well yeah, all right, just for a couple.'

‘Jeez, that was easy mate! OK, we'll see you down the shed at five. You seen Bluey? He's pissed out of his mind.'

‘Yeah,' said Dave, frowning. ‘I'm going up there now. He better not be on a bender—we've got a funeral tomorrow. See you after.' And he walked on.

Soon he was threading his way through the small area of low sandstone vaults behind the caretaker's cottage. Bluey came around the corner and stood swaying against the back wall, pissing onto a marble slab. The yellow stream flowed over ‘In Loving Memory of Councillor Joseph O'Donnell. Mayor of Essendon 1933–1935. Died 1941.
RIP'.

The caretaker was clutching a bottle of rum.

‘Jesus! Bluey, get inside before someone sees you. The boss is right on to you.'

‘Ah, fuck 'em all anyway, the pox-ridden cunts. Let 'em arse me. I've had this fuckin' place.'

‘Well, put your dick away at least. Ah, Blue, what
are
we going to do with you? You know we've got a funeral tomorrow. You'll be ratshit. Here, come on.'

Dave took him by the arm and steered him round the corner and into the cottage.

‘Here, Blue, come and lie down.'

He supported the caretaker into his bedroom. Dirty clothes and empty cans littered the floor, grey sheets were twisted on a camp bed and there was a sharp feral odour. Bluey threw off Dave's arm and glared at him, his eyes unfocused.

‘Fuck you, Dave. Who are you pushing round? Here six months and he's the
gun,
the fuckin' gun grave-digger. Piss off and leave me alone.'

‘Now look here, Blue, where's your spare set of keys? You're fucked, mate. I'll have to lock up tonight and open up in the morning.'

Bluey slumped onto his bed.

‘Ah, I do feel crook,' he groaned. ‘Yeah, all right. Good old Dave, you're a fuckin' beauty, just like somebody's mum. Where's me other keys? In the drawer in the office. Where's me Tom Thumb?'

Dave picked up the bottle.

‘There you go. Hang on, give me a go.' Dave took a swig. ‘Jesus! Bluey, that would kill a dog!'

‘Great stuff it is, good for ya.'

Bluey drank deeply, retched and fell back, his eyes closed and his mouth open. Dave hesitated.
He'll chunder in his sleep and choke—silly old cunt. Fuck him anyway.

*

Dave got the set of keys and walked down to the shed to sign off. The two groundsmen were there already and he could see Mick slowly approaching, past the Chinese temple.

‘Here he is!' shouted Clarrie, ‘The hardest worker in the graveyard game. His productivity astounds me. He digs like a
mole
!'

‘An old mole,' put in Arthur.

Clarrie and Arthur were in high spirits, it being Friday.

‘Where did ya hide today, Mick? In the ladies dunny? Pullin' your old dong. I tell you, Dave, he's a fuckin' old desperate!'

‘You fuck off,' said Mick. ‘I do plenty work, you wait till you get old.'

‘Old as you! Jesus, I hope they put me down…'

Dave cut in.

‘You coming to the pub, Mick?'

‘No, no,' cried Clarrie. ‘Last time he molested the barmaid. He's a fuckin' terror, I told you!'

‘Shut up, Clarrie. You coming, Mick?'

‘No, no thank you, Dave, you good boy, not like this shit.'

‘Now, now, Mick. Don't take any notice of them. What's the time? Ten to five. Right! Good enough. I'm fucking off now, I don't know about you guys.'

They signed off and walked up to the cottage.

‘Hang on boys, I'll just have a look at Bluey.'

Dave went in to the office. He heard loud, rattling snores. Looking into the bedroom he saw the ginger-haired sot lying flat on the floor, his mouth open. There was an overpowering stink of rum and vomit.

‘Jesus,' he said, escaping into the open air. ‘Bluey's right out of it. Go on, I'll lock up.'

They went through the gate and Dave fetched his car, drove it out and locked the gates.

‘Get in, I'll drive you down the pub. Sure you won't come, Mick?'

‘No, Dave, no. Bluey really drunk, huh? Silly man.'

‘Can't stand a man who can't control himself,' said Arthur, virtuously. ‘That Bluey'll bring us all undone.'

‘You no talk,' said Mick, ‘you drink all the time, lunchtime, smoko, you bad as him!'

‘Ah, piss off, you silly old cunt.'

Mick, not answering, mounted his old bike and pedalled away with dignity, an ancient Gladstone bag balanced on the handlebars, his knees stuck out at right angles.

‘Why don't you lay off him,' said Dave, annoyed. ‘He's all right, the poor old bugger.'

‘Ahh!' said Clarrie, ‘He's a fuckin' old know-all. Always whingeing, fuckin' reffo. Still at least he's not a
slope.
St Kilda's all slopes now, except the leadin' hand and he's some sort of boong. Come on, let's have a beer. Me tongue's hangin' out!'

*

The pub was not too crowded. The drink-driving laws had largely stopped the after-work swill. They sat down in a quiet corner and drank the first pots in silence. Dave bought the first round.

‘This'll be it for me,' he said. “I got to get home and feed the kids. The wife'll go crook if I'm late.'

