The first city of Sydney was in Canada, named in 1785 after First Viscount Sydney. Three years later they named another city after him in New South Wales. Never mind that the man called himself Sydney because of an ancestor whose actual name was Sidney. Sydney’s real name was Townsend, which might have done equally well for our city by the harbour.
Around the end of 1980 I took the trip north. I wanted to go and see Debbie because I knew how terribly remiss I’d been. And I was appalled to think how long it was since I’d seen Kitty. The plane got in late and I ended up with a single room at the Koala Motor Inn. For the life of me I couldn’t think of anywhere else to stay. These days, someone would just look it up on a computer but back then everyone relied on their street knowhow.
Originally I thought I’d stay at Kitty’s but when I got to her door I found she’d moved. It felt strange to think that for years I’d held an image of her flash apartment in Elizabeth Bay with the view of the harbour and yet all the time she was living somewhere else. I pressed her buzzer around 9 p.m. but the new tenant didn’t even know her, let alone where she might be.
That’s when I went to the Koala Motor Inn. From my room I could see right across the rooftops to where I’d just been, to where Kitty used to live. In one direction I could see the Harbour Bridge and streams of head-lights. In another the fluorescents of offices, the flicker of TV blue in apartment windows and shops with neon lights pulsing. One of those fruit bats flew right past the window.
I tried to imagine where Kitty might be, somewhere out there within that view, in another apartment watching TV or sitting in a restaurant with some man. At midnight I looked out again. No doubt she’d be asleep by then, out there somewhere among the apartments and offices, exhausted after a long working day right at the top of her professional tree. Things might not have worked out for me but at least Kitty proved it was possible. Education might be important, but Kitty showed it wasn’t the only way forward. Hope for all of us.
The next day I went out to Debbie’s in Cronulla. But she’d moved as well. I should have known; she was always on the move, I don’t think she ever quite knew where she wanted to be. Right then I began to feel stupid for not keeping in contact and for being away so long. At least the new owners knew where she now lived; they’d kept her address to forward the mail. She was in Beach Street, Clovelly. I went there and found she’d moved again - around the corner into Clovelly Road.
I found her street number and went through the gate. I really didn’t expect her to be home, knowing how she always hated being cooped up, but there she was coming out the front door. She had a big black Labrador on a lead.
‘Jacko!’ she said. ‘What a lovely surprise.’ We put our arms around each other and she planted a big lipstick kiss on my cheek.
‘Just taking Winston for a walk, want to come?’ Suddenly we were heading towards the park.
‘See that old bloke?’ she said as we crossed the street. ‘That’s Bryan Gillies. He used to be a signwriter like you. I asked him once if he knew you - or Jeff Burgess - but he didn’t.’
Aunty Debbie was as trim as ever and still fit - I had a job keeping up with her. She still had the blonde hair but now it was short and tied with a leopard print scarf.
I thought about my old signwriting boss. ‘I guess Jeff must have died ages ago,’ I said. ‘He was old when I knew him.’
Aunty Debbie tugged the dog away from the nature strip. ‘It’s such a pity he never got to come out. That generation just never had the chance.’
‘Come out?’
‘Yeah, you know, Jack, tell the world he was gay.’
‘What? What do you mean? He was married.’
‘So what? What’s that got to do with it?’
I found myself right back there with my boss, working around each other in the signwriting shed or bumping along in his Toyota Hi Ace, Jeff forking pickled mussels right out of a the jar. ‘Want one?’ he’d say. But I hated them, warm from the truck’s interior. Such a kind man, I always thought of him as thoughtful and introspective, but not for a second did that other business cross my mind. I wish I’d known.
Suddenly Debbie said, ‘You still into the meaning of the life?’
I looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t you remember? You were always going on about the universe and extra-terrestrials - all that stuff about planets and stars.’
We marched on and I tried to recall a single moment when those subjects had come up. Kitty hated that kind of talk. ‘Away with the fairies,’ she said.
‘Kitty’s moved,’ I said at last.
‘Yes, somewhere in Paddington. Last I heard she was having a bit of trouble meeting her bills. This ‘economic downturn’ as they call it. Recession more like it. Petrol’s soaring, everyone’s getting rid of their V8s and going for Datsuns and little Corollas. Have you noticed?’
‘What happened to your Cadillac?’ I said.
‘Ha, you remember that! Conked out one day way out on the Pacific Highway, so I sold it.’ She seemed to study the grass as we walked. ‘I wonder where it ended up?’
‘What have you got now?’
‘Nothing. I’m not working now. Can’t afford a car the way things are.’
‘People say we might not recover from this recession; it’ll just keep getting worse.’
‘Nah, we’ll get over it. It’s just a social pulse, Jacko, pure and simple.’
‘Have you got Kitty’s new address?’
‘No, I haven’t. Not since she moved. I’ve got a phone number but no address. I tried to look her up in the phonebook but there was no listing for a K. Smythe. You don’t suppose she’s married?’
‘No, not a chance,’ I said. ‘If she was even thinking about it she’d have contacted us. What about an address for her work? She’s moved offices as well.’
‘Has she? I wonder when. I think I last spoke to her in January. Yes, it was not long after Christmas. She never mentioned moving offices. Maybe it’s just happened.’
‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep phoning and get her soon enough.’ It was 1980 and of course mobiles weren’t invented then. No doubt things would have evolved very differently if we’d had them.
Debbie and I turned and walked across the cricket field. Two boys were tossing what looked like a flying saucer. Later I learned it was a ‘Frisbee’; they’d just been invented.
‘Mum said you’ve been sick.’
‘Did she? Oh boy, never tell a lie, it always comes back to bite you. She wanted me to come down and visit her, meet some bloke she’s got. I told her I couldn’t travel.’
‘What is it between you and Mum? I mean I never really knew who she was but you must have grown up with her.’
‘Who knows. We’re just chalk and cheese. A black sheep and a white sheep - though I’m not sure which is which. Just because you’re born into the same family doesn’t mean you have to like each other.’
I thought about me and Kitty. For us it was exactly the opposite.
