Miscarriages Chapter 2. Your path through the future and mine

2. Your path through the future and mine

Dad, I have to take a snooze. Been up with you all day and all night, you know. I don’t mind. But I just can’t stay awake any more. And I don’t know if you’re in there still, even if you’re breathing, know what I mean? Are you there? I’m just going to sit back here in the old lounge chair I brought in. Gees, Dad, have to tell you, I’m running out of stuff to talk about. It’s bloody hard. Wish you could talk, Dad. Really, I do. There’s sweat or something on your forehead Dad. I’ll get a damp cloth and pat you down. Don’t know if it means anything. Are you hot or something? There’s that white stuff get¬ting stuck on your lips. Don’t worry. I’ll wipe it off.

*

I’m sort of snoozing in the old lounge chair, dreaming—Dad’s breathing fast now—there’s this girl, I can’t get her out of my head. Can’t be a dream, though, because I’m not asleep, least I don’t think so. You know the one, Dad, the one I told you about. We went to the movies. I mean, she was, well I told you Dad, hotter than you could imagine. I just, I mean, it can’t be OK, me thinking like this, sitting beside my Dad watching him die. And here I am getting all worked up, I’m going to have to run to the toilet. Shit, I could do it right here. I lean over the cot, rubbing myself on the edge, to see if Dad’s still breathing. The little huffs and puffs remind me he’s not dead yet. She’s driving me crazy and she’s not even here! I mean, it can’t be right, can it? Dad? Dad! Dad!

*

I dunno what’s going on Dad. You didn’t always hit the booze, did you? I can remember you taking me to the Pivot phosphate company, I think it was. We all called it the Phossie like you did. I was really little, I know that. Mum was happier then I suppose, or am I just making it up? I don’t know any more. Don’t suppose it matters. I remember only bits of it. There was a huge shed with a mountain of fertilizer, you said it was. I could hardly breathe for the stink that you said was sulphur. And there was this conveyor belt that went to the top of the mountain, that you built, you said. The blokes there, they all told me how smart you were Dad. Gees, Dad. How did you lose it all and end up over at the pub?

OK. I’ll stop asking questions. I know it’s not fair, cos I really know the answers, don’t I? The way everyone looks at me when I go down to the shops or go over to the pub to pick up your booze. They even tell me I should get out of here and go live with my auntie Connie and me mum. What would I do? I’m still going to school so why should I leave you? I don’t wag it much, except to earn a few bob on a good day at the pub. They tell me you’re an alky. The grog got you and you lost your job at the phosphate company years ago. So what? None of their business. Mr. Counter took you on as a barman, they say. But I don’t remember that. Never started going over there till I was a lot older. You were well and truly gone by then. I mean, you got too sick to do the bar work. You did odd jobs, and then Mr. Counter put his foot down and wouldn’t give you work anymore. Something about when you were doing the paint jobs he caught you drinking metho. That’s what burnt all your lips, Dad. That’s why they’re all red and swollen. You know that? Course you do. You couldn’t help it, I know. We all know that. Can’t blame you for that, can we? The grog got you and there’s nothing anybody could do about it. If I was older I might have been able to get you off it. I suppose mum tried, and couldn’t and that’s why she left. Wish I knew what she was like. Can’t remember much of her at all. Dad, me mouth’s all dry. I’m getting sleepy again. I’m going to make a cuppa tea. Don’t go away, now, will you? Stay there. Wish you could talk Dad. I do really.

*

I’ve been going over my history notebook, trying to get ready for the matric exam. But I don’t know what I’m doing and can’t con¬centrate because of Dad. He’s breathing in fits and starts. He’s going to die any minute. Dad, I can’t hold your hand right now. Got a cuppa in me hands. While I was waiting for the kettle to boil I was thinking about what’s going to happen to you Dad. And then I remembered the Salvoes. I don’t know about them. They tried to help you, didn’t they? That Captain Billington, he was always nagging you. I never liked him. He tried to grab me once. I kicked him in the shins and he never tried it again. I never told you of course.

I put my cuppa down and grab Dad’s hand in both mine.

Remember Captain Billington, Dad? I feel a tiny squeeze from his hand. Or maybe I imagined it. He’s still in there, I reckon, but not for long. Dad, I’m going to leave you for just a little while. It’s Saturday night. The Salvoes will be at the pub in full swing, revving up Onward Christian Soldiers, your favourite. I remember last New Year’s Eve you stood next to Billington and sang it so loud, and I couldn’t believe you could do it. I never heard you speak in a loud voice ever, let alone sing. I never thought you had it in you. I’m going over there, Dad. I’ll be back real quick, you won’t know I was gone.

