Ironbark (16 page)

It makes a big difference when you know another person has the good sense to see beneath the surface and find something in you to like.

I think I'm turning into a philosopher. Maybe it's got something to do with all the trees.

It's raining and colder than a witch's nipple when I get up in the morning.

First thing I do is gather together my dirty clothes and stick my phone charger in my pocket. I'm low on power. Maybe there'll be somewhere in town where I can plug it in.

Granddad isn't in the best of moods. He grunts over his porridge, though it might be dry retching for all I know. It's a possibility because I struggle with it myself – it's cold enough outside for drastic measures – and the porridge still tastes like tiling grout minus the flavour. For a while there I think he's forgotten about our deal to go into town. He plops himself down into his chair as if settling in for a long vigil, so I'm forced to remind him. Even then, he takes his time getting ready. God knows why, 'cos when he does emerge from the dark interior of his bedroom I can't see any difference in his appearance.

Finally, though, we set off, bumping along the old dirt track with my clothes in plastic bags in the back of the ute.

The dog is tied up there as well. I can see him in the side mirror, his ears flopping around like wet windsocks. If he's unhappy about going for a drive in the pouring rain he keeps it to himself. Granddad shows no sign of coming out of his verbal hibernation, the radio is either busted or they haven't invented radio broadcasts in Tassie yet, and I have to keep my hand against the window to stop it dropping into the frame. It's non-stop fun and that's a fact.

We eventually arrive in town and park on the main strip. The rain has eased to a steady drizzle. Granddad unties Jai and goes off to do whatever geriatrics and their dogs do in small towns. I immediately check my phone for messages, but there's nothing. Kris will be in class, so I don't ring, but text her to say I'll be in range for a while if she wants to give me a call. Then I head for the laundromat. Don't tell me I don't know how to have a good time when I hit the bright lights.

I've never used a laundromat before, of course. In fact I've never cleaned my own clothes. Dad employs flunkies to do stuff like that. We've got this bent-over old biddy who looks about two hundred who comes in and cleans the whole place four times a week. She doesn't speak good English and he probably pays her about twenty cents a day. It's called a free-market economy.

I can't stand thinking about my dad, so I stop and look at the directions on the washing machine. You don't need a degree in applied science, that's for sure. I buy some powder from a dispenser. Then I stick in the money and there's this great whoosh as the water fills the machine. I watch for a while, but even for this place, the entertainment value is limited, so I decide to see if there's anywhere in this technological wasteland that sells mobile phones. The chances, frankly, appear remote. It's a reasonable bet they've never heard of a phone you don't crank up by hand.

The rain's stopped, but there's a fair amount of dark cloud around. I wander up the main road, checking out the shops. They're mostly desperate gift shops, selling stuffed Tasmanian devils and T-shirts no one should be allowed to wear. And there's the antique shops, of course. Nothing looks even vaguely promising, so I go back to the laundromat to check on progress.

My load is coming to an end. Well, I guess it's coming to an end. The drum is spinning like a mad thing. The clothes are a multi-coloured blur. It's actually kinda cool. Tells you something, that. I'm being entertained by a washing machine.

There's this woman sitting on the bench beside me. She's staring at her load, which is tumbling in a fitful way, swishing back and forth. I decide to tap into local knowledge.

‘You've got better reception on your machine than I can get on mine,' I say as an opening gambit. Okay, it's not the wittiest comment in the world, but she gives this little chuckle, like I'm a star of the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Maybe they haven't invented humour down here.

‘Beats most of the programs I watch,' she says, and I laugh even though it's not very funny.

‘I don't suppose you know where I could buy a mobile phone around here, do you?' I ask.

She wrinkles her brow and I worry she's going to ask what a mobile phone is. But it turns out she's just concentrating.

‘I don't know if I do,' she says slowly. ‘There's not many shops here, it has to be said. Milton is the place for shopping.'

‘Milton?'

‘Down the coast about forty kilometres. They've got a big shopping centre there.' She says this like the existence of a shopping centre is a source of infinite pride for the locals, even if it is forty kilometres away.

‘You'll be telling me they've got a cinema next.'

‘They do,' she says earnestly. I get the distinct feeling that a trip to Milton is something the people in this town save up for special occasions, that when they do go it's an experience that will keep them fulfilled for the next fifty years. Like a trip to Disneyland.

My machine clanks to a standstill and I empty it. Huge, industrial-size dryers are perched above the washing machines. So I load one up and dig in my pocket for change. The woman watches me, sizing me up and finding me wanting in the dryer-operator stakes.

‘You should use that machine,' she says, pointing to one a few away from my machine. ‘It's hotter and lasts longer. Better value for money.'

I don't want to appear rude, even though it seems an excessive effort to save a few cents, so I empty the dryer and stack the clothes in the one she indicated. She's all smiling and nodding, as though I'm a prize pupil who's doing real good.

‘The post office,' she says.

‘Sorry?'

‘Australia Post sells mobile phones. I've seen them in there.'

I should have thought of that myself.

‘It's probably closed for lunch, though.'