‘You still doing the Tarot?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘Gave that up years ago. I think I just got tired of it.’ We crossed another footpath. ‘Still got the cards though.’
‘With your persona in them?’ We glanced at each other and she smiled.
Winston cinched the lead, squatted and dropped a large turd on the grass. Without hesitation Debbie pulled out a plastic bag, snatched it up and tied it off. She swung the bag as we walked along. She didn’t look like she’d fallen off a wharf. She asked me about my legs and I said they were fine, which wasn’t exactly the truth. Even then they sometimes gave me hell.
We veered past a council bin and Debbie dropped in the plastic bag. ‘It’s time the council started coming down on people with dogs,’ she said. ‘Sometimes this park is a mine-field of dogshit. Only times it disappears is when the lawn mower smashes it to powder. Imagine that in the atmosphere.’
Suddenly she said, ‘How old are you now?’
For a minute I didn’t want to say, then I realised she was twenty years older than me.
‘Forty,’ I said. ‘My fortieth was two months ago.’
‘I’m sixty,’ she said, ‘an awful age. When you’re in your fifties you still feel as if there’s plenty of time. But when you turn sixty you really start to feel the social stigma; you can’t help it. The papers, the TV, the government, everyone seems to have a fixed idea about what sixty and over means - whatever it is. We all think about retiring age of course, but it’s more than that. People judge you. They don’t mean to, but even when they say how young you look it’s a backhander; they mean for your age.’
As she spoke I was preparing to say, You look good for sixty, Deb. Instead, I said, ‘We just want to be younger.’
‘Ain’t that the truth. People don’t dye their hair for nothing. Ask Heather.’
We detoured around a huge fallen limb.
‘We broke up last year,’ I said.
‘So I heard.’
‘I didn’t want to mind you. I mean, I tried everything …’
‘Don’t feel bad, Jack. The fact is, relationships just run their course. People don’t seem to get that. It’s only in recent times that we’ve developed this idea of permanence. Permanent love and permanent partners. It’s a false social custom built on a false idea: that people stay the same. Very unnatural. Even family love doesn’t necessarily hold.’
‘Except for me and Kitty.’
‘Not saying it never works, just that there’s no norm. Nothing’s typical. People can marry out of blinding love, but it won’t make a scrap of difference to what happens in the future.’
That night I thought about Debbie at sixty and her take on aging. I decided that she was part of the problem; we all are. How old are you, she asked me. How old. Not how young or even what age. Of course, we set that train in motion from the moment a child can talk. ‘How old are you now?’ we ask, the implication being that older is best. Until you reach my age of course, and then it’s reversed. Somewhere in the middle ‘old’ switches over; it changes sides. ‘Old’ - such a grubby little goblin of a word. It comes creeping in at night and hides under the bed. One morning you wake and there it is, curled up beside you forever and ever.
For two weeks in a row I managed to avoid the art therapy group in the common room. Unfortunately I happened to mention to Dell that I was once a signwriter and suddenly I found myself roped into some ticketwriting: ‘First Work 2002‘, ‘ Best in Show‘, ‘ Most Improved‘ and ‘ Oldest Resident‘. I could have done those cards in my room but of course Jean Stinson gave the orders: ‘No paint jars in the rooms’, so this afternoon I was obliged to attend ‘art group’. Quite funny if it wasn’t so tragic. Poor old Joe trying to paint a picture with his nose almost touching the paper. Dooley with his big clumsy hands trying to glue confetti onto a cigarette pack, Clem trying to glue his onto a tennis ball. The supervisor doesn’t seem to care what they do - a carer from the other wing. I think her name is Townsend.
Skeleton Joe kept working at his bit of paper for half an hour and then nurse Townsend whipped it out from under his face and pinned it on the board. Poor Joe had no idea where it went. He looked around as if there’d been a change in dimensions.
‘Stuff this,’ I said and wheeled over to the pin board and pointed out Joe’s work to him. ‘Up here, Joe,’ I said. ‘There’s your painting. Not bad, eh?’ The poor old bugger didn’t even seem to recognise it. Patricia in the wheelchair gave me a look; I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
Yesterday I cut Joe’s hair. I’d have mentioned it earlier but I wanted to write about the trip to Sydney while the thoughts came to me. When I agreed to do his hair, permission was granted to use one of the bathrooms and also the plastic chairs they use in the shower. Joe sat there silently, his poor spine bent double - I shaved his neck, no trouble at all.
‘How would you like it, Joe? Short back and sides? An Elvis trim? Beatles cut?’
‘Beatles, I think,’ he said, his voice so thin I nearly didn’t hear it. Like the wind through a roof rack. I realised it was the first time I’d heard him speak.
‘Beatles? Aren’t you a bit old for that?’ He must be ninety at least, born circa 1910. Would have been in his late fifties when the Beatles came in.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Just an ordinary one then.’
To be honest, I can’t think why I agreed to cut his hair. Why can’t they bring in a barber? I know they have someone doing the women’s. I think I decided to cut his hair just ‘to keep my hand in’ as they say. I’m really not interested in getting mixed up with all these old people. I hope they leave me alone now. Though I must admit when I saw old Joe at Art Group his head certainly looked a lot better. Then they jerked his picture right out from under his nose while he was still holding the brush and the poor old bugger thought someone had switched channels.
I was also very angry when I got back to my room. Chris had been to visit but I did not see him! Why didn’t he come to the art room? He must have walked in and walked out and no personal items delivered. Instead, he left me a note and a little green plant in a blue ceramic pot.
What’s the good of that? The note: Dear Dad, sorry I missed you. Brought you this to remind you of the mysteries of life and that life goes on. Love Chris.
What the hell is that supposed to mean? The boy is as barmy as some of those in here. I was about to throw the pot out the window when the call came for dinner.
Of course I arrived in a foul mood.
Jim says, ‘What did you make of the art class, Jack? Good signs you made. And good to see you help Joe with his art.’
I glare at him. ‘I didn’t help him. I just wanted to see if he recognised his own picture, that’s all. You didn’t recognise it, did you Joe?’
‘What picture?’
‘The landscape,’ says Dooley. ‘The Arthur Streeton.’
