The Melbourne suburb of Clifton Hill stagnated a mere six kilometres north of the city centre. Unfortunately, it had missed the boat in the gentrification of the inner suburbs over the past 20 years. The wave of urban renewal first surged through Collingwood and Fitzroy, before continuing north to lap upon the shores of Brunswick and Northcote. The flood of new money washed away decades of residential blight, usurped the dank streets and alleys from the gangs and drug dealers, before transforming them with trendy new eateries, and sent the less talented graffiti artists packing. However, suburbs such as Clifton Hill, and its poor neighbour to the south, Abbotsford, failed to latch onto the rising tide of property values and the facelift bought with the influx of new money.
Hemmed in between the train line to its west and the Yarra River to its east, its narrow pot-holed streets lined with bluestone gutters remained frozen in time. Clifton Hill’s dilapidated post-war architecture appearing just as depressed and depressing as it had for over half a century.
I parked outside a small weatherboard house on Ramsden Street between a telephone pole leaning precariously towards the road and a century-old stringy bark. The bitumen footpath encircling the tree’s trunk had buckled over the years and begun to crumble away from its base. A positive sign the tall eucalypt, despite its surroundings, was determined to maintain some semblance of dignity. The listing telephone pole, tagged with Lang Rules in gothic script, surrendered years ago.
The house belonged to Dayne Wallingham, my closest friend since primary school. He’d lived here, on Ramsden Street, for the past two years. Although our lives had taken wildly divergent turns over the years, we’d remained close, and Dayne was the one true friend with whom I’d always be able to confide.
We met on the first day of school, both entering the fourth grade. Two spindly kids, each with mousy brown hair shorn on the back and sides to within a millimetre of its life and with a smattering of freckles across our cheeks. We were almost identical in appearance, but for the fact, he was a half a head shorter. It took a further ten years, but he eventually made up the difference.
Dayne and I sat side-by-side, seated in alphabetical order, in the back row. After the first week of class, our teacher allowed the class to change seats if we wished. Dayne and I never gave it a thought. I was shy, paid the utmost attention to every word our teacher, Ms Tracy, uttered and studied diligently. Dayne played the fool, asked a million off-the-wall questions, and always got the better grades. For some strange, inexplicable reason, like opposites attract, we became inseparable.
That was until the tenth grade, for Dayne was about to meet his match; Mr Caterpaul, our computer science teacher. A strange individual, in his mid-twenties, medium height and with a body shaped like a marshmallow. Mr Caterpaul also sported the most amazing moustache. He was no latter-day Pancho Villa, loath as he was to let it extend beyond the corners of his mouth. However, it grew so thickly; we swore it slowly began to force his nose further away from his top lip, like a river in flood widening its banks.
It was Dayne, of course, to first christen Mr Caterpaul with his new moniker – Mr Caterpillar. Each class, we sat on the edge of our seats whenever Dayne raised his hand to ask a question. One day, one slip of the nickname too many earned Dayne a backhander across the ears and a trip to the principal’s office. Mr Caterpaul received a written reprimand for the slap, and Dayne three day’s detention for refusing to apologise.
The punishments meted out should’ve ended the matter except Dayne, too stubborn by half, just couldn’t let it go. He already found the computer science class too pedestrian for his intellect and school, in general, a waste of his time. So, in his mind, what did he have to lose?
A week later, our lunchtime cricket match was interrupted by the arrival of a Victoria Police squad car parking on the bitumen adjacent to the teacher’s car park and within five metres of our wicketkeeper. Fifteen minutes later, as the end-of-lunch bell rang, the officers escorted Mr Caterpaul to the cruiser in handcuffs. I spotted Dayne standing in the breezeway between buildings, his arms crossed and a smug smile on his face.
Two days later I learnt the full range of Dayne’s advanced computer skills. Including, how to hack into a person’s social media profiles and arrange new interests, paedophilia being one. And, sadly, that for years Dayne was physically abused by his father.
He said he knew when the beatings were coming. His father like a pressure cooker building up steam, and Dayne the release valve. After an attack, there would be tears and apologies and heartfelt promises it would never happen again, but Dayne knew better. The physical scars quickly healed, the emotional scars were a different story. As a small child, he could do little to stop the beatings. Even coming to believe for a while they were somehow his fault. However, Dayne harboured no such illusions when another adult so much as laid a finger on him.
