Sydney Bridge Upside Down (23 page)

‘Dad?’ I said.

He went on staring at the table.

‘I’m glad we’re going to live in Bonnie Brae,’ I said. ‘I’ll be glad not to have Mr Norman for a teacher. There’ll be better teachers in Bonnie Brae. Dad?’

He looked at me, but he did not speak.

I sat on a chair opposite him. I looked at the paper in his hand. It was a letter. It must be the one Mr Kelly had given him.

‘Anything you want me to do, Dad?’ I asked. ‘Shall I get some driftwood for the copper?’

‘What?’ he said. He shook his head a few times, as if to wake himself up. ‘What were you saying about teachers?’

‘I just said there’ll be better teachers in Bonnie Brae,’
I said. ‘Then I was wondering if there’s—’

‘Don’t mention teachers to me,’ he said, sounding very bitter. ‘Not after this!’ He waved the letter.

‘All right, Dad,’ I said.

‘And you can forget about living in Bonnie Brae,’ he said. He waved the letter again. ‘She’s told me what I can do with Bonnie Brae.
And
with Calliope Bay!’ He looked closely at me, could see I was puzzled. When he spoke again his voice was quiet: ‘She’s not coming back, Harry. She prefers the city—and Dalloway. I’m afraid she’s left us.’

‘She can’t!’ I said. ‘She’s not allowed to!’

‘It’s her choice,’ he said.

‘What about me?’ I said. ‘What about Cal?’

‘She apparently prefers Dalloway to her children,’ he said.

‘She can’t!’ I said.

‘She’s made her choice,’ he said. ‘She won’t come back.’

‘She has to!’ I shouted. ‘What about Cal?’

‘She’s made her choice,’ he said bitterly.

‘I hate that Mr Dalloway!’ I shouted.

He reached across and patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘She’s not worth crying about.’

‘I’m not crying!’ I shouted, slapping the damned tears.

I
WAS
walking along the dusty road that took you from the river and across the countryside, up hills and around bends and through gullies, all the way to Bonnie Brae and further still if you were escaping, if you were trying to get as far as you could from the edge of the world.

It was a sunny day, mid-morning. I had left Caroline in bed. Cal was at school, Dad was at work. I might see them again some day.

I was walking pretty slowly because I knew that sooner or later before I reached the store, one of Bill Dobson’s lorries would catch up with me and give me a lift. Bill Dobson’s lorries made several trips from Calliope Bay every morning with the rubble that had once been the works. I was not sure how far they took the rubble, but I reckoned it would be some way past the store. After that, I could get another lift. I was hoping to reach Bonnie Brae by early afternoon. I must be as far from Calliope Bay as possible by the time Dad was home from work. I knew
the other two would not notice I had gone. Caroline, who was out every night with Buster, spent most of every day either asleep or half-asleep. Cal, who had scarcely spoken to anyone since Dad gave him the news about our mother, was too unhappy to care what I did or where I went. Only Dad would care. But he wouldn’t know where I had gone. Even if Cal told him I hadn’t been at school today, it might be hours before he guessed I was running away. He would have to search all the hiding-places in Calliope Bay before he guessed.

Should I have left him a note? No, this would put him on my trail sooner. Best to send him a letter tomorrow or the next day. I would try to explain why I had left, why I had taken his money, why it might be a long time before I saw him again.

I felt very sad at the thought of how he would look when my letter arrived. He would look miserable, the way he had looked for days after getting my mother’s last letter. Every day after that letter he had written to her, but she had never written again. Eventually he seemed to realise she really had finished with us, and he stopped looking miserable and looked angry instead, then he went around with his face stiff and frowning all the time, and he was still like that. I wished I did not have to make him miserable again. I wished he were a cruel father and I hated him, so that it would be easier for me to run away, so that I would not have to think of the unhappiness I caused him. But there was no other way. I could not stay in Calliope Bay now that the summer was ending, now that everything had changed, now that she and Dalloway were having fun in
the city. No matter how much it hurt Dad, I must go. And maybe he would understand later that what I had done was the only thing I could have done.

I whistled. Everything would be all right. It was good to be walking along the road. My boots, crunching in the metal, were already covered with dust. But the schoolbag over my shoulder was not yet heavy even though it was crammed with a macintosh, a pair of sand-shoes, a shirt, a towel, some sandwiches, two apples, my father’s whip and my collection of cigarette cards. I’d whistle all the way to Bonnie Brae, and further still.

I stopped whistling when I heard the lorry. I turned to greet it.

It pulled up beside me. Bill Dobson himself was in the cab. He was a big tanned man who always, it seemed, wore a black singlet and khaki shorts. From what Dad and other men said, he was a decent fellow.