‘Arthur who?’ says Joe. Ivan makes a grab for the paper serviette tucked in Joe’s shirt. He nicks it and Joe doesn’t even notice.
Clem looks up and raises a finger. ‘I did a … I did a … what did I do?’ Everyone ignores him.
I decide to set the record straight. I lean in.
‘To tell you the truth, Jim, I think that art therapy group is a load of bullshit.’ I notice that Osborne has overheard me. She gives me the filthiest look.
‘Why is that, Jack?’ says Jim.
‘Because there’s not a soul here, male or female, who could paint a picture of the moon if someone drew them a circle. Because every single thing that is ever made in that room will be put out on bin night with all the other rubbish.’
Pistol Pete leans forward. ‘Yes, that’s true’ he says, ‘but did you see the tits on that teacher?’
‘Are you eating or talking?’ says big bully Osborne.
‘Talking,’ says Clem.
Dooley announces to the room, ‘When I had the pub a famous artist used to come in every Friday night and I always gave him a free beer.’
‘Cheers!’ says Clem.
‘You’re full of shit, Dooley,’ I say.
‘What?’ Dooley looks affronted. ‘What the hell would you know about it?’
‘I don’t suppose it was Picasso by any chance, or Leonardo da Vinci?’
‘I never knew his name. Great artists keep their names quiet. Otherwise they never get a moment’s peace.’
‘Now that’s a subject I understand,’ I tell him.
After dinner I follow Jim down the passage toward our rooms. He goes very slowly and every now and then I give him a gentle nudge with my own chair. ‘Thanks,’ he says, as if I’m helping him along. Near our doors he says, ‘You know that Dooley never owned a pub?’
‘Dooley?’
‘Yes. He was a bartender, that’s all. And only part-time at that.’
‘I should have guessed … Who told you that?’
‘Jan Osborne.’
‘Osborne? Are you on friendly terms with that old cow?’
‘No, not really. She’s a piece of work alright. In fact I think she told me just to put Dooley in his place.’
‘In that case, he’s still a publican as far as I’m concerned,’ I say.
‘I agree.’
When he turns into his door he says, ‘Big week, next week. I’m to be blessed with a visit from my granddaughter.’
‘Lucky you,’ I say. ‘Make sure you are in your room when she comes or she’ll think you’re not home and do a runner.’
‘To tell you the truth, I wish she wasn’t coming.’
‘We don’t need it,’ I say. I look past him into his room. There’s a bedside lamp on and through the door I catch a glimpse of his bed and three or four framed photos hanging above it. The frames cast eerie shadows up the wall.
‘Problem is, she’s a hard case, that girl. Piercings, tattoos and a real nasty streak. Sixteen years of age and the last time I saw her she told me to get fucked.’
‘The young of today, Jim. What’s it all coming to? Why is she bothering to visit?’
‘Court order,’ he says.
Then he tells me that his granddaughter got herself into a bit of hot water by breaking into someone’s house.
Some old lady’s weatherboard, and she caught the girl rummaging through her pantry, apparently looking for a hidden jar of cash. In her haste to escape, the girl knocked the old lady to the floor and fractured her hip. A part of the judicial order is that the girl should complete a certain number of hours doing voluntary work in a nursing home. Her mother, without any thought for Jim at all, dobbed her in for Eden. It’s logical, of course - the right place to do penance is in this hellhole.
‘Stay cool, Dad,’ Chris says. What am I, a fucking refrigerator?
The plant Chris left is a ‘Venus Flytrap’. The label says its name is ‘Jaws’. It doesn’t get more original than that. Also Dionaea muscipula. Latin, of course, the last part relating to either (a) musca a fly or (b) musculus a muscle. (Oxford p. 664.) Interestingly, both interpretations relate. I feel it may be more to do with a muscle because of the plant’s remarkable ability to snap its flowers shut. A gentle touch springs the trap at a speed which appears to be approaching one eighth of a second. (Calculated by halving, i.e. one half of a second is clearly visible to the naked eye, one quarter is also detectable. Halve it again and it roughly matches the speed of the flower. In other words, the movement can be noticed but not actually ‘seen’. So therefore one-eighth.
The question is how does it (a) trigger the movement, and (b) move so fast? As to the action itself, I cannot see how the plant could actually have a ‘muscle’ which is an anatomical feature belonging to the animal kingdom. Therefore it must develop a certain internal tension which is suddenly released. But what causes the release? Can the plant feel? It would need a nervous system. It is a pity we do not have a library here. Or at least a set of encyclopaedias.
Yesterday Jim pointed out that John Lennon and Ringo Starr were both born the same year I was, 1940. And Lennon was murdered the same year I went to Sydney to see Deb and Kitty. That great musician was on his way home to his apartment in New York with his wife Yoko Ono. He went straight home because he wanted to see his little son. Outside his building a man by the name of Mark Chapman stepped out of the shadows and without hesitation put four bullets into him. That same man had stopped John Lennon earlier in the day to ask for his autograph which the latter very generously gave. Life is a very unpredictable condition.
Though when I was in Sydney the shooting hadn’t actually happened - it was very late in the year whereas I was there, I think, in June. Debbie and I went back to her place and again I tried to ring Kitty. She didn’t even have an answering machine. Then Debbie made us some dinner. Across the table I could see that after thirty years Deb was still the same as ever - there was no crazy wallpaper, orange vinyl couches or purple lampshades, but inside that sixty-year-old woman there was the same ‘rocker’ I knew from the old days. Her furniture was polished wood now, Persian rugs and downlights. And the little turntable she once owned was replaced by a state-of-the-art surround sound stereo.
‘What music do you like now, Deb?’
‘Mixed,’ she said. ‘Bowie, Lou Reed, Bruce Springsteen … But the scene is all different now, don’t you think? When you lived here there was an “in” style and an “out” style. Now we’ve got hundreds of styles. From Blondie to Kenny Rogers to AC/DC. What we have now is new music to suit every taste and every age group.’ She served up slices of banana cake that she’d made herself. I’d never known her to bake anything.
‘Well, there’s a lot of money in it now, Deb. Even Kitty is creaming off her share of the profits.’