Dayne also learnt a few other valuable lessons later that same week; that tracing a computer’s IP address is a relatively simple process, and to avoid security cameras – especially when using the school library’s computer – at all costs.
And finally, that expulsion from school would set him free.
I jumped the small brick fence, as the wrought iron gate had rusted shut long ago and made my way along the path to the front door. The weeds in the front yard were close to half a metre high, the summer sun bleaching them the colour of straw. It’d lost the right to be called lawn around the same time as the gate gave out.
Dayne toyed with the idea of buying a goat to maintain order in the yard, but a neighbour got wind of the plan and threatened to involve the city council. He now relied upon a kindly old pensioner who lived across the road to mow the small strip once a month in exchange for unlimited technical help with his computer. Judging by the length of the weeds, the neighbour must have sold his computer.
Standing on the front veranda, under the curved corrugated iron roof, I noticed the once-white weatherboards were covered in a little less paint and a lot more rot than I recalled on previous visits. “Better to match the rusty roof,” would be the optimistic response from Dayne. Inside, the noise from a raucous and frenetic drum beat seeped through the boards. Knocking would be pointless so I tried the handle.
Three weeks to be exact. The new job was taking up a lot of my time and energy, and with Mum… well… Dayne slipped to a distant third on the rungs of importance in my life.
Yeah, sorry, mate. Got a lot on my mind with the new job and all.
No worries. Check this out. Skip was just playing us a tune from his homeland. Fuckin’ brilliant, isn’t it?
From the hallway, I’d a clear view into the lounge room which was more music studio than a typical home. An array of three Krug keyboards sat arranged in one corner, an old armchair losing its stuffing in another. Against the far wall, two Takamine guitars stood in their stands, one electric, the other acoustic. And several throw rugs, rescued from a St Vincent de Paul thrift store, were strewn haphazardly over the wooden floorboards.
Dayne sat on a small wooden stool by the keyboards, propped against his knee was another acoustic guitar. He’d pulled his shoulder-length brown hair back into a ponytail, cargo shorts and a faded Something For Kate concert T-shirt completed the outfit.
In the centre of the room stood Skip Patel, still dressed in his Harvey Norman uniform – sans tie. Skip, as he was affectionately known – for his given name contained 13 letters and was utterly unpronounceable – pounded away on an instrument I’d never seen before. With the effort of his drumming, the long fringe of his sleek black hair fell forward over his face, his coffee-coloured skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
Skip held two long, thin, sticks, one slightly thicker than the other and which curved at one end. The drum hanging from a strap looped over his shoulders was barrel shaped, though slightly wider in the middle than at each end. It was around 60 centimetres in length and with pigskin stretched tautly over both ends.
I stepped into the room as his performance came to an end.
It’s called a Dhol.
A what?
With the vibrato sound of the drum was still ringing in my ears, I hadn’t caught Skip’s words.
Skip was born in Australia but talked with the refined English tones of his parents, rather than the more guttural Australian accent. To their disgust, he spoke not a lick of their native Gujarati language.
Dayne was the first to answer.
I think so, but we have some working out to do.
Come on, man. I can totally pull this off.
Dayne ignored the pleading of Skip and turned back to face me.
The problem we have; Skip only knows two speeds on this thing. Flat out balls-to-the-wall, and off. He’s great on the up-tempo numbers, but bloody useless on ballads.
Ballads, who wants to hear ballads? We need to rock, man! Besides, I can always go back to the keyboards for the slower tunes.
Skip, as well as Dayne, was one of those rare individuals who could pick up any instrument and play it competently, to my disgust, with minimal practice. For as much as I loved music, mastering even the most basic of chords on a guitar was like learning Chinese arithmetic.
Dayne’s old band, Mattresses on Motorways, broke up a little over a month ago, when both the singer and rhythm guitar player, two accountants with Deloitte, transferred to Adelaide. Leaving Dayne, on lead guitar and occasional vocals, and Timmy Owens who played bass guitar, as the only remaining members of the Mattresses.
Timmy Owens was Dayne’s department manager at the Harvey Norman electronics store in Richmond. Married, with two young kids, he dreamt of living the rock star life but was forced to make do with the occasional mid-week gig at a pub that wasn’t too picky about who they booked.
