Scraps of Heaven (2 page)

‘He was once Mr bloody Australia, ya know,' says Al ruefully.

‘Course I know,' replies Josh.

Josh unchains the bike and sets out for the ride home. He stops by the fish and chip shop between Curtain and Fenwick streets. Nothing looks more pathetic than a fish and chip shop on a summer afternoon. Sweat seems to seep from the tiled walls. A lone customer slumps on the waiting bench. Josh observes Mrs Stellios at work. She holds a baby with one arm while, with her free hand, she lifts the net of chips and potato cakes from a vat of boiling oil. Her hair is tied up, bouffant style, like a medieval castle with interweaving turrets and domes.

Mrs Stellios lives upstairs with her husband and child. She unties her white apron as she ascends, and ties it back on when she returns. The stairs are the conduit between her private and public domains, a gauntlet laced with the rancid smell of fried oil and neglect. And she knows what Josh desires. She scoops up the leftover crusts of deep-fried batter, wraps them in newspaper and hands the parcel over with a weary smile. ‘Scraps of Heaven', the boys on the block call them, and as Josh makes his way home he tosses up the strips one by one and catches them, with a deft twist, in his open mouth.

Clouds are gathering, wads of greys lined with blacks. The late afternoon sun edges clear, and abruptly it is bright. Bloomfield sniffs the air and knows it will take another day for the storm to break out. He walks from the square into Canning Street. The sun shifts back under the clouds and out again, and spotlights the poplars on the median strip. Their leaves are massed in clusters that weigh upon the trees.

Bloomfield walks by the front gardens of attached homes. They are either well tended or matted with weeds. Others choke under slabs of concrete that have been poured to subdue the earth. The most common flower is the geranium. Their intensity of reds, mauves and pinks overwhelms him. It is a summer flower that consumes the sun like a hungry beast.

Bloomfield's eyes are raised towards the creases of his brow. His thinning hair is a fading black, combed back. There is a childlike naivety in his quizzical smile. He is like a rabbit caught and distracted in the glare of lights. His shoulders are raised in an unresolved shrug, and his neck and upper back have been so long tightened in the same mould, they have taken on a distinct posture, a permanent stance. His shabby suit is worn thin, his white shirt is clumsily tucked into pants which are held up by a belt tightened around his waist. And he moves with hasty steps. He is suspicious of passers-by, but breaks out into a half smile if someone familiar walks past.

The breeze has dropped, and the sun is now an amber blot veiled by clouds. There are times when it seems nothing will ever move, that the world has come to a halt. And this is how Bloomfield prefers it. All too soon the silence is broken by the squawk of a crow, the growl of the Rathdowne Street bus.

Bloomfield withdraws to a lane. The stones are littered with clumps of gum leaves that cover the moss and strangle the drains. A pile of abandoned carpets smells of cat piss and damp. Bloomfield feels hemmed in. He returns to the square and he is there, the old man, seated on the balcony of a two-storey terrace house. He dangles his amber
komboloy
, his worry beads, and slips them through his fingers with a steady beat. He is a constant in the daylight hours and lends serenity to the square. He nods as Bloomfield passes by.

The air is listless, the trees in the square are wilting. Even though it is only January, many leaves are on the cusp of decay. Only the Moreton Bay figs remain evergreen.There are twelve Moreton Bays. They rise beside a dirt path, six abreast on either side, but their leaves too are under assault. Spots of yellow have invaded the green. Discarded leaves and fermenting figs lie in clumps upon the earth.

Bloomfield settles back on his bench. He remains vigilant. He can sense the approach of someone without a sideways glance. That would give him away. He just waits and, if the stranger draws closer, he rises and leaves the bench. He averts his gaze, disengages, resumes his circling with his unresolved shrug, his hasty steps. Bloomfield is always ready to forestall any threat. The sun is on its descent as Josh approaches home, via many detours, from the Carlton baths
.
He skids to a halt on the corner of Fenwick and Amess. On the footpath, beside the gutter, opposite the door of the public bar, stands a horse trough. Harnessed to her cart, Fanny the draughthorse is drinking her fill. Her master, Weintraub the grocer, hurries through the swinging door into the bar. His chubby legs move fast. After all, a man who has spent a summer day delivering groceries also deserves a drink.