‘It’s an industry now, Jacko. Bigger than mining, they say.’
I left around nine after trying Kitty’s number again and headed back to the motel. Walking down Oxford Street I passed a movie theatre and they were showing The Shining with Jack Nicholson. I didn’t feel like going back to the motel so I just walked in. It turned out to be one of those movies you never forget; it leaves a permanent mark on you like a childhood scar. It was not a movie to see alone and afterwards I came out onto the street feeling edgy and paranoid. Back at the Koala Motor Inn I never felt so lonely in my life. Forty years old and alone in a town that had gone on without me, Deb in another realm, no marriage, no kids and I had a sister who could not be found. I wanted Kitty’s company more than anything but she had completely disappeared. Why had I left it so long?
Here’s a turn-up. Lisa phones and says, ‘Want to come to the museum? On Sunday?’
‘What about the Science Museum?’
‘The boys want the ordinary museum, Dad.’
‘They have a Planetarium at the Science Museum.’
‘Joseph has a job at the other one,’ she says. ‘He wants Trent to see where he works.’
So on Sunday Lisa turns up out front in her four-wheel drive with two adolescents in the back. I have no idea where Carlos is and I get the feeling I am supposed to have a bonding session with my grandsons. Joe is the older boy, I think about twenty, and he’s a volunteer at the Melbourne Museum which is something to do with his university course. Lisa tells us in the car that he can get us all in for free. I point out that as an invalid pensioner I get in for free anyway. The younger boy, Trent, is around seventeen and about to undertake an Engineering course at RMIT. In my estimation he is not the brightest lad in the world. In fact I do not think he has uttered a sensible word since puberty. Both boys offer a vague hello as I try to get myself into the car. Lisa takes the wheelchair back inside.
‘Hey, where’re you going with that?’ I yell.
‘Just relax, Dad,’ she yells back.
I can see why Jim is not looking forward to seeing his granddaughter later today.
‘They got chairs at the museum, Grandad,’ Joe says.
I hate ‘grandad’. Sounds like one of the inmates.
We take off into the traffic and Lisa does a left-hand swerve into Maribyrnong Road. The number of cars on the road is unbelievable; all blocked up and as far as the eye can see.
‘There must be an accident,’ Lisa says, though I can’t see one. We get about a hundred yards and the traffic comes to a complete standstill. I decide to risk a conversation.
‘What are you doing at the museum, Joe?’
‘Don’t call him Joe, Dad. He prefers Joseph.’ I sense Joe squirm in the back seat.
‘Now I’m doing Collections and Curatorial. Before that I was in the Discovery Centre. They wanted me to do that first to get a bit of experience. I help with the research and management of the collection.’
‘Ever seen an animal getting stuffed?’ I ask. Young Trent wets himself laughing. Of course it’s a legitimate question. ‘You know,’ I say, ‘the taxidermy.’
‘I have seen it,’ says Joe, ‘but you’d be surprised how little they do now. Most of the work in the natural sciences is collecting, preserving, storing, documenting …’
Trent says, ‘Ever stuffed a dead animal yourself, Joseph?’
Joe ignores him.
‘The weirdest thing I ever saw,’ Joe says to me, ‘is the dissection of a whale. It washed up near Wilson’s Prom and was on the beach ten days putrefying in the sun.’
‘Was it a hump back?’ says Trent. ‘They stuff pretty good, don’t they?’
‘That’s enough!’ says Lisa, jerking along in the traffic jam.
‘It was a Beaked Whale as a matter of fact,’ his brother says. ‘Quite rare. They got it into the museum and then it was slit open for tests to see what it died of. The worst smell you could ever imagine. Rotting flesh, guts and yellow slime everywhere. We all had to wear rubber gloves, rain jackets and waders. But even with a mask on you could hardly breathe for the putrefying, sloppy, disgusting, slimy gore …’
‘I think we get the message,’ says Lisa.
Trent leans forward. ‘Didn’t we have some of that with chips for dinner last night?’ Lisa ignores him. At least he seems to be engaging with us. He once went a whole year without speaking to an adult.
We finally get to the museum. I refuse to alight until a wheelchair is delivered. But Lisa points out she has parked next to a low fence and I will at least have to take a few steps. When the wheelchair arrives I do as I’m told and my legs hold up very well, I am pleased to say.
We get through the glass doors and Lisa says, ‘Do you want to go to the toilet, Dad?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Do you?’
Trent has wandered off and we have to wait until he comes back. The next thing I know I’m pushed through the crowd and parked under a 40-foot whale skeleton.
‘Imagine scraping the meat off those bones,’ says Trent.
I’m wheeled to a ramp.
‘Do they have a section to do with Quantum Mechanics?’ I say, but Lisa doesn’t seem to hear. After a few minutes of hustle and bustle I find myself at the Phar Lap display. Now we’re talking! That magnificent horse in a glass case is a sight to behold - what a champion! As a three-year-old, the only race he didn’t win was his last one in Australia, the Melbourne Cup. Because he had tried so hard in every race and won again and again, the officials decided to put an unprecedented weight on him, more than any other horse had ever endured. Other famous winners of the race had carried 58 kilos but that year Phar Lap had to bear a colossal 68 kilos! Of course he couldn’t sustain the pace over the course of two miles.
With that bit of absurdity, the owners decided to take him to America where he would not have to endure the crippling handicap weights. He was entered in the most important race of the year and still he had to carry the top weight and went into the field with little preparation and an injured hoof. But somehow that mighty stallion managed to overcome all the odds. He not only won the race but outclassed the best American horses in the country - and in track record time. Of course the industry got him in the end. Two weeks later he collapsed and died of a mystery illness.
There’s an important lesson in all that. Stick your neck out, win by a length, but they’ll burn you in the end. You can be the best in the country, have all the intestinal fortitude in the world, but you cannot overcome the opposing forces. Like John Lennon: shot down by a man who could not even think why he did it. And also like what happened to me and Kitty.
