Death in Brunswick Page 3

  ‘What’s this, Mother?’ he said at last. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fine, dear, not to worry. I just got a bit of a scare. Doctor Lee was sweet to come but there is nothing really wrong. I’m just tired—be a good boy and make me a cup of tea.’

  ‘Jesus, Mother! Oh, never mind! OK.’

  He went to the kitchen and put on the kettle. Jesus, she has been busy.

  The kitchen was unnaturally clean and tidy.

  Silly old…No wonder she’s tired. She got a scare! What about me—I haven’t taken that much exercise since…His legs were shaking. What I need is a drink.

  He got a bottle of tequila and took a quick drink and then another. He made the tea, feeling a little better.

  He carried the cup to her room. I suppose I should go back to work—no, I can’t.

  Giving her the cup he felt, what? Virtuous, he supposed.

  ‘I was worried, Mother.’

  ‘I know, dear, and you’re a good boy to come so quickly.’

  She drank the tea and lay back puffing a little. She smiled at him. He shifted restlessly.

  ‘You are a good son to me, so you are!’

  He heard the fake Irish and winced.

  ‘Ah, crap, Mum.’

  ‘Don’t call me Mum, dear, it’s common. Now, what I wanted to say to you—sit down, I want to talk to you seriously.’

  ‘No, listen, Mother, I better get back to work.’

  ‘No, dear, just wait, this is serious.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I suppose I could ring up.’

  ‘That’s right, go and ring up and bring my bag from the hall, there’s a good boy.’

  Jesus, thirty-seven years old and still being called a good boy. He went into the hall and found her bag. Automatically he flicked through the contents, remembering how he used to steal money from her purse when he was a kid. How she had caught him. How she had made his gentle father beat him. How long before I heard the end of that?

  He wondered what she wanted to say now, seriously. God, the two weeks were going to be hell if she wanted to have serious talks all the time.

  Serious. Now that was a word she hardly ever used. His mother prided herself on having a sense of humour, whatever that meant. Her favourite author was Nancy Mitford and she usually faced life with a sort of grotesquely genteel frivolity. It was the heart attack, he thought, that was serious. Still, she was brave, damn her.

  Carl rang the club.

  ‘Hello, Yanni?’

  He could hear the clamour of rock’n’roll.

  ‘Yeah, Carl, how’s your mum, all right? It’s pretty quiet so you can come in tomorrow, no worries.’

  Jesus, it’s human! Ah yes, but mothers are sacred, I must remember that.

  ‘Thanks, Yanni. How’s Sophie going?’

  ‘Fine, don’t worry, son.’

  ‘Well, I’ll just speak to her, OK? Just to make sure, you know.’

  ‘Well, OK, mate, but it’s real quiet. Tomorrow’s the night—the Divinyls are on. I’ll switch you through. Take it easy.’

  Carl heard the phone switched through to the servery.

  ‘Hello, Sophie, it’s Carl.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know Sophie, Carl the cook.’

  Who you were pulling off an hour ago—Jesus!

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said. ‘Hi, Cookie.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, Cookie, everything’s fine but I can’t talk now—the bouncers want their tea.’

  ‘Oh, OK then, Sophie. See you tomorrow night. Listen, can I ring you at home?’

  ‘No, shit no. My dad doesn’t like guys ringing up. I’ll ring you, OK?’

  Hooray! Carl happily gave her his number and went back to his mother’s room, carrying her handbag.

  *

  ‘Now, dear, sit down. I want to speak, but first give your old mother a kiss.’

  Reluctantly he bent and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Oh dear, you do smell of the alehouse,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Yeah, well, I had to have a drink. I’m sorry, but you gave me a shock.’

  He sat on the end of the bed.

  ‘You’re not drinking too much again, are you, dear?’

  ‘No, no, Mother. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Well, what I wanted to say to you, dear, was, tomorrow your Uncle John is coming here and I’m going to make a will.’

  ‘Oh, Mother. Hell, you haven’t got anything to leave. Anyway you’re good for years yet, Doctor Lee said so.’

  ‘No, dear, never mind about Doctor Lee, you’re quite wrong. You see your grandfather left quite a lot of money. In trust it was. Now I was going to leave it to your sister, but you’ve been such a good boy lately, that I’ve decided to leave it to you.’