‘Hop aboard!’ he called to me, leaning across the cab to open the door.

I had a look at his load while I climbed up. He was carrying bricks mostly, but there were bits of iron as well, and I recognised the furnace-house doors.

‘Going to the store?’ he asked when I was in the cab and the lorry was on its way again.

‘No, I’m going to Bonnie Brae,’ I told him. ‘How far you going, Mr Dobson?’

‘You’re in luck,’ he said. ‘Bonnie Brae is where I’m going.’

‘Hey, that’s good,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think you’d go that far.’

‘Special trip,’ he said. ‘Got a buyer for those bricks on the back. Lot of good stuff at the works. They built that place solid.’

‘I used to play there,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘So your Dad was telling me. No school today, Harry?’

‘I have to go to Bonnie Brae—for Dad,’ I said.

‘With your lunch, I see,’ he said, patting my schoolbag; I was nursing it.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘What to do, Harry?’

‘Just a message,’ I said. ‘I got to pay a bill. Dad says it’s important.’

‘Must be,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t send you on a school day if it wasn’t, eh?’

‘I don’t mind missing school,’ I said. I had to keep his mind off the message. ‘I’m not very fond of our teacher, Mr Dobson. He doesn’t seem to know much. We call him Fat Norman.’

‘Yes, I hear he’s making himself unpopular,’ Mr Dobson said. ‘Tried to give Sam Phelps a rough time, I hear. Got more than he bargained for, one of my lads was saying. Sam dropped him, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Sam’s not as fragile as he looks. This fellow Norman didn’t know what hit him.’

‘Fat Norman said he’d get the policeman to Mr Phelps,’ I said. ‘He’s silly. Mr Phelps hasn’t done anything.’

‘You find these crazy fellows,’ Mr Dobson said, swerving into the parking space outside the store. ‘Won’t be a moment, Harry. Have to get some baccy.’

I kept my head down while he was in the store.
Somebody in there might recognise me.

I sure was lucky to get a lift all the way to Bonnie Brae, I thought. This meant I would be there not long after lunch. I would soon be pushing on down the coast, zooming on my way to—I wasn’t sure how the towns fitted in further down the coast, but I could look at the destination signs at the start of the highway south from Bonnie Brae. Did Laxton come before Port Crummer? And how many miles was it to Wakefield, the furthest-away town down the coast? I knew the city was about two hundred miles from Wakefield. It would be good if I could reach Wakefield in time to catch a bus to the city in the morning. Or I could hitch-hike all the way to the city. It depended how lucky I was. So far I seemed lucky.

Bill Dobson climbed back into the cab. We pulled away from the store.

‘I was talking to your Dad last night, Harry,’ he said. ‘We were talking about you and your brother. He didn’t say anything about sending you to Bonnie Brae.’

‘Think he only decided at breakfast,’ I said. Heck, I had forgotten that Bill Dobson sometimes dropped in to see Dad after work. If he dropped in tonight, Dad would soon be on my trail.

‘How do you reckon on getting back?’ he asked.

‘Back?’ I said.

‘You’ll be coming back later today, won’t you?’

‘Oh, yes. Well, I can get the bus back as far as the store. Then I don’t mind walking home. The bus leaves Bonnie Brae at four o’clock. That will do me.’

‘I’ll be leaving there myself about half past two,’ he said.
‘Be glad to give you a lift back.’

‘Thanks very much, Mr Dobson,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind looking around Bonnie Brae for a while. I think I’ll catch the bus at four.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Might as well make the most of your visit, eh? Not often you Calliope Bay people get to Bonnie Brae.’

‘My last time was for the carnival,’ I said. ‘We had a lot of fun. Until it rained.’

‘My word, it certainly rained,’ he said. He changed gears as we began climbing a hill, climbing very slowly. ‘Yes, a patchy summer,’ he said. ‘More storms than usual. Not one of our best summers.’

‘No,’ I said. The lorry was hardly moving, we’d be lucky if we ever got to Bonnie Brae. I sighed. ‘What were you and Dad saying?’ I asked. ‘About Cal and me.’

He glanced at me, grinned. ‘Got you worried, eh? Afraid he was putting your pot on?’

I grinned. I did not mind his kidding. As long as the lorry moved, however slowly, I could put up with his kidding. I said: ‘I’m not worried. I’m glad not to be at school.’

‘My lads are the same,’ he said. ‘Best thing about school is when you don’t have to go, eh?’ He laughed, I joined in with a few loud ha-has. ‘No,’ he said presently, ‘we didn’t get round to discussing lessons, Harry.’ His voice became solemn. ‘We were talking about how you boys will manage when your cousin goes, I mean, now that your mother— well, now that she isn’t coming back as soon as your Dad hoped.’