Joe and Trent charged around the museum from room to room like cats let loose. Hard to imagine they’re almost adults. Lisa tried to stay by my side, pleading that I should look at other things. But the Phar Lap display with the movie reels and the memorabilia was plenty for me. Lisa didn’t seem to notice the symbolism in it all, missed the whole point of the display. She’d choof off and every now and then return to find me just sitting with the great horse that was eventually eliminated from the race - forever.
On the way back in the car the boys were punching each other in the back seat. I decide to do a little test.
‘What was the most interesting thing you saw, Trent?’
‘Where?’ he says.
‘At the museum.’
He thinks for a minute. ‘That would be the chick at reception,’ he says laughing.
Lisa crisps up. ‘Would you mind answering your grandfather in a respectful way?’
‘I don’t want a respectful answer,’ I say. ‘I just want to know what he liked in the museum.’
Trent sobers. ‘The spears,’ he says. ‘I liked the wooden spears on the ground floor.’
‘What did you like about them?’
He looks out the window. ‘I don’t know. They’re pointy, I guess.’ He cracks up laughing.
What a waste.
Have just witnessed the strangest event. The big boss head Matron Collier has just appeared outside my window. She dragged a huge plastic pot to the wall opposite and began filling it with bags of potting mix. What on earth is she doing?
Perhaps I should describe what the staff very generously call our ‘courtyard’. It is a strip of concrete about 3 metres wide and about 20 metres long running past some of the rooms, including mine. Anywhere else it would be called an easement or a setback from the boundary - flanked by a concrete wall about three metres high so no-one can escape.
Collier gets down on her big fat knees and rams that potting mix into the pot like a pile-driver. Then she goes away and comes back with a shrub of some kind and plants it in the tub. She pours in a bucket of water. Then she just stands back, hands on hips and stares at it for a long time. Don’t tell me she has a grain of care in her? So now we have a single green shrub growing in our ‘courtyard’. What an amazing transformation! With a bit of luck a shaft of sunlight might land on it around midday and the whole grey area will turn into a rainforest.
Also Jim’s granddaughter has just left and I see exactly what he means. It was pure accident that I should meet her. I stuck up my Phar Lap poster and then I thought I might trundle outside for a fag to see what the hell it was that Collier has planted. The sun was at last shining and Jim was out there in his wheelchair with the girl standing nearby having a smoke. She was slumped against the concrete wall, hair under a kind of beanie and what looked like skin-tight black jeans inside black boots up to her knees. I was about to turn around when Jim saw me and called me over to join them. I hesitated but then I could see there was no way out of it. The girl didn’t look at me and even when introduced she just puffed on her smoke, barely giving me a glance. Jim introduced her as Fiona, a name I quite liked. Lisa might easily have been Fiona. Then came the bombshell.
‘But Fiona spells her name differently, Jack: p-h-e-o-n-a.’
Pheona; can you believe it? Tell me what’s going on with that? Tell me what difference it makes in normal conversation. The only difference is that she must spend her entire life spelling her name for every form, certificate and application that officials insist on filling out. The girl must have caught the look on my face.
‘But you can use Phe, if you like,’ she says. ‘Easier to get your mind around.’
‘That’s enough, Pheona,’ says Jim. ‘Remember where you are.’
‘In a loony bin?’ she says.
I don’t waste any more time.
‘See you later, Jim,’ I say. ‘Good luck!’
I cannot remember what I did on that second day in Sydney. I recall that I decided not to bother Debbie two days in a row, but that is all. I must have slept in, walked around and probably bought some lunch. I never eat properly when I travel. Sometimes I think I might sit down at a restaurant and order a proper meal but after peering in the window of a few places I end up buying some rubbish on the street. I always assume that the takeaway I choose will be good. Then I buy it - French fries, a hamburger or a chicken roll - and it’s greasy and salty and sits in your stomach like a trowel of wet cement. The idea is always much better than the fact of it. I think it’s because the takeaway we had in the sixties was much better. In those days we’d die for a piece of fish and minimum chips wrapped up in a sheet of newspaper. Tear a hole in the end of that package and pull out real chips, cut thick with a knife.
That second night in Sydney I think I just got some more takeaway. Then I walked up Oxford Street towards the movie theatre again. I must have gone quite a few blocks; I had no idea what I was going to do. Suddenly I caught sight of a red light over a door on the other side of the street. I knew exactly what that red light meant. I stood there and stared at it for quite a while and then without thinking I crossed the street towards it - to this day I don’t know why. I had never been near a brothel in my life (at that time they were called massage parlours). Of course, I was feeling very low; the trip had been a big let-down, I had not found Kitty, I’d spent money than I could not afford and soon I’d be going home again, empty-handed, to nothing more remarkable than the Ceswick Hotel.
Going to a brothel is not on my radar. Yet that night, down in the dumps, I also felt strangely foolhardy - I was anonymous, far from home and if I could waste money on a futile trip why not splash the rest of it, do the job properly? And I was curious - maybe I could learn something. What happens? What would the sex be like? I conjured an image of some beautiful girl showering me with love and attention, no questions asked. Like in the movies.
I walked up to the door expecting to walk straight in. It was locked. I pressed the buzzer. I began to feel very uncomfortable standing on the street under a red light. People passed but I turned my back. Then I was aware of a presence on the other side of the spy hole. The door opened and a moment later I was standing in a very dark passageway. The woman called me ‘Love’ and ushered me through to a waiting room, much like a family lounge.
‘Wait here, Love,’ she said, and then she was gone.
The room smelled of stale perfume and deodoriser. It was lit by a couple of red scented candles and gradually my eyes got used to the dark. I saw a couch and sat down feeling nervous and rather stupid. What did I think I was doing? Why was I here? Did I really want to take my clothes off in front of a stranger and expect her to have sex with me? How should we do it? Should I ask or would she suggest? What if my penis refused to rise? Minutes passed. Sitting there in the half dark I started to think about all the others who sat exactly where I was sitting and each one expecting sex from the same woman I would soon meet. Suddenly I stood up and made for the door.
Just then, right in the doorway, a young woman appeared out of the darkness wearing what seemed like next to nothing. I tried to see her in the half light. She was short, rounded and seemed to be wearing an alarming amount of makeup. I could not see her eyes at all, just two dark recesses in a pale face.
