Swallowing my last minuscule portion of pride, I returned to Signal Bay on Saturday morning and apologised to Mum for my erratic behaviour and stubbornness. She was still simmering about Starkey’s offensive text, so I placated her with the news that I hadn’t seen him for a week – conveniently neglecting to mention that it was because he’d been suspended for terrorising a senior citizen. She said I could demonstrate my remorse by mowing the lawn. Out of all possible chores, it was my most dreaded.
Last year when my beloved staffy, Gus, died of heart failure, I pleaded to have him buried in the backyard. Dad eventually gave in and helped me to dig a grave, and I rested my little buddy there in a pillowcase. Watching Dad cover him with earth and tamp it down, while Dougal, the Harrises’ foxhound, was crying on the other side of the fence, tore my heart open. Venn had to read my eulogy because I couldn’t speak.
The grass now grows brown in a circle above Gus’s resting place, and whenever I reach that spot with the mower, Dougal starts howling again. Today I first mowed alongside the decking and then around the Buddha statue. I mowed in straight lines across the yard, avoiding the brown circle – leaving it till last. And the very second that the mower’s wheels crossed the demarcation line, Dougal started crying. Today the keening was so loud and high-pitched I couldn’t bear it. I cut the engine and finished the job with secateurs. It took me over an hour.
Venn, appreciating the degree of trauma I’d just gone through, poured me an ice-cold glass of organic ginger-and-lemon kombucha. I took it up to my room, thinking that perhaps a little stress-relief session was in order. But before I could even get started, the words from the phrenologist’s booth that William and Esther had visited at the Market Carnival appeared in my mind’s eye:
DESTRUCTIVE AND HABITUAL BEHAVIOURS INSTANTLY ALLEVIATED
I didn’t think rubbing one out was destructive – maybe habitual, but definitely not something I wanted alleviated. Nevertheless, I put it on hold and began reading the next chapter of the book instead.
Dr Eisler was reading a newspaper and smoking a pipe behind an olive gauze curtain. His silhouette revealed a pate as bald as the ceramic bust he used for consultations. ‘Shall we rescue him from indolence?’ William said. ‘Employ his scientific expertise to delve into the workings of my mind?’
‘Phrenology is a carnival act performed by tricksters obliged to give glowing assessments of the fools who line their purses. What would you do if he told the truth and exposed some deficiency in your character?’ Esther said.
‘I’d relieve you of my company immediately and attempt no further contact. Granted, that would be a most disagreeable outcome.’
The curtain was suddenly whipped away.
‘Please step inside for a professional consultation,’ Eisler said. ‘All will be revealed for the modest fee of a shilling, fully refunded if the customer isn’t satisfied.’
William removed his hat and reclined on the chaise. Eisler rubbed his hands and performed a preliminary palpation of the patient’s cranium. ‘I’ll now take measurements with my callipers,’ he said, opening the steel arms of the instrument to form a teardrop shape and positioning the points above William’s ears, causing Esther to laugh.
‘Excuse me, but the patient looks utterly ridiculous,’ she said.
‘The young lady has a point, but please hold still, sir. Accuracy is of the utmost importance.’ Eisler measured the twenty-seven regions of William’s skull matching those marked on the ceramic bust. He wiped his hands and said, ‘Sir, you have a prominent brow, indicating an appreciation of fine art and an aptitude for mathematics.’ Working his way from the front of the skull, Eisler gave a positive evaluation of each sector, finally reaching the back. ‘The organ of amativeness lies here beneath the occipital bone, and as it is highly pronounced, indicates proficiency in the art of love.’
‘Is there any field in which the patient may not excel?’ Esther said. ‘If those regions are all so prominent, he must have an exceedingly large head.’
‘There is one anomaly I haven’t mentioned for fear of causing alarm.’
‘Fear not,’ William said. ‘You must reveal all as promised.’
‘Very well. The patient’s head is long relative to its width. His skull is dolichocephalic, bearing a closer relation to the hound’s head than the average man’s would.’
‘You’re not suggesting my ancestors were dogs?’
‘Not I, but your own bone structure. Let me demonstrate.’ As Eisler reached out to touch his face, William suddenly barked, snapping at the man’s hand. Esther cried out in fright.
‘Mr Eisler, your science is at best unsound,’ William said. ‘Nevertheless, I shall forfeit my shilling for an entertaining diversion.’ He deposited the coin in the phrenologist’s palm and guided Esther out of the booth, checking his fob watch. ‘What a dreadful waste of time that was. Your poor brother will be wondering where in the blazes we are.’
Back then my mother gave no credence to the possible scientific merit of phrenology. But years later, during her search for the origin of my affliction, she recalled this story to me. And in a rare instance of wild conjecture, she expressed regret for not having heeded what she suggested might’ve have been a warning of some bestial peculiarity in my father’s form.
So William, the author’s father, apparently had a head with similar proportions to that of a dog. I would’ve asked the phrenologist to specify a breed, because there’s a huge difference between the heads of a whippet and a bulldog. And what exactly was Edwin’s own affliction? Why was he dragging it out? I remembered nothing dog-like about his appearance in the photographs I saw at the exhibition on my birthday.
Later, in the afternoon, Mum told me that she was heading out at seven and there was zucchini frittata in the fridge.
‘Where are you going?’ I said.
‘Your gorgeous mother is going on her first date.’
‘Mother’s don’t go on dates.’
‘Apparently we do.’
‘If it’s some random meatball you met online, I hope you’ve worked out a signal to identify each other because he won’t look anything like the pictures he’s posted – they never do.’
‘Thanks for your advice but I’ve known Grant for eight years. He’ll find that amusing.’
‘You won’t be laughing when that con artist steals your money and you end up talking to Tracy Grimshaw on A Current Affair with his seven other victims.’
‘Grant doesn’t need my money. He’s a banker.’
‘Of course he is.’
On Sunday night Nana Locke came over for dinner with Tippi. Aside from some whimpering and nervous yaps, Tippi and Oscar both behaved themselves, maintaining a wary distance from one another. I showed Nana the photo of my first foray into yarn-bombing.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said. ‘You must’ve used every ball I gave you.’ She squinted at the photo. ‘And who’s the pretty thing on the other side of the pole? Is she your girlfriend?’
‘Definitely not.’ I took the phone before she could pass it on to Venn, who had her hand out. ‘It’s Isa Mountwinter. We’re collaborating on the project, and for the record she really annoys me sometimes.’
‘The right ones always do, darling. Pop Locke drove me around the bend, God bless him.’
Over crab cakes and scallops I got the impression that Nana Locke knew nothing about Mum’s date the night before, so naturally I couldn’t resist the urge to drop a few oblique references. ‘They say the bank’s latest interest-rate hike could mean hard times for struggling families. Possibly even tear them apart.’
Venn glared. ‘Since when have you had an interest in finance?’
‘Oh, I’m not the one showing interest, am I?’
‘Darling, come out and help me in the kitchen for a moment,’ Mum said. Out of view, she pincered my cheeks, her manicured nails almost piercing the flesh. ‘Button up right now, mister!’ Not quite the calibre of a slap in the face, but still highly effective. I didn’t speak for the rest of the meal. And it was a long bus ride back to the city, with nothing on my phone capable of distracting me from the dread I felt about Nads, Mullows and Starkey’s impending return to Crestfield.