Timmy was also responsible for bringing Skip into the fold. With the departure of the accountants to Adelaide, he wasn’t about to let his music dream drift away to the west with them. While interviewing applicants for an opening in his department, he noted the music background on Skip’s CV. A pedestrian discussion around computer system knowledge turned into a full-on music shop lovefest. Skip was provisionally offered a job on the spot, it being dependant on Dayne’s approval with him joining the band.
I smiled at the play on words.
Skip placed the Dhol on the floor and headed to the kitchen to fish around in the fridge for beers.
He returned with three beers, Boag’s Lager, and handed them around.
Thanks, Skip. Did you say, Getch?
Yeah, well her name is Annie, but we’ve dubbed her Getch. You know? Annie getch ya gun.
I see. Rodgers and Hammerstein. Clever, mate.
Skip piped up.
Dayne almost spat his beer out across the floor.
The Royal Melbourne Institute of Technology campus was a short walk from the city centre.
I don’t think working at the Aboriginal Art Shop qualifies you as indigenous.
Wait, wait. That’s what I asked her when we first met. And when you see her you’ll know why. Her skin is as white as pure driven snow. But she told me she could trace her ancestry back to the Gurindji tribe up past Katherine somewhere.
And you believed her?
Well, it worked well enough to get her a grant to study at RMIT. So, who am I to judge?
We all three nodded our heads. I couldn’t help but agree.
Skip finished his beer and said it was time to hit the road. He faced a long bus ride to Moonee Ponds where he lived with his parents.
With beer bottle to his mouth, Dayne waved at Skip’s retreat.
I spoke for the both us.
Dayne wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and placed the bottle on the floor by his feet.
Speaking of work. How’s the wonderful world of banking going? Made your first million yet?
Oh, yeah. I’m just rolling in the dough. Can’t you tell by the new set of wheels out front?
Peering out the window, he saw the Beast parked forlornly by the kerb.
Jesus, Craig! They let you drive in Toorak with that thing? I’m surprised you haven’t been ticketed for lowering property values.
Just let ’em try.
Yeah, you’d probably avoid a ticket, because if they pulled you over and got too close to that bucket of bolts they’d probably decide to shoot it and put it out of its misery.
Am I going to have to put you on probation again?
Dayne laughed.
Sorry, mate. Sorry. So, is the job going okay?
Ah, I don’t know. I’ve gotten over the part where my brain just won’t shut down, and where banking terms bounce around in my head all night long. They said a light bulb would eventually come on, and it would all begin to make sense, but I think I received a dud bulb. It doesn’t help that the banker I work for is a real prick. He’s more interested in making money than taking the time to teach me anything. Which, I guess, I can’t blame him. Some days I just sit in the parking lot wondering what I’m doing.
Having finished my beer, I ambled to kitchen for another. I’d make this the last. I still needed to get to the hospice to see Mum before visiting hours were over. I felt guilty enough having first detoured to visit Dayne. But I needed to talk, and more importantly, I needed someone who could answer.
Dayne leant forward and picked up his beer bottle from the floor.
Dayne didn’t speak much of his “other outside interests”. He’d let slip on a few occasions he did a little outside consulting work for some freelance computer types. I read into his vagueness “hacking” but didn’t want to dig too deep. I’d seen the complex computer set-up assembled in his bedroom. It’d put many high-tech security firms to shame. But if he wanted me to know, he’d tell me. We’d been friends for so long; the occasional secret wasn’t anything to worry either one of us.
I drank off the last half of the bottle and tossed it into the near-full bottle bin in the kitchen.
Dayne rose and walked with me to the front door.
We stood outside on his cramped front veranda, Dayne leaning against the door jamb, and I distractedly peeling paint from one of his weatherboards.
Yeah, you’re right.
So, you’ll be there on Friday night? At the Yarra?
Dayne was performing a short solo set before the night’s main act. The 30 minutes he spent on the cramped stage paid virtually nothing, but for him, it was 30 minutes of pure unadulterated bliss.
What? Watch you sing covers and dodge insults from the drunk locals? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.
Just so as they only hurl bloody insults, it’ll be grand.
I smiled and shook my head. Dayne, forever the optimist.
Later, Dayne. See ya when I see ya.
Not if I see you first.
