After a week, which I’m counting as a success because not only didn’t I lose anything, I found a T-shirt I lost two years ago, and it’s Saturday again. And although this morning’s footy didn’t go so well, Trav and I have made it back to his place, after playing a team with a coach so frightening he scared me into attacking the ball with absolutely no fear. And that was only after what he said to their guys about eating the oranges at half-time. The kid I was on was that worried about not getting a kick I let him have two.
‘If he thinks you’re not trying,’ this kid told me, ‘he not only tries to get you expelled, he goes to Mass and tells God you’re a bastard.’
That seems a bit harsh, even by private school standards. Compared to that I’d much prefer to go to a school full of those bad lady teachers who only want you to go around to their house if you’re lucky enough to get a double free period. Anyway, we lost by ten points, so that was that.
‘Even Tindale said that school sucks,’ Trav says, as we go through a stack of overdue DVDs we found in Dot’s bed. ‘And he ought’a know. He was the vice-principal for six years. So what’s the deal with Electra and the home visit?’
‘Movies tomorrow afternoon and then tea at my place.’ I try to smooth out teethmarks from a DVD cover, but it’s a lost cause; so into the After Hours Return pile it goes. ‘How come you’re not banned from the video store?’ I ask. ‘You guys wreck or lose just about everything you ever borrow.’
Trav heads toward the DVD with a disc that doesn’t seem too bad.
‘It’s not a problem.’ He stops to polish the disc on the carpet. ‘Hailey’s got a card. Anyway, we can have the beach house on the long weekend, if we like. All the old man said was that we’d have to catch the train down, and don’t invite anyone else. Whadda you reckon?’
I don’t hesitate. I love Trav’s beach house. It’s set in the trees, above the trees, and near the beach. Plus it has balconies, a terrace, two decks, and a bathing shed right on the sand that has featured in many of my storylines with girls, an approaching thunderstorm, and a big, soft couch.
‘Freakin’ excellent,’ I say. ‘I’m in.’
And that’s another good weekend sorted; although it’s a huge pity Electra and Hailey can’t come too, but even I know that would never happen.
Later, to get out of the house, Trav and I decide to take Dot to the park. But in the end we decide to go to Mikey’s place, to see how he’s getting on with the gallery, so we head for the railway station and get onto the next train to Hawthorn.
‘That’s the great thing about trains.’ Trav helps Dot to sit up on the window seat. ‘No rules. Like, in the old days you had to buy tickets and everything. And to take a dog on, you had to be either like blind or mental.’
Trav’s right; these days dogs travel free, and they seem to be quite popular with other passengers, especially one like Dot who likes to look out the window and bark at the people getting on. So we do the trip, hop off at Hawthorn, and walk up to Mikey’s, me carrying Dot’s rubber chicken because she always thinks she wants to bring it then drops it as soon as it’s too far to take home.
‘Well, there’s a dumpster.’ Trav points to a big yellow dinted metal bin outside Mikey’s place. ‘With a plank up it. And the front door’s open. So I presume he’s home.’
We go up the path and stop at the door. Somewhere out the back I can hear someone rummaging around, moving things.
‘Mikey!’ I yell into the house. ‘What’s happenin’? We’re at the front door!’
‘Where else would we be, tool?’ Travis says helpfully. ‘Coming down the chimney?’
Mikey comes out through the kitchen carrying a jar with paintbrushes in it. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and sleeveless overalls, and has smears of blue paint on his hands, and a blotch of it on his cheek. Seeing us, he stops, and points a finger.
‘Boys! Come in.’ He comes over, shaking our hands. ‘Nice to see you. I was just about to start singin’ the blues. You know, when the sun goes down over those trees over the bloody railway line there, there’s a colour in the sky that reminds me of good old Queensland. Now, your dog won’t widdle on the walls, will she?’
‘Nah.’ Trav looks at Dot, who’s wagging her tail, not that that means much. ‘Probably not. She just did one on the train so she’s probably out of gas.’
And that was a bit embarrassing, but as usual there was that much newspaper on the carriage floor we could’ve mopped up a spill from an oil tanker.
‘She’ll be right.’ Mikey shuts the door. ‘Pull up a paint can, men. And I’ll go put the kettle on.’
And that’s exactly what we do; we set up three big paint cans for seats, and while we wait for Mikey to come back, I look to see if I can spot this famous colour he was talking about, and I guess I can. The sky, now that the sun’s gone below the houses on the hill, is a fine silvery blue mixed with dusty orange, complete with some white birds flying through it. And it does have a kind of sad country and western feel to it.
‘That window nearly kills me.’ Mikey arrives with three mugs and half a packet of biscuits. ‘Still. It’s like the best picture I could hang there, if good art is supposed to have an emotional impact. But enough’s enough. Give a bloke a break.’ Mikey sits. ‘Anyway, guys. Cheers. Thanks for dropping in.’
Trav pushes Dot away from the biscuits. ‘Out of it, Dot. You had yours on the train. Anyway, Mikey,’ he adds, looking up, ‘what’s this place like that you come from again?’