‘Hi, I’m Cassandra,’ she said and put out her hand.
‘Hello,’ I said. Her hand was limp, cool and clammy. Was this the one chosen for me? Suddenly she just turned around and left! Was I to follow? I was just making up my mind when in walked a second woman. She was around thirty, taller than me and wearing what seemed to be a transparent negligee over a red or maroon bra.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Deedee, is there anything special you want?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘No, nothing really.’ She just stood there in the half dark.
‘Well I do most things,’ she said, ‘and I kiss on the mouth for a bit extra.’ She gave me a big smile and left. Almost immediately a third woman came into the room.
At last I understood what was happening - I was to meet all the girls and then I was to make a choice. The third woman had what appeared to be a huge mass of bright red hair, not naturally red but neon red which was obviously a wig.
‘Hello,’ she said, ‘I’m Kylie.’ I took her cold hand for a brief second.
‘Hello,’ I replied. Then she turned quickly and left.
When she first entered I thought she seemed a little nicer than the others and I felt she’d be the one I’d choose - if I was going to stay. But up close she didn’t seem friendly at all and her eyes seemed to glare at me, disdainfully. With that, I completely lost my nerve, went into the passage, out through the front door and down the steps.
I breathed the night air deeply. For the life of me I could not imagine why I had chosen to go there. The dark look of that last woman, those accusing eyes. I walked up the street and her cold stare stayed with me. And yet if I’d had the nerve I knew she’d be the one I’d choose. For all her sudden indifference I somehow felt she was my type; the right height and the right build. The right look.
Suddenly I stopped dead. My heart froze, and then almost as suddenly it began pounding wildly. My body went cold and my legs felt weak under me, I felt my hands trembling. Sweat appeared on my skin. No! It couldn’t be. No! It was impossible! I began to breathe deeply. I felt nauseous. No! It was impossible, I told myself. That woman. That young woman. Something about her …
I started to walk and felt the weakness in my legs, the dizziness. Could I get back to the hotel? The more I marched the more I saw the woman’s face. Take off the wig, what have you got? Kitty? It could not be Kitty! But she turned. She turned so quickly and left. Had she recognised me in the half dark? It was totally absurd and I told myself so out loud: Get a grip, I said, snap out of it. I looked up and realised I had no idea where I was going. I glanced around disoriented. There was nothing familiar; it felt like a confused dream. Then I remembered that earlier I’d crossed the street which meant I was walking in the wrong direction.
What was her name … Kylie? It starts with a K. Same number of letters as ‘Kitty’. Ridiculous! What on earth had that to do with it? It definitely wouldn’t be Kitty.
By the time I got to Forbes Street I felt sure it was her - or someone so like her it was worth going back. How did I know; what had I recognised? I had not seen anything clearly. A presence, a gesture, a slight tone in the voice - that look. I passed a grocery shop with flowers out the front. On impulse I bought a bunch - I had no idea why or what they were - and then I headed back up the street. Out the front I looked up at the red light and stopped dead. What on earth was I doing? Kitty? Ridiculous! I threw the flowers into a dark recess near the steps. I turned away. But for the life of me I couldn’t leave. I turned again to face the door. I was about to become the biggest fool in history, but I had to know; I had to know whatever the cost. And what did it matter? Men were going in there and making fools of themselves every night. I stepped up and pressed the buzzer again.
Another interruption from Jim! ‘What do you want?’ I say, almost shouting.
‘Sorry young fellow,’ he says. ‘Saw your light on and thought you must have watched the fishing show.’ I had forgotten all about it. I am so absorbed in getting my story on paper I have forgotten everything else. I have even forgotten how cold this room is. They still haven’t fixed my heater. The technician came in yesterday, took one look at it, gave it a couple of taps and left. Haven’t seen him since.
‘I’m trying to write,’ I tell Jim, sternly. I need him to get the message.
‘Of course, of course,’ he says.
‘What did you want?’
‘It can wait, it can wait,’ he says.
‘Get it out, man,’ I say. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘No problem. I was just wondering if I could take a look at those rods of yours. I’m not a fisherman, mind, but watching that Rex Hunt character … I just wondered what it might feel like to hold a fibreglass rod with a bit of weight on it.’
‘Well you’re out of luck, Jim. I haven’t got them yet. Lisa keeps saying she’ll bring my gear over but not a rod, hook or float has appeared this side of the door.’
Jim looks dejected. ‘Oh, OK then,’ he says. ‘Maybe another time,’ and he turns his wheelchair towards the opening.
‘Hang on, hang on. How come you like the idea of fishing but have never held a rod? Are you saying you haven’t fished since birth, or only since you went into parliament?’
‘Forever,’ he says. He looks at me with those little eyes, his wet eyelids hanging red and droopy like one of those dogs.
‘Come in and shut the door,’ I say.
He trundles in and closes the door quietly behind him. I put down my pen and turn my own wheelchair to face him.
‘You like the races,’ he says, spying my Phar Lap poster.
‘That horse died in 1932, Jim.’
He studies the picture.
‘Just thought you might have been a racing man. You know, a …’
‘I put my first bet on a horse when I was a teenager. Haven’t lost a cent since because that was my last bet as well.’
‘I’ve never been to the races,’ he says.
‘What did you do as a kid?’
‘It was a time before you were born, Jack. Things were different then. You couldn’t just go off to the races or fishing or gallivanting all over the country. I had certain responsibilities, things that young Pheona wouldn’t even dream of.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I took care of my responsibilities.’
‘What kind of responsibilities.’
‘Well, study for a start. These days kids hardly know what study is. Back then we had to learn and I’m talking weekends as well as nights - Latin, languages, everything.’
‘Well, it got you a good job I suppose, Jim.’
‘A good job, but I never had a go at fishing.’
‘What about you father? Surely he …’
‘My father wasn’t around.’
‘That’s funny, mine wasn’t either,’ I say.
Jim looks at me. ‘You had a nanny too?’
‘A nanny? No I didn’t have an “anything”. I just had a sister and we up and left home. We just walked out and hit the road.’
‘You couldn’t hit the road in my day. You did exactly what you were told, nothing more, nothing less.’