Of course it would be. But I feel better now. Once my washing is done I can get the phone sent off to Kris and it'll be a one-shop deal. Then I get an even better idea. See, another thing that Kris occasionally gets up me about is a lack of surprise presents, though it seems mobile phones don't count. I have no idea why not. Apparently, buying flowers occasionally – without being asked – or small items of jewellery, is being considerate and caring. I've pointed out to her that a bloke carrying around a bunch of flowers is almost as embarrassing as forgetting to zip up your old fella, but she's not sympathetic to that argument. So much for her being caring and considerate of
my
feelings. Plus, I've got a problem with buying flowers, anyway. They cost a fortune and you throw them out about a day later. A decent CD lasts forever.

She tells me I'm missing the point.

Anyway, it comes to me with all the force of an internal nuclear explosion. I'll buy her something from one of the antique shops – a brooch or some crap like that – and post it off with the phone. Kris likes old stuff. And I can only imagine the number of brownie points I'll have in storage. Mind you, given that she can't be bothered to even text me once in a while, I reckon it's her that should be sucking up to me. Still, never let it be said that I don't know the mature way of proceeding.

So I duck out of the laundromat and head for the antique shop I visited before. The bow-tied dude had a display of lumps of misshapen metal dotted with bright stones and I reckon there'd have to be one item there worth buying. Even if there isn't, it won't matter. Something ugly suddenly has value if it's also old. By those standards, my English teacher must be the most precious commodity on the planet.

I'm in a good mood, I tellya. Just how caring and considerate can one guy be?

The bow tie is still there. Actually, it seems to be in exactly the same place as a couple of days back, bent over a dusty ledger on an equally dusty counter.

‘Morning,' I say, and I couldn't be brighter or cheerier. ‘I wonder if you could point me in the direction of some decent antique jewellery?'

The guy frowns. He actually frowns. He couldn't look more disagreeable if I'd come in with a sawn-off shotgun and a pair of tights over my head. Making money obviously ticks him off big time. Grudgingly, he indicates his collection of misshapen metal. He doesn't remove the display, so I have to crouch and peer through the dirty glass. All the time I'm looking he hovers close by. Not to be of help apparently, but in case I grab a handful of his wares and leg it. I tell you. In this shop you'd be more likely to leave your own junk and sneak out hoping no one would notice.

I'm staring at a brooch that might be a dolphin – that's foolproof, by the way; girls can't resist dolphins, in my experience – when the bell over the door tinkles. I don't pay any attention, naturally. I'm a little hypnotised, and entirely gobsmacked, by the $220 price tag on the dolphin. Actually, it might be some other kind of sea critter. At that price, you'd expect to know straightaway.

‘Hi, Richie. How are you?'

‘G'day, George. Good, mate. Good.'

I don't even properly take in the bow tie's greeting at first. Then the floor vibrates with the clatter of a penny dropping. I straighten and turn round.

Richie makes the place look darker and I wouldn't have thought that was possible. He stands in the middle of the shop and pulls back his shoulders, like he's stretching or ironing out a few kinks before a fight. His eyes are fixed firmly on me.

‘Well, well. What do we have here, then?'

I don't say anything.

‘If it isn't the criminal element from Melbourne,' says Richie. ‘He bothering you, George?'

I'm even more stunned than I was with the price of the dolphin. Can he say things like that? Right in front of a complete stranger? Then again, who am I gonna complain to? The local police? I suddenly lose interest in old bits of metal, with or without sea creatures. I make for the door, but Richie takes a step to the side and blocks me. For someone his size, it doesn't take a lot of effort.

‘No,' says George, but he says it reluctantly, as if there's nothing he would have liked more in the world than me bothering him.

‘I'd like to leave now,' I say, but Richie just gives another little stretch and hitches up his pants.

‘You keep an eye on him while he was in here, George?'

I can feel my face flushing and there's that telltale whooshing in my ears. I breathe deeply and try to keep my eyes on his face. I don't want to look away.

‘Like to empty out your pockets, son?'

‘No,' I say. ‘I didn't do anything.'

‘Then it shouldn't be a problem emptying out your pockets, should it?'

Yes, I think. It
is
a problem. It's a huge problem. But I don't know where to go from here. If I refuse, will he take me to the station? I certainly don't want to be alone with this guy again. And as far as my rights are concerned, it's pretty obvious that I can talk about them as much as I want for all the good it's going to do. Richie is right. I'm not in Melbourne now. Suddenly I feel sick and a little dizzy.

At least I have a witness here, even if it is a guy with a bow tie and an attitude. That's what I'm thinking as my hand moves towards my jeans pocket. I've heard of coppers ‘finding' stuff during body searches. Normally stuff in little plastic bags. I wouldn't put it past Richie. But probably my caving-in's got more to do with cowardice than practicality.

‘That's right,' says Richie. ‘Over here, on the counter. That way, George can see if anything familiar pops up.'

I'm mumbling and I'm not even aware of it. I take out my phone, my wallet and a bunch of keys. Set them down on the counter.

‘The other pocket,' says Richie.

I don't have much. Even so, he makes me turn the back pockets of my jeans inside out. I get this urge to cry. I can feel my eyes filling up. In a peculiar way, it helps me. I have to concentrate so hard on not blinking it keeps me focused. ‘You're mumbling, son,' says Richie. ‘You should speak more clearly. What are you saying?'