  He stared at her.

  This was all very mysterious. His grandfather, an Irish lawyer of the old type, had fathered twelve children on his silent little Bavarian Catholic wife, killing her at forty-one. Carl had seen their picture—the big dark Irishman standing with his fat hand on her narrow shoulder, her thin blonde face docile and wasted.

  Although Carl knew that the old lawyer had been a man of monstrous greed and very wealthy, his mother couldn’t have got more than a twelfth of whatever was riches in 1943. Besides, since his father had died broke when Carl was seventeen, his mother had lived a life of genteel, if discontented, poverty.

  ‘Yes, dear,’ she went on. ‘Your grandfather didn’t trust women. He was rather old-fashioned, you know.’

  Yeah. Carl had heard stories of the disgusting old brute from his Uncle John, a raffish solicitor—the only one of his relations that he liked.

  ‘I still don’t understand, Mother.’

  ‘Well, Carl, the boys got their money outright, but your aunts and I were left ours in trust for our children, to leave as we wanted. I always thought it a little unfair, especially as we were so poor after your dear father died. Anyway, your sister doesn’t need any money with Clive doing so well with the factory, and he has been a little impatient with your poor old mother lately.’

  Well, well, Clive’s been impatient, has he? Carl smiled to himself—Clive, his sister’s porcine husband, owned a fertilizer factory and had made large amounts of money from the superphosphate bounty, whatever that was. Carl hadn’t spoken to him for years. Their antipathy was deep and mutual.

  ‘Well, how much is it then? Don’t tell me if you don’t want to,’ he muttered hurriedly.

  ‘Well, dear, the trustees say it’s much more than a hundred thousand dollars now. You see, Carl, I haven’t spent any of the interest all these years and it’s been mounting up.’

  ‘Fuck! You’ve got to be joking.’

  ‘Don’t swear, dear,’ she said automatically.

  Carl stared at her as she lay back smiling shyly.

  A hundred thou! His brain raced round like a slot car. What could I do with a hundred thou! I’d be free. I could have my own restaurant. I could tell other poor buggers what to do. I could…

  ‘Are you pleased, dear?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Mother,’ he said slowly. ‘But you’ll…I mean, you’ve got years yet.’

  ‘That’s up to our Heavenly Father, dear. After all, I’ve had a warning. That reminds me. You will come to church with me one Sunday, won’t you, dear?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Of course, Mother. Um…Listen, I’ve got to…’

  He had to get away and think. God, how will I sleep tonight? His eye strayed over the litter of pill bottles on her bedside table. Maybe she’s got something…

  ‘Now, Mother, if you want to go to the bathroom, I’ll straighten up your bed and that.’

  ‘Yes, I will, dear, that’s a good boy.’

  And she got up wearily and shuffled through the door.

  Carl swiftly went through her pills—Linoxin, Digoxin, Vitamin B, Potassium. Ah! Soneryl. That’s more like it. He took three, no four, swallowing them dryly. They were bitter and hard to get down. He wasn’t quite sure wh
at they were but he was past caring.

  While he waited for them to hit, he made the bed and tidied the room in a perfunctory way.

  He picked up a small, richly bound book. It was a missal stuffed with holy pictures. She is taking this seriously now. He was amused. His mother had always liked the idea of being a devout Catholic, but had never done much about it. Shit! Imagine going to church with her.

  His mother returned and, wheezing, got into bed.

  ‘Now, dear, I’ll have another cup of tea and then off to sleep.’

  ‘OK, Mother, and I’ll have a drink after that news.’

  ‘Now, Carl,’ she said sternly, ‘What I wanted to say to you was—the only reason I’m leaving you your grandfather’s legacy is because I think you’re going to be a good boy now. You know how wild you used to be with your drinking and the drugs and your poor wife and little girl—you know I had a letter from her just the other day. Reading between the lines dear, I’m sure she’d have you back…why don’t you try again?’

  Carl was horrified. He controlled himself with difficulty.

  ‘Yeah, well, maybe, Mother. Listen, I have to go to bed myself soon, so I’ll leave you to it. We’ll have a talk in the morning.’