‘It’s okay, Mr Dobson,’ I said. ‘I know she never wants to come back. I know she’s made her choice.’

‘Tough on your Dad.’ He shook his head. ‘On you boys too.’

‘We’ll be okay,’ I said. ‘Besides, Caroline doesn’t help much. She doesn’t like housework.’

‘Even so, a woman’s influence is always good to have in a house,’ he said. ‘If you know what I mean, Harry.’

‘I know,’ I said, glad the lorry was nearly at the top of the hill; we should be speeding soon.

Mr Dobson waited until we were on the straight, going pretty fast. Then he laughed. ‘Better not let Buster hear what you think of Caroline’s attitude to housework,’ he said. ‘Might put him off marrying her!’

‘No, it won’t, Mr Dobson,’ I said, not smiling. ‘He knows already. But he doesn’t care.’

‘Don’t blame him,’ Mr Dobson laughed. Then, seeing I wasn’t smiling, he became serious. ‘I was only joking, Harry. Time enough later for a pretty girl like Caroline to learn about housework.’

‘Oh, she’s all right,’ I said. I tried to think of something in her favour. ‘She used to help with the washing. Sometimes she used to wipe the dishes.’

‘Good for her,’ Mr Dobson said.

I looked down at the cliffs and the breakers.

‘Anyway, your Dad says he’ll bring you and Cal to the party,’ Mr Dobson said. ‘You can team up with my lads, Harry. Plenty of fun and games, eh?’

‘What party?’ I said.

‘You know, the engagement party,’ he said. ‘Didn’t
you hear about it?’

‘You mean for Caroline and Buster?’

‘That’s the one, Harry.’

‘I knew they were getting married,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t know they were having a party. Dad didn’t tell me that.’

‘Probably keeping it as a surprise for you,’ he said. ‘Yes, we’re turning on a big party at my place, Harry. A lot of fun for young and old. How does that strike you?’

‘Very good, Mr Dobson,’ I said.

I watched the road. I didn’t care about missing the party.

‘Your Dad says you’ll be coming with the Kellys in the Reo,’ said Mr Dobson. ‘Looks like the whole district will be there. We might even kid Sam Phelps into coming.’

‘A good idea,’ I said. Another reason why I wouldn’t mind missing the party, I thought.

We sped into a gully, the lorry swaying so much I was sure we’d lose the furnace-house doors. We crawled up another hill, then we were speeding along another straight, nearer and nearer to Bonnie Brae.

‘Mr Dobson,’ I asked when there was only about a mile to go, ‘which comes first—Laxton or Port Crummer?’

‘On the way down from Bonnie Brae? Port Crummer’s first. Why, Harry? Thinking of going there?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Gosh no. I was thinking of the other places on the coast, that’s all. No, I don’t want to go there. Not until the holidays maybe.’

‘Not a bad spot for a holiday,’ he said. ‘Well, there we are, Harry. There’s Bonnie Brae ahead. Journey’s end, eh?’

Not just yet, I thought.