It is five-thirty, half an hour before closing time. The barmen labour to keep up with the demand. The drinkers are frantic; they swill their ales as if each sip may be their last. The pub rattles with the noise of high-pitched conversations and clinking glass. Weintraub works his way to the bar and orders a whisky, ‘neat'. He downs it with an ardour that adds crimson to his cheeks.

Weintraub's stomach is a bloated receptacle of a thousand herrings consumed on the run. A drinker's smile glows on his face. Under his arm he holds a copy of the
Tribune
, the communist newspaper, and it remains there since there is no room for it to unfold.

At six o'clock the pub doors fling open and the drinkers erupt from the bar. Weintraub departs with renewed zest. He clambers onto the high seat, releases the brake and with one tug of the reins, Fanny is away. Both man and beast are happy now, and Weintraub, the
heisser communist
—‘Beware of “hot communists”', Josh has been warned—is singing ‘The Internationale' under his laboured breath:

Arise ye workers from your slumbers,
Arise ye prisoners of want.
For reason in revolt now thunders,
And at last ends the age of cant.

The western skies are red as Fanny and Weintraub make their way home. He guides the horse into the lane that runs beside his Rathdowne Street shop, pulls up by the back gate, flings it open and urges Fanny inside. He releases the horse from her burden, leads her to the stable, wipes her down, fills her bag with oats.

The backyard smells of dry goods and manure. Weintraub unloads his cart, and rearranges his leftover stock. He heaves barrels of herring soaked in brine. He hauls boxes heavy with salamis, and bags fat with nuts. He refills Fanny's bag, strokes her muzzle and gives her one final pat. It is fully dark by the time he makes his way between a tangle of weeds and discarded crates to the back door, still humming the verses of his hymn to a Red God:

Until thieves will out with their booty
And give to all a happier lot
Each at the forge must do their duty
And we'll strike while the iron is hot.

They emerge from the dark passages of their houses, from the bosoms of their separate lives. The working week is almost over, Friday is a welcome night. Step back, adjust your eyes, and you will see them on their verandahs, or peering from the balconies of two-storey homes. Others are out on the pavements, beside front gates, where they sit on chairs or stools. The red tips of cigarettes describe lazy circles in the dark. The drone of radios emanates through open doors. The murmur of conversation rises and subsides. It is a relief to be outside veiled by the anonymity of a humid night.

Romek places a chair on the verandah. He is wearing a white singlet, leather sandals and khaki shorts. The shorts are baggy, but not long enough to cover his knees. His calves are hard, worn smooth and bone-white. Romek is a middle-aged man with a tight build. His biceps are firm, and his lower arm veins are blue tributaries that peter out into the palms. He glances at the patch of road where, just twelve hours earlier, he had gathered the manure.

The house is a one-storey terrace, bound by a cast-iron fence. A flight of four stone steps ascends from the gate to the verandah beside a tiny plot of earth. Two rosebushes lean against geraniums scattered between weeds and dirt. Moths whirl like deranged dancers around the streetlamp. From the pavement Romek looks like a skeleton, white and disjointed, dangling in the dark.

On the verandah next door sits Mr Bianchi. His wife Rosalba delivers a plate of biscotti and three glasses of wine. She places them on a card table by the patriarch's side. Bianchi's face is a mottled red; his white hair shows through the gaps in his unbuttoned shirt. He is a layer of bricks, a man of ageing muscle and bulk seated by his honoured guest, Valerio, his nephew, fresh from the boat. His unpacked suitcases can be glimpsed through the open door. Throughout the evening they arrive, Bianchi's two sons and their families, relatives and friends, to greet Valerio. The gathering waxes and wanes with the arrival and departure of guests. The lilt of their voices evaporates into the night.

On the verandah of the adjoining house sits Mr Sommers. His neighbours do not know his first name. He lives by himself, and keeps to himself. His hair is white, as is his moustache. He is as still as a Buddha. This is how he sits, night after summer night. Some say he fought in the Great War, others add that he was wounded on the battlefields of France, perhaps gassed, and that even now, four decades later, he suffers from its effects. As for Sommers, he just sits. And smokes. He pauses from time to time to refill his pipe. He pokes and prods the tobacco into a tight fit. He nods his head slightly in acknowledgment whenever someone walks by. When his pipe is well lit he settles back, wordless in the dark.

