Death in Brunswick Page 4

  Carl, his mouth twisted with distaste, quickly set the baby down on the sofa.

  What the hell is its name anyway? Vladimir or Germaine or is it Shulamith? No, it’s a boy—Jesus, what a noise!

  He found the control by the screen and turned the sound down.

  What is it? It really isn’t so bad, although it’s giving me a headache. He found the cassette cover. Lulu. A bit modern for Dave. He pressed the off button on the video.

  Lulu. It’s like Lilly—I must not think about her.

  Lilly was Carl’s daughter. He remembered her early childhood and winced.

  Dave’s so good with them. I’m just not a father—Dave’s so good at everything. Sometimes he shits me. Where did he get the money for that video, for instance? With three kids and everything—Jesus.

  Carl was working himself up into a jealous rage when Dave came back, holding two cans of beer in one great hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other.

  ‘Don’t you like Lulu, my boy? Never mind, wait till you see what I got from England!’

  He crammed two sandwiches into his mouth and took a big swig of beer. Carl had to smile—Dave was like a big kid. He took a sandwich and opened it cautiously.

  Shit, health food bread. It always hurt his teeth. Still. He sat down. They ate and drank together in companionable silence for a while. This really is a nice room.

  Books lined the walls and the sun slanted through a well-shaped bow window. The baby was quiet.

  Dave finished eating and lay back, propping the baby on his gut.

  ‘Where’s June and the kids?’ asked Carl nervously.

  ‘Down at her mother’s. Don’t you worry, comrade,’ said Dave, grinning. ‘How are you getting on with your mother?’

  ‘Ah, Dave, you wouldn’t believe what it’s like! I have to go to church with her on Sunday.’

  ‘What!’ Dave was convulsed with laughter.

  ‘No, but wait, Dave. I’ve got to tell you. Jesus Christ!’

  And Carl told his friend what had happened the previous night, leaving out only his sexual debacle. The history was punctuated by Dave’s shouts of laughter. He found Carl irresistably comic. But when Carl came to the will he became quieter.

  ‘More than a hundred thou. That’s serious money. And how is she?…I mean, sorry, comrade, but how long will she last?’

  ‘Jesus, Dave, it’s not funny. You should have seen the breakfast she put away this morning. The quack reckons she’s fine, and Christ, Dave, she’s really cracking the whip.’

  ‘Well, old chap,’ said Dave, laughing again, ‘you’ll just have to cop it, won’t you! Yes, a new Carl from now on, a respectable citizen. Yeah, and back with your missus it looks like.’

  ‘Oh Dave! Don’t.’

  Carl was desperately trying to change the subject—Dave was no help at all.

  ‘Anyway, Dave, talking about respectable, what about the video? I never heard of a revolutionary with a National before. And what’s that? A home computer?’

  ‘Ah well,’ said Dave comfortably, ‘it’s for the kids.’

  Carl looked at him lying back smiling. It’s all right for him!

  A new and terrible thought came to him. Suppose the old bag wants to stay longer? Suppose I have to look after her for years—I’d go mad and that’s that.

  He wrenched his mind away.

  ‘And how’s the bone yard?’

  Dave worked part-time at the Coburg cemetery.

  Originally he had started there as a joke, but now he thought it was one of the best jobs he had ever had.

  ‘Great, comrade, you don’t know how beautiful that place is. Lovely old trees, lots of birds, no one on your back. I’m doing a grave this arvo actually. There’s an Italian funeral tomorrow. I’m going down when June comes back.’

  Carl lit a cigarette nervously.

  ‘Well, I better get back to Mum, I suppose.’ Christ, I couldn’t face June today.

  ‘No, no, stick around, mate. I want to play you something.’

  Dave got up and fed a cassette into his stereo. He sat back, his arm round the baby, and smiled happily at Carl.

  There was a quick slurry of cymbals, some heavy thumping piano and then, suddenly, an alto sax burst into the room—fast, feverish and beautiful. Carl sat up in amazement.

  ‘Jesus, that’s Bird! But it sounds so…’

  ‘Shush. Listen.’

  The alto danced and span, mocking an awkward trumpet, and finished with a chord sequence so complex that Carl was left floundering behind. Dave stopped the machine.

  ‘How about that!’