  *

  He left the room, his head spinning with pills and his mother’s bombshells. Stumbling, he went out the back for a piss. Standing in the darkness he aimed vaguely in the direction of the toilet bowl.

  Jesus, I’ll have to get a light for out here. The poor old bag will break her neck. Break her neck! No, stop it—his thoughts slid—a hundred thou! It must be bullshit, it must be. She’s got it all wrong, I bet. She is getting old.

  One more drink. He took a pull at the tequila bottle, weaved into his bedroom and fell onto his bed fully clothed. His thoughts were slower now. They rose like bubbles of gas.

  I really need that money. There was his ex-wife for instance. She wanted her maintenance payments. Bloody lesbian bitch—Jesus, I hope she didn’t mention that to Mum in her letter. His daughter—he hadn’t seen her for a year. He tried to remember her face. All he could think of was how fair everyone was—his mother, his wife, his daughter and himself—and how dark Sophie was. Jesus, I think I did bugger that up. But she might ring tomorrow—the club. Bloody work! How did I end up there? Because I’m not good enough. I can’t work in places like that the rest of my life—but I mightn’t have to. No, it’s crap—the money. It must be. Besides it could be years away. Anyway I’ll ask Uncle John. Money, shit—what do I owe? Mustafa for one—what the hell’s going on there? I better pay him though—who knows what contacts he’s got in the dope world. But I haven’t got it—this week I’ll get what? A hundred and ninety—but there’s the rent, the phone, and God knows what else, and I’ve got twenty dollars in the bank, or is it thirty. I’ll have to be a reformed character now. God! If Mother ever found out about Mustafa and the pills and that—I’ll have to go to church! I wonder what it’s like now. Could it all be true—the will? And if it is how will I…what about Prue!

  He sat up, holding his head. I couldn’t live with her again. He lay back. I’ll go and see Dave before work tomorrow—he’ll tell me what to do.

  He could hear rain falling outside as he turned over and slipped away into a deep sleep.

  After what seemed five minutes, Carl woke to find his mother bending over him. She was setting a cup of tea beside his bed. He stared at her in shock. He felt like a new-born baby—his life a blank.

  And then slowly, as the pills ebbed, his memory started to return. But what was she doing here? Oh yeah.

  ‘Jesus, Mother, what time is it?’

  ‘Time you were up, dear, it’s a lovely morning.’

  A beam of sunlight stabbed into his right eye.

  ‘Jesus Christ! Mother, what time is it?’

  ‘Nine o’clock, Carl, and don’t shout at your poor old mother.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  ‘Get up soon. There’s hardly a scrap of food in the house and I can’t get round to the shops.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, OK, Mother.’

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘Now dear, that’s dirty, sleeping in your clothes. You really are…No wonder Prue couldn’t bear it.’

  ‘Mother! For Christ’s…’ He was about to let loose when he remembered. The money—the will! For some reason it seemed more likely this morning.

  ‘Well, you know, Mother, I was pretty tired last night…How are you this morning?’ She looks good for another twenty years, fuck her.

  ‘Really quite well, dear. Now, get a move on, Carl, I’m hungry and I want my breakfast.’

  She left the room and he could hear her in the kitchen making more tea. She was singing.

  He sat for a while with his head in his hands.

  God, those pills must have been strong—what were they? Soneryl? I went out like a…Soneryl—I must look them up—I must get old Mustafa on to them. Shit! No Mustafa.

  Thirstily he drank the lukewarm tea.

  What am I going to do? She’s cracking the whip already—it must be true about the money otherwise she wouldn’t dare. And what was that about Prue?

  He stood swaying. I must see Dave—Dave will know what to do.

  Spurred on by his mother, Carl washed, shaved, went shopping, and, while choking on two pieces of toast, watched nauseated as she ate a large breakfast—kidneys and bacon.

  She lit a Rothman’s Plain.

  ‘Now, what are you going to do today, Carl?’

  ‘Well, I have to go to work at five, but I thought I might…’

  ‘Now, what I wanted to say to you, dear, was your Uncle John is coming at eleven and I really think you should be out.’