W
OULD YOU
believe me, I ask, if I mumble mumble mumble? No, says my friend in the brown velvet jacket, white polo-neck shirt, tight sky-blue pants and black cowboy boots. I’ll bop you, I tell him. You can’t stay at my place any more if you do, he says. I’ll find another place, I tell him. Let’s buy those peanuts, he says. We walk to the peanut stall, but a fellow in a long grey coat beats us there, takes his time deciding what size bag he wants, buys a very large bag, grabs a handful and shoves them into his mouth. Noisily munching, he watches us while we buy our two small bags, then he jerks forward and spits everything out. When he straightens up, he tells us he has broken a tooth. You were gobbling, my friend tells him, popping one peanut into his own mouth. The fellow, fingers to his teeth, tries to kick my friend, misses, nearly falls. Don’t blame me for your busted tooth, my friend says. I’ll bust
you
, the fellow says. Come on, I tell my friend, let’s go before there’s trouble. We leave the peanut stall quickly and
turn the corner into the main street. Now I can start looking again. I am always looking, sometimes alone, sometimes with my friend. He thinks I am looking at the lights and the flashing signs. I don’t tell him why I am really looking because I know he won’t believe me. He thinks, when I tell him other things, that I make them all up. I do this, he thinks, because I lived so long in a place where nothing happened, now I must pretend a lot of things happened. I make up things, he thinks, so I won’t feel bad about missing all the things that went on in the city while I was a kid. Do you know, I say, that there was a castle near where I lived? There are no castles in this country, he says. Do you know, I say, that I once saved a beautiful short-sighted girl from being captured by a hairy monster? You must have read too many fairy-tales, he says. Do you know, I say, that I slew the hairy monster
and
a skinny witch? No doubt, he says. Do you know, I say, that I was once the strongest hero, inch for inch and pound for pound, in the world? Of course, he says. Do you know, I say, that I used to run along halls and up and down staircases with this beautiful girl and that neither of us wore clothes and she used to lie on a big satin-covered bed and let me look at her breasts and pussy and say what a nice big cock I had and let me lie with her and let me cry on her breasts and if I’d been a few years older would have let me marry her and would probably have waited for me to grow a bit if an older hero hadn’t turned up in a Daimler one day and taken her to the castle and fucked her right left and centre while I looked on? Let’s go for a walk, I feel like some peanuts, says my friend. Do you know, I say as we
leave his basement, that I had a secret cave— Look, he says, when did all this happen? Not so many years ago, I say. Like shit it was, he says. Well, a fair number of years ago, I say. Like when you were a skinny scabby kid having your first randy nightmares, that’s what you mean, he says. Doesn’t seem long ago, I say. It’s time you grew out of it, let’s get those peanuts, he says. He does not believe me. He doesn’t know that when we walk up the glittering main street nibbling our peanuts, I am not looking for girls in short skirts and white boots, I do not care about the brilliant windows full of record sleeves, I do not want the snappy trousers jackets shirts shoes in other windows, I am not looking for new kicks. Mine is a much older curiosity. Just as when I first came to this city, I am looking for her. I no longer knock on doors, it is true, but this is because I knocked on so many when I first came, I knocked on all the doors it was possible for a grubby country kid in dirty boots to knock on. Does Mrs Janet Baird live here? What makes you think she might live here? I had her address on a piece of paper, but I lost it in Wakefield. Can’t you remember it? I can’t remember the street-name exactly, but it was something like Pecker or Peckham or Peckworth or Cocker or Cookham or Peck or Packer or Docker or Dockworth or Hackett or Bickworth or Decker or Peckham or Packer or Peckworth, some name like that. You’ll have to do better than that, son. No, she doesn’t live here. Why don’t you try Duckett Street? What number is it, anyway? You don’t know the number! You
have
got a job on your hands! Why don’t you find a street directory and see if any of the names ring a bell? Mrs Janet Baird, you say? What
is she like? Oh, she’s a little taller than you, she has brown hair, she walks quickly, she talks quickly, she turns pink when she’s excited, she smokes a lot of cigarettes, she has a pair of red ear-rings and a pair of black ones, she doesn’t like sitting down for long, she likes to keep moving about, she taps her chin with her fingers when she’s crabby, she likes to be tidy and puts on a clean dress and lipstick even before she goes to breakfast, she is angry if other people go to breakfast in their pyjamas, her favourite colours are red and blue and black, she doesn’t like washing clothes and she isn’t fond of gardening, she makes pretty good ginger beer, she doesn’t make very good jam, she doesn’t like people who get sick or stay away from school or work, she gets angry if anybody farts, she reads travel books, she thinks sums and spelling are good for kids, she sometimes cries when she is in bed and thinks everybody else is asleep, she calls my father Hoppy when he’s not at home to hear her, she sleeps with other men when my father is at work, she has a special friend called Mr Dalloway. Sorry, son, don’t know any lady who answers that description. If she calls, will you tell her Harry is looking for her? Yes, but I’m not expecting her to call, never heard of her before, don’t expect to again. But if you do you’ll tell her, won’t you? Yes, yes. Why aren’t you at school, son? I’m looking for my mother. Well, tell her to give you a bath when you find her. You can’t sleep here, son, I’ll have to take you along to the station if you try to sleep here. Please sir, I’m only resting, I’ll go home now, my mother’s got a big feed waiting for me. Off you go then, and tell her to give you a wash, you could grow spuds in those ears. Yes sir, I’ll hurry home, sir.