He gazes solemnly at the wall. I stare at him and I swear I’m looking at the saddest man in the universe. The right time to switch subjects.
‘You still getting the treatment?’ I ask.
‘Treatment?’
‘Yeah, the acid baths.’
He gives a wry grin. ‘No, I think our objections paid off.’
‘More likely the novelty wore off and now they’re dreaming up some other way to persecute the brave.’
‘What did you think of Pheona?’ he asks.
‘A bit of work alright. Not the kind of girl you’d introduce to the Queen.’
‘I should warn you; she’s back on Friday afternoon. You better make yourself scarce.’
I remembered Rex Hunt.
‘What were they catching?’ I ask.
‘Big silver things about two feet long. Out of the Caribbean.’
‘Probably mackerel,’ I say.
Jim opens my door and wheels his chair into the passage. It suddenly occurs to me that he must have an awful time trying to get himself into bed.
‘You … Everything alright in there, Jim? In your room?’
‘Good as can be expected,’ he says. ‘Cold in your room.’
‘Tell me about it.’
So now I’ve recorded the episode and I should get some shuteye myself. Too late to continue with Kitty. I need my beauty sleep.
Pistol Pete asked for a haircut. Of course I flatly refused. Do they think I run a fucking barber shop? He tells me that one of his ‘many girlfriends’ is coming to see him. In truth, I cannot see any woman being attracted to someone like that: a wheelchair-bound man in his sixties with one arm and leg hanging limp as a rag. I am certain a haircut will do very little to help and I have to get on with my story which takes all of my time. I feel sorry for the others in here who have absolutely nothing to do. Just sitting around all day, most of them confined to the bed or to wheelchairs, staring at the TV or out of the wet window pane.
July already. The coldest month of the year and my room is like Alaska. I expect a polar bear to cross the floor any minute covered in snow. Why won’t they come and fix my fucking heater? Luckily I have the woollen gloves Lisa gave me. In a lifetime I would never have believed I’d need them. I have been complying with all the requests. I shave. I watch my language. I try to be courteous. I keep my door open. I rarely smoke in my room. I pass up my washing and pay for it, apart from the occasional socks and undies which I can do on the quiet in the hand basin.
Monday morning and I am finding it hard to write my story. Went outside for a smoke. The shrub Collier has planted is a ‘gardenia’, though it hasn’t a single bloom. The gardenia of Eden. Has a nice ring to it. Now all we need is an apple tree, a snake and a wrathful God ready to pounce. I had two smokes as I am feeling very low.
I turned up at breakfast this morning without my tablets. Had to go back to my room to get them and got back just in time to see Clem spill a whole bowl of cornflakes down the front of himself. Then he pulled the tablecloth to his lap and upset cups of tea, the toast rack, other people’s breakfasts. Poor old Jim got a burnt hand. The vase fell and broke my cup. Why in God’s name do they put that thin and ugly vase there in the first place? With a single plastic rose. Of course it was eventually all cleaned up but the upshot was that I got little else for breakfast than my cocktail of pills. Again I quietly took the nurse aside and asked if I might be allowed to eat in my room - breakfast at the very least. Again I was flatly refused. Then Pete has the nerve to ask me for a haircut.
Now I find myself sitting at my little table with the bed blanket wrapped around and two pairs of socks. I will not sit with the others in the lounge and it’s hardly any warmer. On the upside, I have little choice but to smoke in my room as it’s raining now and minus degrees outside. Last night I had dreams about Kitty again. The sooner I write it down the sooner I can resume my peace of mind. Which is another reason to endure the cold of my room. Dell says they are waiting for a thermostat.
Much to my surprise that kind woman brought me a little desk to replace the sidetable I ‘borrowed’ from the lounge. ‘Pete needs a haircut,’ she said and I imagine the desk was to soften me up. She also brought me a chair though I find my wheelchair more comfortable. Still, it may be surprisingly handy as I can put my clothes on it at night. I think the furniture might have belonged to someone who is now a ‘ghost’ of their former selves.
I pressed the buzzer that night in Sydney, fully resigned to making a complete idiot of myself. I am sure my brain was not functioning properly - I seemed to have trouble sorting out what was real and what wasn’t, what was rational and what was an imagination out of control. I was disoriented and probably still tired from the journey.
The same woman opened the door but oddly she didn’t seem to recognise me. Was I looking so strange? I calmed myself.
In the darkened passage I said, ‘I was here earlier.’
‘Yes. Of course you were, Love. Back for a second time?’
‘Yes … I mean no … I was wondering if I could have a word with … Kylie?’
‘I’m afraid we are not here to have words …’
‘Just a quick one, that’s all.’
All the while she didn’t really look at me. I had the distinct feeling she had trained herself not to engage with customers, not to see them as individuals. Perhaps she felt it put the men at ease.
‘Tell you what,’ she said ‘You tell me what words you want to say and I’ll pass them on.’ She looked past me. I thought hard. I had to get around her somehow. I decided to risk all.
‘Just go and tell her that Jack Smythe is here to see her, will you?’
‘And who would Jack Smythe be?’
‘A good friend. Just a friend that’s all. I mean her no harm.’ For the first time the woman glanced at me, and then disappeared into the darkness.
I realised I had stumbled onto a good strategy. If the young woman was not Kitty - as I was slowly beginning to realise - she would simply say, Who? Tell him to go away. Of course I would not leave and would insist on seeing her. And then she could tell me to my face, I am not the woman you think I am. All would be resolved. I thought about how long it was since Kitty and I last spoke and the real concern I had about trying to find her. It’s strange the way a tired and anxious mind can play tricks. In a moment my mind would be at rest.
‘Hello Jack.’ A woman was standing in the half dark in front of me. A white dressing gown, the red wig gone and short black hair surrounding a face I knew better than my own. I opened my eyes wide, trying to let in more light. I tried to swallow.
‘K… Kitty?’
