The Glass Mountain (15 page)

35

Later that afternoon a telephone call is made to the Big House.

‘I'll get her,' says Nurse Edwards who's picked up the receiver. She finds the director in the dining room administering medications.

Sheralyn Smythe picks up the phone. She listens, nods. ‘Yes,' she says, ‘she's clear in the head … um … um … It's hard to tell. All I can suggest is that you act as quickly as possible. Of course she may rally, but …' The director puts down the receiver and continues her rounds, — passing an empty chair and a bowl of dancing daisies.

Around the table others go on eating.

Two hours later a car, a silver-grey Mercedes, sweeps into the street of plane trees. It pulls up in an empty parking bay. Visiting hours were over some time ago.

A man steps out. He wears a dark grey suit and carries a briefcase. His hair is white and finely sculptured. He walks past reception to the lifts and takes one to the 9th floor. He glances at the sign that says ‘Oncology' and goes in search of the nurses station.

‘I rang earlier,' he says.

As he's led to room 21, another car pulls up further down the street. Its two occupants sit in silence. The man reaches into the back seat and grabs a newspaper.

‘I'll wait for you here,' he says.

‘It'll be dark soon. You won't be able to see a thing.' Jeffrey Butcher shakes open a page and ferrets around for his glasses.

‘Why don't you sit inside? It's warm in there.'

‘Can't stand those sort of places, you know that.'

‘Well, you think I like them?'

The speaker gets out and slams the door.

Inside the building it's quiet.

Marjorie Butcher walks quickly. She focuses on carpet as she waits for the lift. The doors slide back. Ding! She presses the number.

As she is journeying upwards, the man in the grey suit is clipping closed his briefcase and, in the company of a senior nurse, is making for the lift. ‘I'm sorry,' she says. ‘It hasn't been a good day. Ring in the morning about ten.'

The man stands at the lift. It opens. As Marjorie Butcher steps out, the man steps in and the doors slide shut.

‘Who was that?'

A nurse seated at the computer looks up. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘That man — the one who just got into the lift?'

‘He was visiting someone.'

‘Who?'

‘I'm afraid that's confidential, Mrs Butcher.'

‘It wasn't my mother, was it? Was it?'

‘It hasn't been a good day,' the nurse replies.

Marjorie frowns. She turns on her heel and marches into room 21.

Meanwhile, outside the building, Ossie is counting floors — 9 up — and windows — 21 across. Counts lights that glow from a million little squares. Sees a shadow moving in number 21. Time to play guessing games, like behind which square or squares is the operating room? Behind which is the store room with the plates and things they put in legs? Behind which was his room? His cubicle? Behind which is physiotherapy? Occupational therapy? The morgue? The canteen? Labour wards? Nursery? Kitchen? He thinks of Sister Murphy. He stubs out his cigarette and makes for the entrance.

‘I'm her nephew,' he says, ‘from interstate.'

The woman at reception rustles in books.

‘First name?'

‘Joanna.' One good smile deserves another.

‘On leave — right now she's probably in Ireland. Wonder she didn't tell you — …'

He wanders back down the steps to his tree.

In room 21 Marjorie Butcher is peering closely at the form on the bed. ‘How are you, Mother?'

There's the slight movement of a hand.

‘Here — here's the buzzer. If the pain's bad, ring. That's what it's there for.' She stops. ‘Where did those flowers come from? Who brought you those flowers, Mother? Mother?'

Marjorie Butcher investigates. She opens drawers and cupboards, peers in rubbish bags. Chatters on. ‘Jeffrey's waiting. He's down there.' She glances out and spies the figure beneath the street lamp.

Now nurses come running.

‘Mrs Butcher, what's the matter?'

‘Why is that boy watching this window? He's a jailbird, a criminal. He won't let her alone …'

‘Your mother's safe, I assure you.'

As Marjorie stands staring into lifts, a nurse stands staring from the window.

‘That's him,' she says.

‘Who?'

‘The boy who came in with the flowers — all hair and tattoos.'

‘He's there every day,' murmurs another bending over the bed. ‘There we are, Mrs Ellis, let's hope tomorrow we'll feel a bit better …'

As Ossie watches, the light in room 21 blinks out.

He gives one last look then rides off into the night.

A minute or so later Marjorie comes at a rush and bustle down the steps. ‘He was here!' she gasps as she bundles into the car.

‘Who?'

‘The lout, the thug. Nobody can get rid of him. And there was a man with a briefcase. He was coming out of the ward.'

‘Probably a doctor.'

‘I've seen him, I know I have …'

‘Oh God, let's get out of here.'

‘Wait. I remember now. She was talking to him in the street. She was all excited — him too. The very day — …' Marjorie Butcher sinks into sheepskin. ‘Yes, something's going on. Or has been …'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Oh Jeffrey, just drive.'

In room 21 on the 9th floor all hopes for a better night are in vain. ‘Can you come here, Sister?' calls a nurse softly.

Another torch waves into the room.

‘I can't understand what she's saying.'

‘Mrs Ellis? Essie?'

‘Sounds like “Oh see”. She says it over and over.'

‘Essie, what's the matter?'

‘Oss … ie …'

‘What do you want to see?'

Silence.

‘She's asleep now,' says the senior. And clicks off the light.

36

The sound is that of a pot on the stove burbling and gurgling, of escaping steam. Then black lids bubble over the rise. And the pot has become bikies, rolling as to war.

They rumble through the countryside and into town. At the bridge one peels off, ack-acks up the hill and is lost. The rest stop, dismount and smoke in the plane trees' winter screen.

In the kitchen at Camleigh Gardens, Sheralyn Smythe is pouring coffee.

‘Sugar, Marion?'

The nurse-cum-driver is standing at a window that overlooks the garden, ‘He certainly did a good job,' she mumbles through mouthfuls of biscuit. ‘What's he doing out there now, picking lavender?'

‘I asked him to.'

‘Got someone with him —'

Sheralyn looks up and out. ‘They're watching,' she says.

‘Who?'

‘The gang. They're making sure he's not going to slip through their fingers again.'

On the lawns, under a bruised sky, handlebars shine dully, stained leather clings to unwashed flesh. Hambone chokes up a wad of spit. Misses the mark. Leaves a thread hanging, web-like, from a mess of beard.

‘Don't see no chimneys,' he croaks.

‘What ya want with chimneys, Hambone?'

‘Horse said there was chimneys. Fuckin' big ones an' all.'

Ossie shrugs. ‘Ya know Horse, Hambone. He's likely to substantiate a chimney from time to time.'

‘Don't see no loonies neither.'

‘They're all behind them windows. Probably looking out at you right now an' thinking how very excellent ya bike looks an' wishing very much they had one too.'

Hambone spits yellow stuff again. Bingo! Sweat-heavy locks hang closer. ‘Jist checkin' ya stayin' put.'

‘Here I am.'

‘Monday yer off, see, 'cos Monday we're off an' Pres'll be round to collect ya — personal like.'

‘I'll be here, Hambone. Ya can repose on that.'

37

Today the patient in room 21 on the 9th floor has been conscious for most of the time. She's been babbling the same thing over and over but to no avail. They can't make it out. But now a new nurse had entered the room. She bends over the bed. ‘Essie, what is it?'

‘Please …' The voice is barely a whisper, a thread of sound. ‘Let him come … but …'

‘But what?' The girl bends lower.

‘Please more … the pain … I don't want him … to …'

‘I'll speak to Sister. Oh, here she comes.'

The two women look towards the bed, at each other.

‘Alright, Essie.'

‘She wants to see the boy. Can she?'

The charge nurse pumps up pillows. ‘Wait till this starts to work,' she replies, ‘then bring him up. And keep an eye out for the others,' she adds as an afterthought.

‘You can come up.' The trainee is small, with glasses on the edge of a tip-tilted nose and frizzy hair. ‘She's been calling for you,' she bubbles. ‘We thought she was saying “Oh see”. Couldn't make it out.'

‘How is she?'

‘Some die hard.' The girl's eyes are kindly.

He follows her into the entrance towards the lifts and up to the 9th floor.

The student nurse babbles on. Her car's in dock — what will it cost? She doesn't know. How can she when she knows nothing about cars? She could be diddled — knows someone who was … Ding!

‘Room 21,' she says. And disappears down a corridor.

He pushes the door open, gently. He takes a step towards the bed, towards her, then stops. There's some mistake. He's in the wrong room. That's not her, it can't be. It can't be Essie. Weren't they laughing an' talking an' wayfaring an' eating fish an' chips two, three days ago? Where's the chatter now, the laughter, the dancing around on little legs? There's nothing here — not the twitch of a blanket.

Suddenly eyes flicker open, close, open again. She smiles.

He stands by the bed, sees sweat upon forehead and lips.
The Wind in the Willows
is on the table. And she, the wayfarer, has come to that junction where the land of the living meets the land of the dead.

A head pops around the door and a voice whispers, ‘She'll be feeling better soon.' Then louder. ‘Won't you, Essie?'

A hand lies on the sheet. A hand that's fleshless, cold. It wasn't a while ago, two, three days ago. It was warm then.

She goes to speak. Her mouth moves but no sound comes.

In this room everything's white. The walls, cupboards, sheets, the cotton blanket under which she makes no shape — all white. The lavender and daisies have colour but he wishes he'd brought something red or yellow, something so bright it'd sting your eyes. Make you wake up. Make you sit up an' smile.

There's a jug of water on her table and a glass. Also personal things. Little jars of cream and stuff …

The late afternoon light creeps across the room. A shaft colours her bed, his hand on hers.

The nurse pops her head in again and then out.

He sits there watching the light soften and fade, the whiteness deepen to grey, to yellow.

So this is Death.

‘Ossie —' He jumps. Her voice has come from a land far away. ‘I knew you'd come.'

‘I'm always here, Essie.'

‘I know … I know you are …'

Silence.

‘Did ya like the flowers?'

‘Beautiful … like my garden …'

‘It's growing very excellently, your garden, Essie.' This isn't what he wants to say. ‘It's all bubbling up in pink an' mauve …'

‘I can see it …'

‘When ya get better, Essie, ya can come back an' —'

‘Tell me about my garden, Ossie.'

‘Well, it's little, like you, an' round the edges —'

‘There's lavender.'

‘There's lavender, mauve an' purple — one after the other. An' inside the lavender —'

‘There's daisies.'

‘Pink daisies round an' big like the sun all in a —'

‘In a circle.'

‘An' inside the circle —'

‘More lavender.'

‘More lavender, mauve an' purple — one after the other. An' right in the middle the most existential daisy bush that ever grew. An' it's flowering up all pretty an' pink an' smiling at the sun an' all.'

He feels a soft pressure on his hand. She's trying to squeeze it, to say things — things that no rich and wonderful words have been found for yet.

‘Have they … come … for you, Ossie?' Her voice is travelling off again.

‘They're here.'

‘You mustn't let … anything … stop you …'

‘I know.'

She suddenly closes her eyes. Sinks into pillows that foam up and enclose her.

The popping head reappears, disappears.

‘I'm eighteen now, Essie. I can do what I like.'

‘So … old …'

‘There ya go, being cheeky again.'

‘Ossie …' It's like when air's escaping from a tyre. She's flattening down.

‘Yeah?'

‘I'm … so tired …'

‘Essie, listen. It's your birthday soon, right? An' I'm going to take ya to the most excellent restaurant. An' yer going to dress up in pink so pretty an' we'll have a little table just for you an' me with flowers on it an' they'll be daisies an' lavender too. An' I'm going to buy ya oysters, Essie, what ya love, an' we'll have champagne, the sort that bubbles up ya nose. An' then trout like what's in my river, ‘cept this is a special trout 'cos it's got colours on it, pink an' mauve. An' after that we'll have ice-cream and strawberries —'

He stops. A nurse is standing by the bed.

‘You must go now,' she says.

38

“If it were done when 'tis done then 'twere well/It were done quickly …”

And it's mid-afternoon. So there's time.

He keeps to sixty. Dirt and bitumen slip beneath his wheels like butter. The bike sings, soars to the smallest pressure of a foot. He's known the bond between a bike and its owner. Once, all he'd wanted in life was to belong to a machine like this.

He swings left and crosses the bridge. He throttles down for a brief moment there, where he went over. He doesn't look but focuses instead on the wisps of smoke up ahead that curl high into the air. He breathes in, smells the acrid waft of eucalyptus and, as he turns into the camp site, the rich aroma of roasting flesh.

‘Nom!' It's the Turk who's called his name. He staggers up, lunges forward and trips. ‘S'real good ta see ya, Nom.' Glazed eyes, glazed body droop …

Ossie looks around. He sees the familiar evidence of a heavy night, inhales the sweet thickness of marijuana.

Over by the fire stands Carver. He pokes at meat and swigs from a can. Beside and around him a whole bunch of empties lie scattered.

There's an unsettling quietness about things, like the minutes before a battle. A mini-death from happy pills, from ice, crystal, whiz, snow, eggs, paste, from benzedrine and beer. Ossie has felt it before. Tasted it. Smelt it. He knows the monster well.

From behind black glass, Carver is frowning. He peers unsteadily.

‘That you, Nom?'

‘Yeah.'

A pock-marked finger wavers. ‘What's with them wheels?'

‘Mine, Carver.'

‘Ya fuckin' liar.'

‘Honest Carver. Hambone was listening. He heard her tell the cops they were a gift like. You ask Hambone — he's right there.'

Hambone is propped against the truck asleep. Locks droop on to a hairy belly and something is oozing from the corner of his mouth.

Carver spits and stumbles away. Suddenly there's a blast of sound, of Heavy Metal.

‘Turn that fuckin' thing off.'

The silence widens. Then across the ground in front of him a shadow falls. Ossie swings around.

‘Hi Pres.'

The eyes alone might give the king viper away. But he's still in control — that's why he's king. And behind dark glass who can see raw red bleeding anyway?

Ossie goes on. ‘It's real affable to see ya —'

Silence.

‘I've been working, Pres, like Turk an' them said. I reckon ya'd be real proud.'

The president lights up a cigarette. The sun lights up a fringe of curls, a beard, and turns red hair redder. Damp vipers ripple on a chest.

‘An' ya finished?'

‘Yeah.'

‘So, ya back.'

Ossie swallows. ‘Pres,' he begins, ‘I'm — ya see, I'm not coming.'

‘Eh?'

‘I'm not coming back.'

Silence.

‘See Pres, I been thinking. I mean, yer been real good to me — all of yers. An' I'll never forget it. I mean it, Pres. But I'm eighteen. An' that means ya sorta free from the very excellent obligation ya made to the Big Man …'

Silence.

‘I don't mean to hurt ya feelings, Pres. I'm real proud to know all of ya. But I wanna do something — I dunno what. But I'll know when I see it. An' I'm looking real hard, Pres, 'cos I want ya to be real proud of me … I do, Pres, I swear.'

The man grinds his cigarette into the ground with his boot, hard. ‘You're a smart kid, Nom —'

‘Ta Pres.'

‘But there's a small problem we got here.'

‘What's that?'

‘Ya know 'bout the system, see. In fact, ya know fuckin' everything. 'Bout the clubhouse, the plant, the dealers. Ya know 'em by their first names …'

‘Oh, I wouldn't say a word, Pres.'

‘I'm just pointing out that if the law comes knocking we'd have to arrive at certain conclusions. An' Kid, you're the only fuckin' person in the whole fuckin' world who we'd consider —'

‘Aw, Pres.'

‘— An' if that happened, we'd find ya, wherever ya were. An' deal with it. Ya follow me?'

‘I follow ya.'

The president hawks and a wad of spit hits the ground. ‘An' don't think ya won't be back, ya smart-arsed little shit. It's in ya blood.'

The shadow's gone. The president has joined Carver at the fire. They talk as they watch the meat drip fat.

Ossie looks around for somebody to say good-bye to. Then he turns and rides away.

At the hairpin bend he slows, stops. Here, a lifetime ago, he went over. He dismounts and pushes down through the scrub. The lone tree's still there, still growing towards the light. The stretch of bark at the base has gone forever — it'll never grow back.

He stays a while then scrambles up the incline to the road and stands there, staring down into nature gone wild.

He'd stood like this once before and stared down into nature gone wild. Though that time it was the sea …

He's eleven again.

The Turk's bringing up the rear an' he's on the back. They've lagged behind all day. Stopped for smokes, an' other things.

He hangs on tight, watches it build, watches the grog work … The Big Man an' Carver, shot with blood an' sweat. Old-time enemies.

Others watch, pull back — away …

‘Fuckin' idiots.'

‘Stop 'em, someone stop 'em. Stop 'em. Please stop 'em …'

The screams of an eleven-year-old are lost on the wind.

They're there at the top of the cliff. All gathered round. Looking down.

The Turk races over.

The boy doesn't move. He can't.

Though he knows who it is who's lying there. On the rocks.

He walks back to his bike. There's nothing left 'cept for them little splinters of pain what jab at ya from time to time.

It's only memory now.