Later, we head out into Mikey’s backyard to demolish part of an old shed for some firewood. Then we light a fire in the lounge, drag in some chairs, and eat two pizzas delivered from Carlo’s. Outside it’s dark, but in here it’s bright and warm. Mikey hauls out some magazines to show us the types of paintings he’d like to hang when the place is finished.
‘My mum buys a shitload of pictures.’ Trav studies a green and black painting that could be anything. ‘Some a bit like that even.’ This he says despite the magazine being upside down. ‘Whatever it is. She knows artists and the whole deal. You should talk to her.’
‘Yeah, that’d be great.’ Mikey tosses bits of shed onto the fire. ‘But the painters she knows might be a bit out of my league. I’m kind of looking for new people who might need me as much as I need them. As in, struggling.’
We sit and look at the fire. Fires are great; there should be more of them. They’re better than half the shows on TV – well, half the shows on free-to-air, anyway.
‘My brother, Brad,’ Mikey says, arms crossed, studying the flames, ‘he can really draw. But he gave it away. Soon as he finished school he never picked up a pencil again. It’s funny, isn’t it? How some people just decide not to do something they’re bloody good at. And that other people would like. For one reason or another.’
Trav waves away a moth away that has come in with the wood. I’m more worried about huntsmans or centipedes. They might not be able to fly, but they can cover a lot of territory, and they do it in silence.
‘Drawing’s not illegal in Queensland, is it?’ Trav says.
Mikey smiles and leans towards the fire, hands out. ‘All he said was that he was too busy. But there was more to it than that. There always is.’
‘You oughta tell him to come down here for a while,’ I say. ‘Hell, people draw on anything all the time. Trains, bridges, buildings, trees, trams. Do what you like. Go crazy.’
Mikey stokes the fire, impressing me with his style. Usually Trav and I go through a whole newspaper, a box of matches, and two hundred fire-lighters just to get one started, as Trav doesn’t believe in kindling. Once we had a fire purely of fire lighters. The flames were fantastic but the smell was overwhelming.
‘He wouldn’t come.’ Mikey’s face shines in the reflected firelight. ‘He hates the city. It’s too far to drive. Plus he doesn’t get much time off. You’d have more chance of landing him on the moon. So how’s Electra going, Marc? Didn’t you say she’s running next Saturday night?’
Right. I think we’ve seen where that conversation was definitely not going.
‘Yeah, she is. At Olympic Park.’ I’m already nervous about what might happen, but I wouldn’t miss it for a million bucks. ‘Evidently some really quick chick from Brisbane’s coming down. But Electra doesn’t like talking about it, so we don’t.’ I shrug. ‘It’s hard to explain.’
Trav gives Dot the pizza crusts, and throws the box into the fire, which may or may not count as recycling.
‘Marc’s taking her home to meet his folks tomorrow, Mikey.’ Trav wipes his hands on his jeans. ‘It’s the beginning of the end.’
Mikey gives my shoulder a gentle shake. ‘Or is it, Marc, just the end of the beginning?’
I watch the pizza box go up in flames, realising how good a guy Mikey really is; that he’s always on the look-out to try and keep people happy, even when I know he’s not always that happy himself.
‘Just as long as it’s not the end of the end,’ I say, something I probably should’ve kept in my head. ‘Everything’ll be fine.’
As we head home on the train, I look out over the dark suburbs. From here you can’t see the end of the city. From a tower in our park you can; you can see mountains and even paddocks, which is good because I like farms, and I like the idea that the city doesn’t go on forever. But Melbourne is big, and home must seem a long way off for Mikey and Electra, even if, as Trav said, it is only a phone call away.
When I think of Amelia-Anne, which I do every day, I also think of her parents and her brother and sister. They must think about her all the time. How could they not? If she’s still a big part of my life – hey, I’m 24, aren’t I? And I can picture her right down to the way the sun shone in her hair, and the kooky way she folded down her socks – I wonder how they can possibly fill the space she left in any way that allows them to get through the day, because sometimes thinking about her stops me dead in my tracks.
I guess they just do the best they can. That’s the truth of it; because the pain of losing people can simply go on forever, always changing, like a river, rising and falling, altering as the months go by, but never disappearing. Or that’s what I’m finding, and I’m only new to the thing.
‘Yeah, Mikey ought to ring.’ I watch Dot attempt to dig a hole in the train floor. ‘Shouldn’t he? I mean, one call. Make everyone a lot happier. What’s he got to lose?’
Trav leans back, feet up on the seat opposite, and stretches.
‘That’s what I reckon.’ He looks out into the dark. ‘I mean, really, takin’ off like that. Even I would leave a note. Perhaps you should ask him again, Jarvy? He might just need another hint.’
I remember the fall-out last time.
‘Ah, no. I don’t think so.’ It was like a slowly erupting volcano, and those things take a long time to cool down. ‘Hey, why don’t you ask him? You know him now. He’s also a friend of yours.’
Trav shakes his head, the darkness behind him pin-pricked by a thousand lights.
‘Not my style, bro. Let people make their own decisions.’ Trav pats Dot. ‘Still, there’s more than one way to skin a cat, eh, Dotty? You smart girl.’
Dot’s eyes give nothing away. She’s Trav’s dog, all right.