‘That woman's got you by the balls,' said Clarrie. ‘If my missus said fuckin' boo to
me
after the pub she'd get the biggest backhander you ever saw.'

‘Yeah?' Dave grunted.

Jesus, imagine hitting June! She'd belt me back and then be off to a woman's refuge like a rocket. Could I hit her? No, Jesus! I suppose I'm not really working class, not like these blokes anyway.

‘What was wrong with the boss today, Dave? He's a bit shitty on you. You been
revolting
again, you fuckin' commo.' Clarrie winked at Arthur.

‘Ahh! Fuck him,' said Dave. ‘He wants me to go for leading hand and work full-time. I told him to stick it.'

‘Jesus, Dave, I wish he'd fuckin' ask me. I been there five years and I'm still a Grade Two. What's wrong with you, Dave, is you got no
ambition.
He went to fuckin' uni, you know, Arthur.'

‘Yeah, is that right? What was you doin', Dave?'

‘Medicine,' said Dave shortly. ‘I dropped out halfway.'

‘You must have been fuckin' mad. Jesus, you'd be on what? Five hundred a week now, silly bugger.'

‘Listen, Dave,' said Clarrie, ‘you want to take that leading hand job, otherwise we'll probably get some wog.'

‘Yeah, well, I got to go now,' said Dave, standing abruptly. ‘See you Tuesday.'

‘All right Dave. See you, mate.'

Dave left. He sat in his car for a while waiting for the traffic to ease. How he hated them talking like that! Their racism, their brutality, sickened him sometimes. They were like stupid dinosaurs. Was that his beloved working class? No, they weren't all like that.
Anyway, whatever I chose, I'm happy anyway.

He started the car with an angry twist of the key and drove home.

*

The boys greeted him with enthusiasm.

‘Hey, Dad! Did you bury many stiffs today?'

‘One or two. You fed the rabbits yet? Come on, it's nearly teatime. Where's your mum?'

June was in the bathroom, washing the baby. He kissed her.

‘You
did
go to the pub, Dave. Jesus!'

‘Ah, now babe, I got home early, didn't I? What's for tea?'

‘You'll have to heat it up. It's wholemeal spinach flan.'

‘Jesus! Will the kids cop that?'

‘They better,' she said, swirling the water vigorously round the baby. ‘They've been driving me mad today with that video. Why
did
you ever buy it?'

‘Junie, what would you do if I gave you a backhander?'

‘What! Now stop your silly jokes, Dave. Go and start tea. I'm late.'

Dave went into the kitchen. The flan was on a bench. It looked like a green-brown cowpat.
Still, it could be worse.
At one stage June had made them eat brown rice and seaweed till the boys rebelled. Dave used to take them on secret trips to McDonald's. He still felt a little guilty about that.

He put the loathsome object in the oven and filled a pot with potatoes. Surreptitiously he tipped in two tablespoons of salt. June caught him.

‘Dave! You change that water straight away. I don't want you dying of high blood pressure and leaving me to bring up three boys on my own.'

Dave changed the water.

‘Now,' she said, ‘I've put a bottle in the fridge. Give Leon a feed at seven and don't let the boys stay up late.'

‘Yeah, OK, Junie. See you soon.'

She bustled out.

After tea, Dave slumped into his favourite armchair and read the paper—the
Age—fucking capitalist press.
He was always meaning to cancel it. The baby lay on his chest sucking its bottle in a sleepy way. The boys were playing their video games again, but with the sound muted. The stereo played softly—Paul Desmond.

The baby finished its bottle.

‘Hey, kids, take this to the kitchen and bring me a beer. Good boys.'

He drank from the can, occasionally giving the baby a sip. He was tired and his leg ached. Soon he fell into a light doze. The baby slept, its soft head under his chin. The boys were reading quietly: battle comics, strictly forbidden. Dave woke sometimes, savouring the peace.

At eight forty-five, his eldest son tugged at his arm.

‘We're goin' to bed now, Dad. You better put Leon in his cot, otherwise Mum'll kill ya.'

‘Yeah, OK, kids,' Dave mumbled. ‘Good boys.'

He slept on…

‘Dave! What
are
you doing?' June had returned.

‘Give me that baby! Honestly, Dave, you're always either asleep or making a mess!'

She snatched the baby. It had wet his T-shirt.

‘Oh well. Yeah. Sorry, babe.'

He went back to sleep.

‘You coming to bed, Dave?'

‘In a minute, hon.'

He slept on, the TV flickering blankly. After midnight sometime the phone rang. Dave woke with a start.

Jesus! Who's ringing at this hour? Shit. The baby'll wake up and June…

He lurched to his feet, stumbled to the phone and lifted the receiver. He could hear a strange panting noise like an animal. Then:

‘Dave! Dave! You there, Dave?'

‘Yeah. Who the fuck is this?'

The voice was unrecognizable.

‘Dave! Come quick.'

It was Carl.

TWO

As Carl left Dave's street, he looked at his watch. It was only twelve. He was surprised at how early it was, then he remembered that his mother had woken him at nine. He wasn't used to getting up before eleven.