  ‘But, Mother, I wanted to ask him…’

  ‘No, dear, it’s a lovely day. You should go for a walk. Besides you’d be embarrassed—now off you go, dear.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  He looked at her. She sat, still in her dressing gown but heavily made up, her eyes half closed against the cigarette smoke. She flicked ash into the congealing remains of her breakfast.

  He looked away and got up abruptly.

  ‘Yeah, I better go out.’

  *

  Gratefully he closed the front door on her. She was playing Mahler again and the triumphant music followed him up the street.

  It was a nice day though. The humidity had gone with the rain and it was pleasantly warm. Turning into Lygon Street, he met the girls from the Red Robin sock factory coming back from their morning tea. He walked behind them for a while, watching their short strong legs. He thought of Sophie. Shit! She was going to ring. He hesitated, then walked on.

  What’s the use, I’m too old for her. She was laughing at me. I’ll have to find someone like Prue, I suppose—someone my age—someone tall and blonde. Anyway Mother wouldn’t…

  Gentle self-pity overcame him. It was not unpleasant in the warm sunlight. As he came to Stewart Street he realized that he was halfway to his friend Dave’s house. I will go and see Dave—he always makes me feel better.

  When Carl could bear to think about it, his friendship with Dave puzzled him. They were so very different. Dave was short and powerful. His arms were literally as thick as Carl’s thighs. He had had polio as a child and it had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other.

  This gave him an extraordinarily solid, purposeful gait. He and Carl, with his nervous, leggy walk, looked together like a comedy duo.

  Carl was totally apolitical, but Dave had been a committed revolutionary socialist all his adult life and on principle always worked at the hardest, dirtiest jobs. At the moment, to Carl’s distaste, he was a gravedigger.

  They did have some things in common, however: hard drinking and music. Dave loved opera with a real passion and Carl, though too fidgety to go to concerts, loved baroque chamber music. He had a good ear and some taste. They both collected early be-bop records and had a romantic devotion to Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker.
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  Some of the happiest nights of Carl’s life had been spent with his friend, drinking huge amounts of whisky and listening to grand opera played on Dave’s expensive stereo. Towards the morning they would listen to Bird and drunkenly mourn that long-dead hero.

  Now these pleasant orgies had stopped. Dave had married and his wife disliked Carl. Still, Dave was Carl’s only friend. Carl knew that Dave laughed at him but he really didn’t mind. He had a deep respect for the other’s common sense, his easy humour. Although theoretically Dave constantly suffered for the oppressed and wanted to disembowel the bourgeoisie, Carl had never met a happier, more contented man.

  Soon Carl turned into Dave’s street. It was poorer, grimier and more depressed than his own. There were no trees, the edges of the footpath were crumbling, half-filled potholes scarred the asphalt. Dark children played around a rusty, abandoned car, their shrill voices filling the air. Shit! It must be school holidays. God! June might be home.

  Dave’s wife was a teacher. Carl approached the house cautiously. It had been a rather pretty weatherboard cottage but Dave had three children and their depredations and Dave’s indolence had led the house into irreversible decline. Broken toys littered the front path and some depressed rabbits cropped the ragged lawn. An old neutered tomcat watched them with lazy patience.

  Carl couldn’t see June’s car so he walked up the front path, avoiding the toys and keeping an eye out for rabbit shit. He could hear opera—a swooping voice against angry discords. Dave was home.

  He walked straight into the front room. Dave was sitting on an old sofa changing a baby’s nappy. The baby was crying loudly; the noise was deafening.

  Dave looked up and grinned. His big brown face was heavily lined and his beard and short curly hair were grey; a faded black T-shirt was stretched across his thick torso. His feet were bare and massive like a Picasso peasant’s. Rude good spirits filled the room. He wiped shit off the baby’s bum and deftly tucked the disposable nappy into a plastic bag. Carl averted his eyes. He saw with surprise and some envy that the music was coming from a video. A tarty-looking blonde shrieked from the screen.

  ‘Carl, my boy, how are you, comrade?’ Dave shouted above the din. ‘Just in time for lunch. Have a beer! Have a baby!’ And he thrust the squirming child into Carl’s arms and lumbered from the room.