Mrs Janet Baird? Nobody of that name lives here, son. Have you ever heard of anybody called that? Not as I remember, son. Relation of yours, is she? She’s my mother. How come you lost your mother, son? She ran away. Where from? From Calliope Bay. Where in God’s name is Calliope Bay? It’s at the edge of the world. Maybe she fell over the edge, ever thought of that? Yes, but I’m sure she’s in the city somewhere. Does she know you’re looking for her? No, but she won’t be angry when I find her, she’ll come back with me to Calliope Bay to see Dad and Cal, as soon as I explain how miserable Dad and Cal are she’ll want to hurry back, she won’t want to stay with Mr Dalloway. Who is Mr Dalloway? He used to be my teacher, then he captured my mother and brought her to the city, he’s probably got her locked up somewhere, in a little room maybe with no furniture except a rug on the floor, and he makes her lie on the rug and he does things to her and makes her groan and scream, he’s got two legs. Heard no groans or screams from the lodgers lately, son. What if she won’t go back with you, what will you do then? I won’t hurt her, I won’t try to make her miserable the way she made my father miserable, I won’t chase her with the whip I’ve got in my schoolbag. Why do you carry a whip, son? In case the bullies grab me again. Again? Yes, they roared up beside me in big old rusty cars one night when I was walking along a street and they grabbed me and took me to a castle and put me in a dungeon and whipped me with my whip, and I never cried out, I never said a thing, I just stared at them when they said they had kidnapped me and would keep me in the dungeon until my family paid them
a lot of money. So your family paid up? Eh? Well, how did you get away if they didn’t pay up? Oh, I did press-ups until I was very strong, then I knocked out a bully when he came to the dungeon one day, and I ran up the stairs and escaped. And now you’re looking for your mother? Yes, I walk along street after street, I knock on door after door, I peep in window after window, I stare at face after face, I follow woman after woman, and all the time I am looking for my mother. Best of luck in your search, son. Thank you, sir. Yes, they all wish me luck, they hope that one day I will find my mother. But I do not tell my friend about her. Having him for a friend is handy, he will not stay my friend if I tell him about my mother, he will order me from the basement, he will say that at last I have gone too far, he is sick of my fibbing. So I pretend, as I walk up the main street with him, that I am as excited by the girls with plump legs and white boots as he is, I grin when he makes remarks from the side of his mouth about the ones leaning through the windows of the old cars parked by the pavement, cars full of hunters, ready to roar off with their catches as soon as they have gone through all the kidding that the girls with plump legs and white boots seem to want before they’ll climb in. I also pretend, when two hunters take off from a doorway after three girls, that I share my friend’s doubt about whether the hunters will be in luck, I know that inside a block they will be certain of their catches. My friend, of course, is a hunter. I will leave him when we reach the coffee bar, I will go on alone and stay away from the basement until he has thrown out his catch, I have my own kind of hunting to do. Would you believe me, I ask as
a car tries to back into us, if I mumble mumble mumble? Certainly not, he says. Would you believe me, I ask as the car roars off, if I say I was the loudest whistler in Calliope Bay? Show me, he says. I show him. Girls along the street go on tip-toe and turn when they hear the whistle. A country kid’s trick, he says. Would you believe me, I ask as we stare up at a floodlit fifteen-storey tower, if I say I was in love with the most beautiful girl ever to sail in the
Emma Cranwell
? You don’t know what love is, he says. But do you believe I was in love with her? I ask. No, he says. Why not? I ask. Because, he says, you live in nightmares, you don’t know where the nightmares end and real-life begins. Why do you say that? I ask. Because you have them at my place, he says. I don’t, I say. You do, he says. All right, he says, who is Fat Norman? How do you know about Fat Norman? I ask. Ho ho, he says. I haven’t told you about Fat Norman, I say. Of course you haven’t, he says. So how do you know? I ask. Because, he says, you talk about him in your nightmares, the way you talk about your dear Caroline and your killing-floor and your furnace-house and your swamp. No, I say. Yes, he says. I’ll have to leave your place, I say. Why? he asks. Oh, I don’t want to upset you with my nightmares, I say. I don’t mind them, he says. Of course, if you bopped me you’d have to leave, I can’t stand being bopped. Nightmares I can stand, but never bopping. By the way, he says, who is Uncle Pember? I wait, I consider. Then I ask: Would you believe me if I say I saw Uncle Pember the other night in this street? Continue, he says. I continue: He was riding a horse called Sydney Bridge Upside Down and at first I did not recognise him, I thought he was a butcher named
Mr Wiggins. This was because of his whiskers. Then I remembered that Mr Wiggins did not usually have whiskers. So I went up to this man and I said: Are you Uncle Pember? He said: Yes. And you’re Harry Baird, are you not? I said I was. He said he was mumble mumble mumble and would I like to hop up behind him and go out to see his chandelier. I said: No thanks, I’ve heard about your damned chandelier. Please yourself, he said, and galloped away on Sydney Bridge Upside Down. And that, I tell my friend is how I at last met Uncle Pember. I ask: Do you believe me? Sure, he says. Thank goodness, I say. Well, he says, I’m off to the coffee bar. Thanks for believing me, I call as he crosses the road. He gives a hunter’s brisk wave. I go on alone.