Our old goodbye brought a smile to my face as I headed back down the path, between the weeds, to the Beast.
The sun hung low in the western sky, a giant orb hovering just above the lip of the horizon. I turned the key in the ignition and felt a sudden blast of warm air from the vents. I waited for the air to cool and remembered an Augie March classic which was one of my dad’s favourites. They sang of a sun that didn’t set but settled. I realised it described perfectly where my life presently lay, I was just settling. Stagnant. At the whim of life. Blindly accepting whatever happened to come my way. I pulled away from the kerb and tried to recall the rest of the lyrics, hoping they’d provide some much-needed inspiration.
At the intersection of Hoddle and Johnston Streets, waiting to make a left-hand turn, the lyrics sprung forth from some distant corner of my mind. Words beautiful in their simplicity yet which cut to the bone. They spoke of a time and a place which could never be returned to, no matter how hard you wished it to be so.
So much for inspiration.
***
Good evening, Craig.
Evening, Mrs M.
Walking through the front doors of the Sisters of Mercy, leaving behind the refreshing eucalypt and gardenia scented front gardens, was an assault on the senses. No amount of chlorine disinfectant and deodorising spray could ever hope to dispel the ever-present smell of human waste and lingering death. Though, now, as a regular visitor, I managed to keep my facial features under control.
I stopped for a moment at the front desk and chatted with Mum’s old friend, the forever perky Mrs Morris.
Your mother is looking well today. I popped down to see her before I started my shift. Enjoy your visit.
Thanks, Mrs M.
The hallways were quiet at this time of night. With my work hours continuing to grow, I’d unfortunately been arriving later and later each evening. And tonight, I was even later than usual. The few patients still able to roam the halls were safely tucked away under their covers. And late enough for the more raucous dementia parents to be silent. Each alone and adrift in their drug-induced dream world.
In a small, perverse, way I was glad Mum wasn’t displaying the same symptoms afflicting many of the others. Their haunting cries of anguish echoing through the hallways torturous to endure. It made her appear less tormented, more in command of her reality, but ultimately, I knew it was merely for my spoilt edification. Still, even in her relative silence, I wondered what went through her mind when one of her rare lucid moments occurred, and the actual horror of her plight struck deep like a dagger to the heart.
Mother’s new roommate, an elderly lady with terminal cancer, was asleep once again. The poor dear lay on her back, mouth wide open, making a faint whistling sound. Her skin was the colour of ash, almost translucent. It appeared so thin and vulnerable that with the slightest touch it would tear and peel away from her bones. Judy informed me the amount of pain-killing medication administered kept her blissfully unconscious the majority of the day. Unfortunately, this situation couldn’t last forever. At some point, the pain would surpass the maximum dosage available, and then everyone involved would be praying for a swift end.
I wondered if my mother faced the same future. I’d never asked her doctor; of how it would end. As if by burying my head in the sand I could infinitely delay the inevitable. It was pure selfishness on my part – a weakness even – clinging desperately to the status quo, but someone or something was going to have to make the first move. I pushed aside those thoughts as best I could, and continued on into her room.
She lay facing the window. The last rays of the sun gone leaving the golden elm in the courtyard to fade into the shadows. I stepped around to the other side of her bed and noticed her eyes closed. I thought it strange her sleeping this early in the evening, but her medication often left her extremely groggy. I leant over the bed and gently shook her shoulder.
Gradually, her faded blue eyes opened and fixed on my face. Not an inkling of recognition. Her mouth agape and her chest rising and falling ever so slightly, I could tell she was attempting to dispel the fog within and to orient herself to her surroundings. My heart wanted to explode with the helplessness I felt for her, and selfishly, for myself.
I was in no mood to regurgitate the commandments of banking bestowed upon me the day before by Eric. Nor, the ugly dismissal of Meredith. So, I filled the next hour with news of Dayne’s upcoming solo show, and the travails of his yet to be unveiled, new band.
Mum remained silent throughout. Her eyes focussing on me for short bursts, then return to roaming about the room.
I also let her know Judy would be accompanying me on Friday night. I thought I detected a spark of delight in her eyes, but it was probably just a trick of the fluorescent lighting.
It was nearing 10:30 and Mum’s eyes began to droop. I rose from the soft vinyl chair by her bedside and kissed her on the forehead goodnight. I’d browbeaten her enough for one night with my inane stories.