  ‘It’s so clean, it sounds like it was recorded yesterday. Where did you get it?’

  ‘There’s this guy in England—he’s remastered a lot of Bird’s old nightclub tapes with digital something. Anyway you can order them, and I got this one yesterday. Isn’t it great? Doesn’t that make you feel better?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so, but poor Charlie.’ Carl felt sentimental and melancholy. ‘Live hard, die young.’

  ‘Jesus, Carl, don’t be such a wimp!’

  ‘No, it reminds me of work, nightclubs and that…I told you about that Mustafa. You know, the guy who gets me the pills?’

  ‘Well, what about him?’ Dave said impatiently. ‘He’s pissed off, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, but there’s something going on there I don’t know about and it worries me—that Greek prick who runs the place is as sneaky as a shithouse rat. I don’t know, that place scares me.’

  ‘Now, Carl, you’ll be right. Just take it easy. Listen, if you have any trouble with them just ring, and I’ll be down. And don’t worry about your mother. Just keep on the right side of her and pretty soon she’ll get sick of living over here and fuck off back to your sister—OK?’

  ‘Jesus, Dave, would you really come down there if…’

  ‘Yeah, but only if you really get in trouble though, Carl. Just take it easy! I don’t know, you’re like a chook in a thunderstorm. Now piss off, old boy, I have to go to work soon, and June’ll be home in a cunt of a mood after her mum’s, and you know how she likes you!’

  Dave, carrying the baby, put his heavy arm about Carl’s shoulder and led him out to the gate. It was getting hot.

  ‘See you, Dave. Listen, thanks. I know I’m a bit…’

  ‘Go on, mate,’ said Dave gently. ‘Just take it easy and I’ll see you soon.’

  Carl walked away with Charlie Parker’s alto spinning in his head. Good old Dave.

  *

  Dave watched Carl’s spindly figure recede into the heat haze. Shaking his head, he went inside, returning with a rug. He lay down in the sun with the baby. Soon he was dozing.

  He was wakened by the crash of the front gate. His two little boys ran in, followed by his wife.

  ‘Hi, Dad! Look at what Nanna gave us.’

  They were both brandishing video games.

  ‘Hey! Fantastic, kids!’

  ‘Can we play with them now, Dad? Please?’

  ‘Yeah, go on, boys.’

  And they bolted inside. He looked lazily at his wife, who was standing over him. She was a tall stooping woman, in a T-shirt and grubby cotton pants. Her temples were shaven and her short hair was dyed orange. She had a badge over one sagging breast: ‘Dead Men Don’t Rape!’ She peered at him shortsightedly.

  ‘God, Dave! Look at this front yard! I asked you to clean it up.’

  ‘Ah, sorry, babe. I had a bit of a snooze…’

  ‘And look at Leon, will you! Christ, Dave!’

  The baby had rabbit shit smeared over its face. She snatched it up, wiped it with the edge of her T-shirt, and began suckling it.

  ‘And I didn’t want the boys to start playing with those rotten games till we had at least had a discussion. They’re so violent, those games. I couldn’t stop Mum buying them—you know what she’s like. Those boys—they’re getting so—so masculine and you just don’t help!’

  She stamped her foot. The rabbits scattered.

 
; Dave turned over onto his stomach. Watching his wife breastfeeding always turned him on and the sun was warming his groin. But this was not the time.

  ‘Yeah, well, sorry, babe. Listen, go and put the kettle on. I have to go to work soon.’

  ‘Oh, Dave!’

  She turned and marched angrily into the house.

  Dave stretched and looked at his watch. He sighed and got up. His size eleven working boots and socks were on the front verandah. Putting them on, he clumped into the house. Zaps and whistles came from the front room. He hesitated and went on. There was no time, but he just loved video games.

  Going into the kitchen, he found his wife holding the baby with one hand and making the tea with the other. He held the pot for her while passing his hand over her buttocks. There was a big bulge in the front of his jeans.

  ‘Just piss off, Dave!’

  She fended him off with the baby. It started to cry.

  ‘Now look at what you’ve done! And I’ve told you not to wear your working boots in the house. What time are you coming home, anyway?’

  ‘About six, I s’pose,’ said Dave. ‘I thought I might go to the pub for a while.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. This is Friday. You know I’ve got my course on Fridays. You’ll have to feed the kids.’