She came forward and put her arms around me. I felt her warm, firm body, so familiar and comforting. I felt tears going down my face. I couldn’t speak. We just stood there holding each other for a long time. No-one came, no-one went. Then Kitty took my hand and led me through to the back, past a brightly lit kitchen with the door wide. For a moment I saw five or six women sitting around a table in their dressing gowns. They looked up; they were drinking coffee, playing cards, chatting. One girl was braiding another’s hair. The heat seemed oppressive. We went up a short flight of stairs to a small bedroom. Kitty shut the door, turned up the dimmer switch and a weak light illuminated the small room. Everything was dark pink and floral; the walls, the towels, the bedspread. A large mirror took up one wall. Kitty got down and undid my shoe laces and I took off my shoes. She lay down on the double bed and beckoned me to lie down beside her. We lay there staring at the pink ceiling. I remembered our bedroom at home when we were just teenagers; the globe hanging down, the stain on the wall shaped like a tyrannosaurus. Kitty was fifteen then. After a while she said, ‘I’m sorry you found me like this, Jack.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said.
‘No it isn’t really. I should have called. But what could I say?’
‘I’ve been trying to phone you,’ I said.
‘You have? I don’t have an answering machine. I haven’t felt like being contacted.’
I sat up and took off my jacket. The room was overheated, but then I suppose it was not used to accom-modating people in clothes. As I lay back down a strip of condoms fell off the sidetable. Kitty opened her dressing gown and took her arms out of it; she was hot too. I tried to start a conversation.
‘How … Why did you … When did you start coming here? I mean when did you start …’
‘I was out of work, Jacky boy. More to the point I was out of work with a mountain of debts.’
‘How come? I thought you had a very good business?’
‘It’s a hard industry, Jack; too much competition. Anyway, it wasn’t my business. I was manager. But Limelight was going through a crisis and it was pretty clear my job was on the line. So I took the chance to quit. I got the idea I could go off and start my own agency - in opposition. Took a big lease on some good offices, bought a car, office furniture, typewriters, the works. But it was all a bit stupid really. First my old company sued me for poaching clients - which wasn’t fair if you ask me. But what can you do? Then this bloody recession. I’m left with a big overdraft and no business.’
‘Why didn’t you phone me? I could have …’
‘What, Jack? What could you have done? You recently won a lottery? Heather has the house and you have the kids to pay for.’
‘I don’t pay much though, Kitty. They’re old enough to pay something themselves now.’
Kitty made herself more comfortable on the bed and said nothing.
‘How … how long have you been here then?’
‘About a year. It’s not bad like you think, Jack. It’s just a job like any other. Except it pays three times better. We’re not a bunch of drug addicts, you know. There are mothers, housewives, students …’
‘I know that but …’
‘So what are you doing here then? Why did you come?’
‘I don’t know. I have no bloody idea …’
‘Did you think you were doing anything bad?’
‘Not bad exactly, but a bit … immoral.’
‘Immoral? What the hell is that? Is sex immoral? Because it’s with a stranger? How well did you know Heather when you first did it? How well does anyone know someone the first time? It’s not a big thing, Jack. As long as it’s consensual …’
‘Is that really how you see it?’
‘It’s just a job, Jack. And the men who come here aren’t criminals; they’re students, party boys, migrants - and husbands with a very poor sense of themselves …’
‘But there must be a danger element?’
‘You see any danger element? Sure, you get the drunks and abusive ones. We don’t have to let them in and no girl has to go with a man they don’t like the look of. You mightn’t believe it but the men are mostly just lonely and afraid.’
‘Afraid? Afraid of what?’
‘Everything. Their own feelings, feelings in general. Maybe they’re afraid of failing, or missing out - or not measuring up. Afraid of me.’
‘Afraid of you?’
‘You might think the men start out all macho, Jack, but they don’t. And afterwards a lot of them feel guilty about the whole thing, as if they only came here by accident.’
I heard a shower start up, the rush and shudder of water in pipes.
‘What about me then? You think I came here because I was afraid - I mean originally?’
‘You’re always afraid, Jacky boy. But don’t worry, it’s not necessarily a bad thing and you share it with most of the population.’
There were footfalls in the hall and hushed voices. Someone laughed.
‘I still don’t like you being here, Kitty. It’s not right. It’s not right for you.’
‘I know, Jack. I understand.’
‘Where are you living?’
‘With a girlfriend in Paddington. A really nice old house on Carlisle Street. Very sweet.’
‘Are … are you going to stay … on the game then?’
‘Course not, you silly duffer. This is just so I can get back on my feet. I’m getting there, don’t worry - and I want a day job! As a matter of fact I was thinking about getting another bike and riding down to Vic.’
‘Kitty, that’d be fantastic,’ I said. We were still lying side by side and I reached for her hand.
‘Remember when we used to hold hands in bed at home?’ she said.
‘I do,’ I replied. ‘I loved you so much then, and even more now.’ I heard a door close.
Kitty put a hand to her face. I pulled a tissue from a box on the sidetable and gave it to her. I thought about what our mother had said, about our father’s assaults on Kitty as a twelve-year-old. I would not say a word about it now; I would not cause any more upset. But I’m sure she was thinking of it.
‘I love you Kit,’ I said. She sniffed loudly and blew her nose.
‘God, I’m tired,’ she said. I heard a man’s voice outside the door, low and subdued. The boards creaked as he moved down the passage.
‘Have you seen Debbie?’ Kitty said at last.
‘Yeah, yesterday. She’s in fine form. Moved again. Into Clovelly Road. She likes Bruce Springsteen.’
‘I really should see her. I’ve been so slack.’
‘You and me both,’ I said. ‘Let’s fix that, Kitty. Why don’t you come down to Melbourne like you said. I’ve got a room at the Ceswick Pub. It’s not much but it’s a start. And I’m not broke; I still have a job. We could support each other.’
I thought for a minute and said, ‘We’re good for each other, Kitty.’
Then I remembered the name she was using.
‘Where did you get Kylie?’
She laughed. ‘Don’t you like it? You should meet some of the others. We’ve got Deedee and Bobo and Ginger. And Queenie, but she’s really a boy.’
We lay there on the brothel bed a few more minutes, me in my trousers and white skivvy, Kitty in her transparent top, short skirt and fishnet stockings. Then came a tap at the door.
‘Time to go,’ my sister said.