Next door, Miles Shanahan lounges on a weathered sofa, glass of beer in hand. The dimly lit passage is lined with books scattered over wooden shelves. Shanahan trucks freight interstate, and when he is home, between runs, he allows his body to sag.

‘Come and have a drink,' he calls, as Josh ambles by. He mixes a shandy for Josh, one dash of beer, four parts lemonade. ‘The working class is a sleeping dragon,' he says with an ironic smile. ‘And one day we are going to wake up and roar!' It is his peculiar form of greeting, the way he toasts his friends.

Somewhere inside, his pregnant wife is moving about. Merle Shanahan is a mysterious presence, a thin woman, pale and tightlipped. They are opposites, Merle and Miles, husband and wife. She flits in and out of view, barely visible under the single globe light. Her hair is blonde, her skin a sun-deprived white. He is black-haired, robust, his forearms and hands are sunburnt dark. She smells of stale perfume, and there are dark rings under her young eyes. She is a woman of interiors and he, a man of the road. They barely register each other's presence; and Josh can sense it— in Merle, a hint of fear and, in Shanahan, the faint tremors of a stifled rage.

Shanahan has a photographic memory. It is his party trick, and a source of great pride. He claims to be able to recite the opening page of his favoured books. The first time he invited Josh onto the verandah, he had taken him into the passage and pointed at the shelves: ‘These are my special books,' he had claimed, ‘the ones that are worth reading many times. Go ahead. Just pick any book from that shelf.'

Josh pulled out, at random,
The Call of the Wild.
‘Jack London's a great writer,' said Shanahan, ‘and a great traveller. Like me. From the cabin of a truck, you get a bird's eye view of the world. London writes about my own kind. He understands the working man. And he understood dogs. Open it up to the first page. I know exactly what's written there.' True to his word, Shanahan recites the opening lines:

Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego. Because men, groping in the Arctic darkness, had found a yellow metal, and because steamship and transportation companies were booming the find, thousands of men were rushing into the northland. These men wanted dogs, and the dogs they wanted were heavy dogs, with strong muscles by which to toil, and furry coats to protect them from the frost.

He had loaned the book to Josh, and now they sit, months later, side by side, and talk of wild beasts, snowbound lands, and a sledge dog called Buck who becomes leader of the wolf pack.

Shanahan pauses to roll a cigarette. Josh can smell the tobacco on Shanahan's breath. It clings to his fingers, along with the smell of diesel fuel and sweat. He spreads the tobacco along the paper, shapes and caresses it between his forefingers and thumbs. With one swipe he tongues the glue and seals the paper into a perfectly rounded cigarette. Shanahan holds up the final product, admires his handiwork, and lays it aside on the armrest before tidying the tobacco pouch. He lights a match, hands cupped to shield the flame from the breeze, and sucks at the cigarette until the smoke takes hold. He returns the pouch to his back pocket, stretches, yawns, and sits back.

‘This is a dog-eat-dog world,' he says after he draws his first full puff. He speaks slowly now. The ritual has calmed him. ‘Yes, it's a dog-eat-dog world, and you're a skinny runt. You need a bit of toughening up.'

Shanahan exhales, and his eyes follow the smoke as it dissipates. ‘Better to be the leader of the pack than a follower,' he says. ‘Take a leaf out of Buck's book. Come by tomorrow morning. It's time to put a bit of muscle on those bones. It's time to learn to fight.'

Zofia lights two candles and places them upon the mantelpiece. She sits by the kitchen table in the candle-lit dark. She does not wish to join Romek outside, but prefers to sit alone. Her elbows rest upon the tablecloth. She is no longer a believer, yet on Friday nights she still honours the arrival of the Sabbath bride.

But the voices persist. They rise from the gas pipes. They lurk in dark corners, in storm drains and within the kitchen walls. She hears them as mocking hisses that flow from the telegraph poles. She detects their echoes underfoot, in the cobwebbed foundations of the house. She sees them as cloud formations, dark forces about to cut loose; but tonight the voices are benign. The candles reduce them to a whisper, and the Yiddish song she has begun to hum keeps them at bay: