Time's Long Ruin (54 page)

Bullshit.

Said a man took you in there that afternoon, the day you went
to the beach. She lived across the road. Said she saw Gavin running
off down a laneway at teatime but this fella grabbed him and
dragged him back.

Gavin appeared from behind the picket fence.
Crap
, he said.
She's makin' it up.

Then she said the next morning she went over and knocked on
the door but you were all gone.

Not even close
, Janice smiled.

Just what someone said.

People are stupid.

Everyone reckons you're dead. You're not, eh?

She shook her head.
Do I look dead?

They're sending your mum and dad sympathy cards.

Stupid . . .

They got one from Kevin Johns the other day.

Janice looked up.
Yeah?

Wrote a poem in it.

Bet he did
, she said, returning to work.

I waited, listening to the sound of chalk scratching concrete. At last I said,
Everyone misses you.

But she didn't reply.

Especially me.

Don't get soft.

It's not just Croydon, or Adelaide
, I explained.
It's the whole
country.

She shook her head.
People don't care about someone they
don't know.

They seem to
, I argued.
There's always letters to the papers, and
bits on the news. You oughta see the statue down at Semaphore –
there's always fresh flowers on it, hundreds of them, and people
light candles and leave 'em next to your picture.

People are stupid
, she repeated.

Even in England
, I continued.
One night Dad got this call
from Scotland Yard. ‘We've got some questions, about the Rileys,'
they said, and Dad puts on his posh voice, ‘Yes, Sir.' Turns out there
was this fella in England who kidnapped two girls your age. About
a year ago. Witness said he was a tall, blond fella.

I waited for a response. Janice screamed at her brother,
Get off my picture
, and Gavin moved and grinned at me.

Tall, blond
, I repeated.

I heard
, Janice replied.
Still not close.

They found the girls' bodies
, I explained.

They should've been more careful.

I waited again, trying to see what she was drawing.
At least
you don't have to go to school
, I said.

She looked up.
What do you mean? Don't you think . . .?
She bowed her head again.
Is Allan still giving you trouble?

Doesn't matter
, I replied.
I just go to the library these days.

Thought you were friends with Judy?

Ah, she was okay, but her friends were always saying, Why do
we gotta have him?

Bitches.

And after I'd got 'em all books.

Better off by yourself.

I know.

As she was. Scribbling. Drawing outlines and colouring in small continents of colour in a long, grey sea that stretched the length of Thomas Street. All the way to the end of the world. Where it just stopped, and dropped into space.

What you gonna do about Allan?
she asked.

I can deal with him.

You sure?

Yes.

You tell your dad, he'll sort him out.

Nothing to sort out.

But she knew better. She was sitting at the front of the class, listening to Mr Meus, copying down notes on Ballarat, 1851. She was there in the yard and library, talking to me. She was standing beside the monkey-bars ready to catch Anna if she fell. She was in my room, and my hutch, sitting beside me on the tyres, composing another poem for the Argonauts as I started another book.

At last I stood up and walked over to her. And there we were, the four of us, in every chalk colour she had. She was leading us towards a giant yellow sun. We were all holding hands and singing.

Where are we going?
I asked.

And she just smiled.

Dad always said that bad things happened in threes – which meant that Bill had had his serve for life. But things kept getting worse for Bill. There were some people, it seemed, who would only grant him so much time, so much grace.

It was already warm when Bill parked his car in the shade of a pepper tree on the edge of Adelaide University oval. He'd just driven back from Renmark, where he'd visited the usual places, pubs, clubs, cafeterias and bakeries. He'd sold some tablecloths and a few towels to a motel, but only because the owner had worked out who he was. Bill was hot and sweaty, still dressed in his suit pants and a business shirt. And he was tired. Tired of travelling. Of giving the same speech to the same people: ‘Feel these towels . . . we'll be in a pine box before they need replacing.' He was tired of the standard replies: ‘There's a couple of years left in this lot, Bill', the shrugs, the dismissals, the slapped shoulders, ‘We've all been thinkin' about you, Bill, and prayin' for your kiddies.'

He was tired of everything. What was the point of anything, of getting married and buying a house, of helping your neighbours and mowing the lawn, if there were no kids? Liz would never start again. Never. And maybe, he guessed, she was right.

Bill got out of his car and came around and sat on the bonnet. The engine was hot and the paint was covered in fine, brown dust. He watched as his boss, Rob Polito, adjusted his grip on his bat and tapped it on the pitch, looking up expectantly for the next ball; as he shifted his weight, lifted his bat and struck at it; as he clipped it and forced it onto his wicket; as the other batters, standing on the boundary line, let out a hushed, Ahhh, watching as Rob walked off with his bat under his arm, peeling off his gloves, a finger at the time.

Bill stepped forward and waved. ‘Rob.'

The batsman saw him and looked surprised. Then he half-smiled, changed direction and headed towards him. Bill returned and sat on his bonnet and a small branch from the pepper tree brushed across his face. He grabbed it and pulled off a handful of the crimson berries. He crushed them in his hand and they broke into a thousand papery shards. Then he blew them and they scattered over the dead grass turned dirt. Lemon-scented gums, taller than the nearby mansions, dropped leaves into the gutters of the tractor shed.

‘How you going?' Bill asked, as Rob came and sat beside him.