I let his hand go, and I run out quick, not looking back. He’ll still be there when I get back. I just had to get out of there. Dunno why. I get these things into my head and I have to do them.

*

These Salvoes, they’re a bunch of shits. They squeeze their way through the blokes in the bar, jingling their little box, selling their newspaper, putting on this fake smile, like they was Jesus him¬self. And they all look the same. Got these pale faces and bright red cheeks. And after they’ve done their rounds collecting money, they go outside and start singing hymns, trying to drown out the drunks’ swearing.

“I wouldn’t give you mob a bloody penny!” says a drunk, one of many.

“My Jesus loves you sir!”

“Y’know why? Yer shits! Stopped ten o’clock closing, now you’re taking money off us that wanted it. Bastards!”

“Jesus loves you, my friend.” The Salvo puts on this big smile like Jesus loves him more than the drunk.

“Huh. Wouldn’t be bothered with your bull shit. You don’t even know what you’re preaching, do ya? Huh? What’s God like more ’bout you than me? Huh? Why don’t He stop wars, then?”

“Sir, join us in song, worship the Lord!”

“Ya don’t fuckn know, do ya? All you mob want is our money to waste on those shit-house instruments of yours.”

“Well, sir, come down to our citadel tomorrow and I’ll try to help you.”

“All you want to do is get me bloody money. Can’t answer me questions, can you? You care as much for God as me fuckn ass!”

The blokes start sniggering and crowding round because they think the drunk’s going to belt him one. Then up comes the biggest hypocrite of them all, the righteous Captain Billington. He’s waving his stubby arms, and his navy Salvoes coat is too small to button up round his beer belly. He keeps coughing and his watery eyes look like they’re going to pop out each time he coughs. He rubs his beer belly against the drunk.

“Who the fuck are you?” snarls the drunk.

“I, sir, am Captain Billington, the Salvation Army’s leading member. Also the most broadminded. And you, bloody sir, are a blasphemous bastard.”

“Whatdja say?”

“I said that you’re a blasphemous bastard.”

“Didja say you’re broad-minded ?”

“Yair, I did.”

“Then why don’tcha have a beer?”

“I have already bought myself and you one.”

“Shit! You mean you booze up?”

“Only on special occasions, and this is one of them.”

“Well, bottoms up mate and I’ll buy you one!”

A bloke yells out, “A fuckn Salvo boozing! Didn’t think I’d ever see the day!”

“Sir,” says Billington as he slurps his beer, “you don’t know what you fu—ahem—pardon, are talking about.”

“Fuckn Christ!” mumbles the drunk.

“Blasphemous bastard!” proclaims Billington.

The bloke was about to hit him, but right then Billington plop¬ped down on the ground.

“Shit! He’s out to it!” A few of the blokes grab him under the arms and sit him down on the gutter at the edge of the Melbourne road, and he stays asleep sitting there.

Then comes the band.

“Onward...Chris...chun...sol...BOOM...djers…BOOM…March..UMPAH...ing… BOOM....to war...!”

There’s these two girls, shit, I imagine them out of their uniforms, pretty nice, banging on tambourines, a half-pissed bloke playing the accordion, and a little bloke humping the tuba. And this other kid, about my age, stands up real straight and belts out something on a cornet. And this drunk stands up on a beer box and starts conducting. All of a sudden, Captain Billington, rears up and taps the conductor on the shoulder then pushes him off the box.

“My dear friends,” he says, “it is with great joy that I pass God’s divine message to you this lovely evening!”

“Givvus anuver song! Anuver song!”

“Gentlemen! Brethren!”

“Yair! Anuver bloody song. Lesh sing the sholdjers one again!”

“Silence! Shut up you bastards!”

“Onward...Chris...chun...BOOM!...BOOM!...soldjers! March¬ing...UMPAH...to war!”

That’s as far as Billington got. He slipped off the box and sat on the ground, looking down at his bare belly that had popped out over his belt. The band plays on, and Billington staggers up and starts to cross the road. There’s cars coming, so I grab him and help him cross the road.