  ‘Oh yeah, OK, what course is that? I forget.’

  ‘Assertiveness Training. Jesus, Dave, you know that. Boys! Boys! Turn that down!’

  She bustled into the front room.

  Dave followed, slowly sipping his tea. He heard cries of ‘Oh Mum!’ as the video was stilled.

  ‘Now go outside and play.’

  The boys clattered out. He found her looking suspiciously at an ashtray.

  ‘Who’s been smoking?’

  ‘Ah yeah. Well, Carl was round…’

  ‘That wimpy little prick! What did he want? I’ll never forgive him for what he did to poor Prue and that lovely little girl!’

  ‘Now, babe, it wasn’t all Carl’s fault. I mean, Prue is a lesbian.’

  ‘No wonder, and what’s wrong with that, anyway?’

  ‘Oh right, honey, yeah, but listen! How about this!’

  And he told her about Carl’s mother and the famous legacy.

  She listened impatiently.

  ‘Well, if he does get all that money—and I hope his mother lives for ages—I do hope Prue gets at least half. I know he hasn’t been paying her maintenance. I’ll write to her tonight. She’s living in New South—on that commune, what is it? Amazon Acres.’

  ‘Now June. You better not interfere,’ Dave said, amused, but a little alarmed.

  ‘Dave, just go to work! I’ve got to put the baby down and you’re in the way. Go on!’

  Dave trod heavily down the front path. He was limping slightly.

  ‘Hey, Dad, where ya goin’?’

  ‘I’m off to work, kids.’

  ‘Can we come, Dad? We want to dig a grave!’

  ‘Next time maybe,’ he said easily.

  ‘Don’t you dare, Dave! You keep those kids out of that dirty place!’

  June’s voice, roughened by years of yelling at recalcitrant children, carried effortlessly from the house. Her pupils called her Miss Vinegar. Dave shrugged at the boys, went out the gate and climbed into his battered Holden.

  *

  He sat for a moment reflectively kneading his bad leg. He knew that he couldn’t work as he did for too much longer—maybe he could get a job with the union. He was a good shop steward, after all. That would make June happy. He released the brake and drove off in a cloud of smoke.

  Gunning the old car down into Sydney Road, he nipped neatly in front of a tram. Changing up with gusto, he drove toward Coburg enjoying the crowds out for Friday afternoon shopping: Greeks, Italians, Turks, Lebanese, Chinese, Vietnamese. What a place! He was a little early so he parked the car, got out and wandered up and down Sydney Road for a while, looking at the shops and enjoying the people. He paused as he always did at a big Italian furniture store, gazing with wonder and amusement at the extravagantly carved chairs and tables. He stopped at a delicatessen and bought a quarter kilo of fetta cheese. He sat in his car eating the salty slab.

  Why did Carl hate Brunswick so much? He didn’t have to live round here.

  He shook his head and restarted the car. Driving north up Sydney Road and turning up Bell Street, he came to the cemetery gates.

  The main gate was locked. He sounded the horn and waited till the caretaker came out of his bluestone cottage and undid the padlock with a great rattling of chains.

  ‘Hi, Bluey. How you goin’?’

  The caretaker leaned in the car window. He was a bit drunk and Dave could smell heavy wafts of beer. Bluey’s face was flushed and raddled, veins crawled over his pitted nose, and an incongruously youthful shock of ginger hair stood above his forehead.

  ‘There you are, Dave. Come in to help Mick, have ya? He’s got your tools.’

  ‘Where is it, Blue? Not a sinker is it?’

  ‘No, no, mate. She’s an old one, not six foot, down in C3, in the wog section, you know.’

  ‘All right. Ta, Blue. Listen, mate, you’ve started pissing on a bit early, haven’t you? Don’t let Bruce catch you. You know the rules. The Trust’ll arsehole you if you don’t watch out.’

  ‘Ah, fuck Bruce and the Trust. You’ll look after me, Dave, you’re the shop steward.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Be careful, Blue, all right? You owe me your last sub, by the way.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, off you go, Dave.’ Bluey stepped back. ‘There goes the gun gravedigger!’

  The caretaker bowed mockingly and, staggering slightly, went back to his cottage. Dave drove slowly into the cemetery.