In the hallway, I noticed Judy leaving another room with towels and a bedpan in hand.
I’d snuck up to within a few metres, my shoes making little noise on the linoleum floor.
I couldn’t help but laugh as she struggled to contain the sloshing contents of the bedpan.
How was your mum tonight?
Okay. Good, I guess. She was in one of her silent moods. She seemed really fatigued, I found it hard to keep her awake. Must have been my thrilling stories.
The last word uttered appeared tinged of sadness which was unlike Judy.
Judy looked around in all directions. For somewhere to place the bedpan? For somewhere to hide? I couldn’t tell.
I shouldn’t. Umm… You really should speak with your mother’s doctor.
Judy! Come on; you’re talking to me.
I could tell Judy was struggling with her inner-voice. The nurse’s aide who wanted to maintain her professionalism in an arm wrestle with the sweet young woman who’d become a close friend.
She raised the bedpan in my direction.
A cool breeze rustled the limbs of the red-gum trees overhead. Traffic was light on Studley Park Road, just the occasional whoosh of a passing car filtered through to break the silence.
I leant against the rear tailgate of the Beast, hands thrust deep in pockets, wondering what Judy was reluctant to tell. Breathing deeply of the fresh air helped to clear my nasal passages of the hospice’s cloying smell. And to keep my anxieties to a manageable level.
While gazing above at the stars filtering through the branches and trying to keep the worst of my fears at bay, Judy crossed the parking lot and stood a few metres to my side.
So, how bad is it?
Well, you know I do everything I can for your mother.
Judy. Just tell me, okay. You don’t have to sugar-coat it. I know the end can’t be too far away. At this point…
At this point, what? Was I ready to give up on my only surviving family member? After more than three years of a struggle destined to only get progressively worse, the only possible outcome death, was I ready for that?
At this point… I don’t know what’s best for her anymore.
Hey, don’t talk like that. Not while she’s still fighting. But, Craig, she is getting weaker. It should be Doctor Jacobs telling you this, but we needed to up the level of her medication.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The change in treatment wasn’t a new development, I’d become accustomed to these over the past six months. Diagnosed with a rare vascular dementia, the medication prescribed helped to prevent blood clotting and promote blood flow, particularly to the brain. The restriction in blood flow being the cause of her first symptoms of forgetfulness.
Okay, well, that’s not great, but they’ve made adjustments for her previously.
Yes… But, Craig. She’s now at the limit of both dosage and frequency.
Meaning what?
Judy stepped closer, I could smell the lemon scent of her perfume she used liberally to mask the odour of the hospice. She steeled herself before speaking by focusing on my shoes, then let it all out in one quick burst.
Judy fell silent, looked skyward and breathed deeply of the fresh air; well aware I knew the implications.
So how much longer? A year? Months?
Doctor Jacobs thinks it’ll be more like… A month, at most, I’m so sorry.
Judy moved forward, closing the remaining distance between us, put her arms around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. I would have cried, but after years of overuse I’d lost the ability. For three years I’d re-lived the same scene. My mother tied to the tracks in a bad 1920s film, with no hope of escape, no hope of rescue. And the oncoming train steaming forever closer in agonisingly slow-motion.
Judy disentangled herself from our embrace and was wiping tears from her eyes.
You sure you’re okay?
No, but yes, if that makes sense. It’s not like I didn’t know this day would come. It’s comforting to know she has such caring people here – you – looking after her.
I dug deep and worked up a smile. I hoped it looked more natural than it felt.
The way she asked so sheepishly, couldn’t help but broaden my smile.
Of course, we are.
Good. I’m really looking forward to it. And it’ll be good for you too. To get away from… You know… Things.
I managed to keep the smile on my face through the small peck on the cheek and until she hurried back inside the hospice.
Driving home, I slipped into the disc player a CD by The Whitlams, and the wistful vocals of Tim Friedman bemoaning the loss of a close friend. Whenever I played the song, I associated it with my father. It brought back memories both bitter and sweet, but memories nonetheless. Tonight, his memory was bumped aside for someone closer. Someone who’s ordeal would soon be over.
The end of a life. The end of my family. With three years to prepare for this impending moment, you’d think I’d be ready.
But I wasn’t even close.