Dad, I’m gunna get the quack in again. I think you’ve kicked it. I can’t see you breathing and your grip is kind of shallow. Hands still warm though. And now you’ve started to smell. Don’t know what it is. It’s not piss and shit. I don’t know what to think. I’m going to get you another blanket to keep you warm. Dad I dunno what to do next. Can’t you just keep going a bit longer? I’ll get you a brandy. You always used to get that for mum when she had her fainting spells. Back in a jiffy.

*

I’m in the bar. It’s about half past five, I think. I dunno. Haven’t got me watch. There’s no clock on the bar wall. Everyone’s watching the new TV Mr. Counter put up. The Olympic games are on. Mr. Counter isn’t too pleased with it but he can’t take it down. “They watch the TV and don’t drink their beer,” he complains.

I start picking up glasses and bringing them to the bar. It’s hard to get through the crush. Everyone’s packed in to see the TV. It’s the first TV most of us have seen. Sugar sees me and says, “g’day. How’s your old man?”

“He’s all right,” I lie.

I’m in a kind of daze. I don’t know what to do except what I’m doing, picking up glasses. I stay there until the 6 o’clock bell and the bar’s empty. I go to leave with them all, but Mr. Counter grabs me and asks, “is your old man OK? I didn’t think I’d see you here tonight. I heard he was pretty bad. On his last legs, they say.”

I turn and look at him right in the face. “He’s good,” I say. “I got to get back to him. You want to come see him?”

“I’d like to young fella, but you know what it’s like around here this time of night.”

“Yair, OK. Might see you tomorrow if he’s doing all right.”

“Son, if there’s anything I can do, just say so. Your dad was a great friend of mine and I want to make sure you do OK too.”

“I know. Mr. Counter. I know. Thank you. I got to go now.”

I was going to cry, that’s why I had to get going quick. But I didn’t go straight home. I walked around to the back fence where Skeeter used to take bets. And I had a piss in the old out-house, and I walked out into the bare paddock, scratching myself on those damn thistles. I peered at the horizon beyond the burnt fields, the red glow of the early summer sun. I wondered what was over there, remembering when I was a kid, about twelve I was, when I took off into this paddock and reckoned I was going away and never coming back. But I was too scared even to go as far as the next paddock. My hands in me pockets, I kept walking, and walking.

I must have gone a long way. By the time I got back home, I saw an ambulance and people going in and out of the house. I kept away and waited till the ambulance drove off and there was nobody left going in and out. I went into the house, and my Dad was gone. I hope they were good to you, Dad, I say, looking at his empty cot. And I went to my bedroom and I flopped down on me bed and I grabbed my pillow and I hugged it. And I slept.

I’m standing in the middle of the Melbourne Road, facing Melbourne. There’s this big truck coming at me. I’m trying to get out of the way, but I can’t. I’m rooted to the spot. I’m waving my arms, yelling at the top of my voice. But it just keeps coming at me. And just as it hits me, I wake up, all sweaty and gasping for breath. It’s my nightmare I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I’d call out in the middle of the night, “It’s coming at me Dad! It’s coming at me!” And me Dad would be there shaking me and yelling at me, “wake up! Wake up! You’re having a nightmare!” And I’d wake up and I’d turn over and go back to sleep. I must have been real little though. Dad wasn’t into the booze then.

I roll out of bed with my pillow and drift out to me Dad’s cot in the sleep-out and I plop down in the lounge chair. I don’t know how long I sat there, hugging the pillow, dreaming, wondering what I was going to do. Then I get up and go across to the pub. I couldn’t think of anything else to do. And I collect glasses for Mr. Counter, I laugh and joke with the customers and I pretend nothing’s happened.

*

There was a big send-off for Dad. I knew there would be. Mr. Counter told me the funeral was set for three o’clock and most of the mourners took the day off work so they could pay their respects, as they put it. My auntie Connie had tried to get me to go with her and get all dressed up and sit in a black car but I wouldn’t talk to her and I wouldn’t even look at her. I hid away in the pub. It was the best place I knew to get away from her. She wouldn’t dare come into the bar. All those blokes would scare the shit out of her.

Lots of blokes started to show up at the pub at half past nine, because they reckoned they needed an early start. I was amazed to see lots of them dressed up in black suits and ties. Shows just how much respect they had for dear old Dad. And I hung around, picking up glasses like I always did, listening to the blokes talk about him.

“G’day mate. Bad luck, wasn’t it?”

“Could see it coming all the way, though, don’tcha think?”

“Yair. I tried to tell him. I tried.”

“By Christ he drank some grog the last couple of years!”

“I’m buggered if I know why he did himself in. The grog just got him I suppose.”