  He parked the car under a huge gum and got out. The cemetery was old and nearly full. It stretched for a kilometre before him on two slight hills. To his right a wrought iron fence ran gently up and down, narrowing into the distance. The other slope was a little higher than the one on which he stood and the brow of the hill hid the end of the railings. The thickly clustered headstones seemed to run into the horizon.

  He could see the flash of a spade on the other slope—that must be old Mick. He started walking down. Most of the graves were topped with weathered granite slabs sunk with time, the monuments leaning every which way, some split and broken, like discarded toys. Great old cypresses stirred softly against the blue sky. The chirp of countless sparrows and the coo of pigeons nearly drowned the low hum of traffic from Bell Street. High above a hawk drifted.

  Now he was walking through the oldest section: Irish Catholic. Rank grass grew over rusty iron railings and the tall Celtic crosses were spotted with lichen. As he went his eye flicked over the inscriptions: ‘Patrick O’Donohue, Native of Co. Antrim. Died 1860. Requiescat in Pace.’ ‘In Loving Memory of little Tom Ryan, died aged two. 1882. And his brothers and sisters: Gervase, Sebastian, Florence (Dolly), Malachi, Brigit and Dominic…’

  He walked on past a sign—‘C of E and Nonconformist’. Here was a forest of stern angels, veiled urns and broken pillars. ‘In Loving Memory of Michael Dawson, Saddler of Coburg, Died 1880 in his sixty-fourth year. Only Sleeping’. You’ve really overslept, mate! A great stone archangel holding a double-edged long sword brooded above the leather-worker’s tomb. Dave often wondered how a Victorian artisan’s family could afford these monstrosities. He supposed that there were just as many greedy undertakers round then as now.

  He crunched through gravel. He was approaching the bottom of the hill. Here the graves were neater; here prosperous Edwardian burghers lay with their families. ‘In Memory of James (Jim) Lang, died 1911, aged fifty-two, a much loved husband and father.’ And (in fresher gold lettering) ‘His wife Emily, died 1937, aged eighty-four’.

  Why did women live so much longer now? They didn’t in the old days. Repeated childbirth and drudgery did for them early—Dave thought of June. She’ll die before me, probably of rage! We’ll bury her with a loud hailer!

  He sniggered and
then felt remorseful, for he truly loved the termagant.

  Starting to climb the hill he looked back—how pretty it was! People used to have picnics here— how odd we would think that now.

  This was the start of the Italian section. It was more difficult to walk in a straight line now. It was so crowded that graves had been sunk in many of the paths. This had taken place before Dave’s time; a corrupt caretaker had let the city’s biggest Italian undertaker plant his defunct countrymen anywhere, like radishes. The grasping mortician had even sold grave plots twice and three times to different families, leading to much unseemly wrangling among the bereaved. After the inevitable government inquiry a Trust had taken over and ran the cemetery on sober and commercial lines. The older gravediggers remembered the former times with regret: bribery had flowed freely and the caretaker was so busy hiding his ill-gotten wealth that supervision was non-existent. The old man had stashed banknotes all over his cottage where most of it was found after his death, but Bluey spent much time tapping the walls and floors looking for hidden treasure.

  Now Dave was in the midst of the Italian section, called on the caretakers’ map ‘Wog Cath’. Here the mortuary extravagance was Baroque, not to say Rococo. The headstones were long, low, built of expensive marble and black shiny granite. There were masses of gold lettering. Many graves had glass cabinets containing plaster statues and, disconcertingly, photographs of their occupants. On a few, by some stonemason’s witchcraft, portraits of the dead were impregnated into the marble. They shimmered wraithlike in the warm sunlight. There was a profusion of plastic flowers and here and there Dave could see stout black-clad Italian women tidying, watering and praying. It made a pleasant and homely scene.

  He saw old Mick now, working slowly on the hill. Dodging behind a line of shiny black slabs Dave approached him from behind.

  ‘Get a move on, you old bugger!’

  The ancient gravedigger started and flicked a spray of gravel into the air.

  ‘Dave, Dave, you naughty boy! Good you come.’

  Grinning with a line of pink gums, Mick climbed rheumatically out of the grave. He was tall and remarkably spare—his old legs were so bowed that Dave could see three tombstones between his knees.