‘Out for a duck. How about you?'

Bill shrugged. ‘Same.'

Bill had been summoned via the telephone. When he'd got back to the pub the previous evening there'd been a note waiting:
Bill, ring me at home, RP
. He'd known what it was about. He hadn't sold much since he'd returned to work six weeks earlier. He'd been to Clare and Burra and the Mount – but, as he explained to Rob, he had the tight-arse circuit, places that probably didn't have spare cash for cuddly towels and lacy tablecloths.

For a while, Rob and the other directors let it go. After all he'd been through, the business could carry him for a while. But then the petrol and room bills started to add up. People started talking, in hallways and carparks, at barbecues they didn't invite him to because, after all, what would you say?

‘I've had the boss in my ear,' Rob said, watching the match, following the progress of a far better batsman.

Bill knew straight away. ‘Thommo?'

‘It doesn't matter. The market's changed. We're not selling enough to justify a full-time rep in the country. Was a time we had someone for the South-East, the Peninsula, the Mid-North, but things have changed.'

‘And I'm not sellin' enough?'

‘You can't sell what people won't buy.'

Bill heard the thump of a ball and looked up. The batsman sprinted up and down the pitch as a dozen or so people in the grandstand stood and applauded.

‘So?' Bill asked.

Rob wiped his forehead with his sleeve. ‘We're gonna stock through the haberdashery stores.'

Bill shook his head. ‘Not a good idea.'

‘Why?'

‘How often's your average publican go in there?'

‘When they need something.'

‘Rob, they never think they need it, you gotta convince them.'

And who was the best at that? He was. Bringing a touch of the Tivoli to Tintinara. Telling a few stories and feeding a few gags. Putting the purchase in perspective. ‘This lot will cost you the same as a keg of beer, but when the beer's gone, what are you left with?'

‘Money in the till.'

‘Yes, but . . .'

‘Nonetheless,' Rob explained, ‘it's been decided.'

Bill shook his head. ‘Those shops will stock the cheap crap. You'll lose your market.'

‘What market?'

‘It's a lull, Rob. It'll pick up.'

‘No it won't. It's the way things are going. Buy cheap and mark it up to buggery. You understand?'

Bill shook his head. ‘I understand. I'm not sellin' enough. And you reckon it's because of the kids.'

‘No.'

‘It is.'

‘Well, truth be told . . .' Rob thought better of it.

‘Go on.'

‘I wanted you to go to KI last week – “No, I'm not feelin' up to it” – And then Port Pirie. I'm not criticising, I understand, but you can't sell linen if you're not there.'

Bill stared ahead. ‘Well, you're right.'

‘Bill.'

‘Do you want me to quit?'

‘No.'

‘I've only been thinkin' of Liz.'

Rob slowly spelt it out. ‘We all understand. We've got kids too. They leave me with the dirty work. Talk to Bill, they say. Christ, you know what? I'd keep you on the payroll forever. Talk to Bill, they say. Fuck.' He paused. ‘And they're sayin', What's the point of driving around the country for no reason?'

But to Bill, there was a reason. It gave him the chance to talk. About linen, yes, but then when the subject changed, to pull out a photo of the kids and show people and ask, Do you think you could put it up in your window, with a note?

‘So where's that leave me?' Bill asked Rob.

‘I had two thoughts. We could put you in the warehouse, or maybe you could convince Arthur to share the western suburbs. That'd be easier for you, eh?'

‘Would he agree?'

‘Always says he's run off his feet.'

Bill looked at Rob. Like most people, he was decent. But like most, Bill guessed, he wasn't sure what to say to a man who'd lost three children.

‘Could you mention it to Arthur?'

‘Of course.' Rob looked at him, smiled and said, ‘Every time I bat, a duck. Every time.'

Bill drove home along War Memorial Drive, under fig trees heavy with over-ripe fruit, their branches sagging like long, sunburnt fingers. He pulled up in his driveway and his house looked different. He stepped out and stood with his arms on his hips and tried to work it out. Of course! The garden beds had been weeded, the bushes and shrubs pruned and the lawns mowed. He followed a trail of freshly cut grass down his drive, along the footpath and into the Housemans' side gate. And there it was, a hot, dusty mower, cooling in full sun beside a concrete frog.

Amazing, he thought. Not a word when the kids disappeared – no time to help, to cook a few goddamn scones. And now, five months later . . . He went up to their front door and knocked, hard, three times. Eventually it opened and Kazz stood smiling at him.

‘I didn't ask you to,' Bill said.

Ron appeared behind her. ‘G'day, Bill.'

Bill tried to stay angry. ‘I was just sayin' . . .' But stopped, seeing the face of Rob, of Bob and Ellen, of Jim Clarke and a thousand others who had only wanted to help. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘You could've at least done the edges,' he smiled.

A few minutes later he was sitting at their kitchen table, a beer in his hand. Ron was showing him his pipe-band photos. ‘See, that's me there, out of step.'

Kazz sat down with them, cupping a coffee in her hands. She looked at Bill as he looked at the photos and then said, ‘Ron's been trying to keep the noise down, in case it disturbed you.'

Bill looked up at her. ‘No, it doesn't worry me.'

‘Thought that's the last thing you'd want to deal with – a noisy neighbour.'

Ron smiled. ‘I am improving.'