“It must have been something in his blood.”

“Yair, too much blood in his alcohol stream.”

“That’s for sure.”

Mr. Counter banged a glass on the old counter and stood up on the bar.

“Mates…” he says.

“Geddown ya mug!”

“Mates!” he cries, “listen you bastards!”

“Calls us bastards. Who the hell’s he think he is?”

“Please! Quiet! He was a really good bloke!”

Someone shouts, “give him a go!” And I couldn’t believe it, everyone went stone silent. Imagine it! The bar was always loud, always. The silence was, like I’ve heard them say, deafening. And at that very moment, I kind of grew up. “Now here’s something im¬portant that’s just happened,” I thought. I was thinking to myself! For a moment, I felt I kind of knew who I was. I’m looking at all these blokes, and wondering what made them be here, what were their homes like, what were they trying to do in their lives.

The blokes around me are holding their glasses like there’s going to be a toast or something. They’re all looking like I never saw before. The silence, it’s spooky. A restless quiet I’d call it. They’re kind of looking into space, except there’s no space in the bar. They’re looking like they’re trying to make out the shimmer of a rider in the distance like you see in the movies of the wild, wild west or something.

I give Mr. Counter a look. He sees me out of the corner of his eye. I know he thinks I’m going to cry or something. And I think I am too. My face is starting to flinch, I’m holding back a gush of tears. It’s agony. It’s been quiet for so long, or seems like it. And just as I was about to burst into tears, Mr. Counter saves me and he makes a loud cough and starts his speech.

“Ahem! Mates. It is now nearly three o’clock and the funeral is about to start. It’s too late for us to get there now, but I know it for a fact our old mate Harry Henderson wouldn’t have wanted us mucking round his grave, he’d be more than happy knowing we were in here having a few beers on his behalf. He was a great mate of mine, you know. He never did a bad turn to anyone and by Christ he could drink.”

“Here! Here!”

“He had a great sense of humour and could take a joke. He was a top-notch bloke you know, and he never said a crook thing about anyone.”

“Yer said that before, Eddie!”

“Yair. Finish it up, and let’s get back to the booze. He was a good bloke, now he’s six foot under pushing up daisies, so let’s forget about it and have a few beers.”

“Yair. Here! Here!”

“Okay fellers,” says Mr. Counter, “here’s to good old Harry and the next round is on me!”

And here I am, standing back, my tears all swallowed, and I start thinking again. What am I doing here? All these buggers in the bar, who cares about them? And why should they care about me? Course, right now they don’t. Loud cheers fill the bar, and it’s back to serious drinking. “The old pub’s back to normal,” I say to myself, then im¬mediately wonder, “did I say that?” And I feel pleasantly lost in the noisy din, the arguments, the smell of cigarette smoke and sweating bodies, the warm and stuffy atmosphere, the jostling shoulders and elbows, the clinking of glasses and the steady beat of the cash register bell. Is this me thinking all this?

And outside, the air’s full of the noises of life, the cars on the busy Melbourne road, the throbbing noise of the Ford factory, the shouts of workers as they make their way to the pub.

And across the road, there’s builders’ sheds beside my own house where the others have been demolished. Workmen are busy laying new foundations, and there’s spectators gathered around, because they’re going to build a new pub, the biggest for a hundred miles around, and one of which we’ll be so proud.

*

I got drunk. Someone came to get me into the black car that followed the hearse, that pulled up outside of the pub. Buy a bloke comes up to me and says, “here young fella, a beer will help you get over it. Sorry about your old man.” I look back at him. I was after all old enough, only a month short of seventeen, to have a few drinks, I thought. And I’d mucked around before. Wasn’t like I didn’t know what was going on. I had one beer and then I had a few more, and I wasn’t sure what was happening to me. I started to gather up the glasses as usual, and somebody grabs my arm and says the hearse was here and asks didn’t I want to say good-bye to my old man. So I go out with this bloke and I see my auntie Connie sitting in the car behind the hearse and I just stop dead in my tracks and shake my arm free.

“I want to stay with me Dad. He’s not there, he’s in the bar with his mates.”

“But it’s your father’s funeral.”

“His funeral’s inside here. You’re just getting rid of him at the cemetery. I’m not going.”

And I turn around and go back in the bar and I collect more glasses and put them on the counter. And Mr. Counter comes over to me and he touches me lightly on the shoulder and hands me a beer and says, “we know how you feel, mate. Here, have another beer.”