Hear him howl as the knuckles crumble. He is pained, he is hurt. Perhaps he may be killed! Under the screeching moon the fist, the glass and the little knives of wire marry, finally, into one crushing admonition of blood.
* * *
That’s what remains. The cleaners, the teachers, the students, in the whistling clarity of morning, find wilted plants, a hole entirely through the wired glass, and blood.
“Cripes, wouldja look at that!”
“Musta put a hand right through there!”
“Won’t be hard trackin’ that one down, I don’t reckon!”
“No more sense ‘n a blind worm! Musta bin full as a tick!”
* * *
Laughter is sweet and crisp as apples. They shake their heads. So amused. He’s captured himself, whoever did that. His own worst enemy, they say. A hose is brought and blood of the bunyip flows, with water, over the lip of cement, to soak back into the thirsty earth.
The Send-off
The ceremony had been brief as a song, as solemn as a bridesmaid’s wish. They’d exchanged rings, promises and hopeful looks, he scrawny-necked and bare-wristed in his unfamiliar suit, she serene and self-possessed. They’d run through a snow of confetti and a hail of rice, emerging from the storm hand in hand – Mister and Missus. They were as prepared as such symbols could make them to be sent off into the lurking future. Only the shouting remained.
* * *
“Folks! Folks! Quiet down now! I got a few words I wanna say to ya’s before the music starts. That’s it! You hear me down the back? Yeah? Good oh!
Well, I jus’ mainly wanna thank alla youse for showin’ up tonight. It’s bin a beaut day for me an’ Tone, seein’ our little girl so happy an’ all. I also wanna apologise for Tone not gettin’ around or gettin’ up to talk to ya’s, but he won’t. Get up, that is. Typical man. Down when you want him up an’ up when you’d rather he was down. Eh, darlin’?
Truth to tell, folks, he’s a bit three-sheets-to-the-windish. What with losin’ ‘is big girl an’ all.
An’ she has bin a darlin’, too! Spite o’ what some stories I bin hearin’ might say. A good girl . . . lovin’ an’ givin’ an’ . . . forgivin’ . . . all her life. Which is why I’m here to say that I think Arlo’s one par-tic-you-larly lucky man! An’ I reckon the two of ‘em’s in for a long, happy, productive life together.
Course we already know about the ‘productive’ part, ‘cause o’ course they got little Leah here; who’s about the bes’ little gran’daughter a woman’d wish for. Aren’t ya, darlin’? Me an’ Tone reckon she’s a real blessin’, don’t we Tone?
* * *
(Now stop that! Jus’ nod yer head, boy! You had too much to drink awready, an’ yer not responsible. I know it! Everyone knows it! So hush up! These folks’re our guests an’ they don’ wanna hear you yammerin’ on about such stuff!)
* * *
Sorry, folks. Tone’s always had this thing about sex before marriage. Like he wanted it an’ I wouldn’ give it to ‘im! Ha ha!
Sure he’s a self-righteous ol’ ratbag where ‘is daughters’re concerned, but ‘is own mind never got above ‘is crotch ‘til he was thirty-six. That was the year our Cath turned thirteen an’ he done his back an’ went on the pension. Bin a misery-guts ever since, haven’t ya boy!
But I love ‘im, frien’s an’ neighbours, I bet you all know that. An’ anyways, young folks these days see things different an’ us oldies got no look-in there!
So, what I’m really wantin’ to say is ‘specially for Cath an’ Arlo. It’s about lookin’ out for each other; about bein’ a family. I reckon, when you get down to it, that’s what God put us all together here for; to be together. To love an’ care for each other. In the good times an’ the bad. Of which we all get our fair share.
So listen here to me, Arlo. You got a good woman on yer han’s now, with Cath. She ain’t an engine ya can tinker with an’ she ain’ a horse ya can jump on an’ ride off.
* * *
(Now you boys down there, you shut up that sniggerin’! You know I never meant it like that! You’re all the same, you bloody lot! Hush up!)
* * *
What I’m sayin’ to you, Arlo, is a woman needs . . . gentleness an’ . . . an’ consideration. An’ all the lovin’ you can give. So you do yourself an’ yer new wife a favour. You take some o’ that time you spend rubbin’ stuff into the ducco on yer fancy car, or lurkin’ around with them no-gooders at the footy club, an’ you spen’ that time . . .
* * *
(Now watch it, you boys! I’m talkin’ serious here! They’s not a one youse too big to go over my knee!)
* * *
Arlo, you spen’ some o’ that time lookin’ after yer wife. ‘Cause that’s a lovely word, ‘wife’, an’ she’s a lovely girl to be comin’ home to.
An’ Cath . . . baby . . . I know it ain’ always bin . . . you know . . . sorta the way we’d all like everythin’ to be at home. Nobody knows that better’n me. But . . . I done the best I could with what I had. With you an’ yer sisters. An’ yer dad.
Jus’ remember, baby. Men’s got their . . . needs. They ain’ always convenient an’ they ain’ always . . . comfortable. To live with, like. But yer’ve made a commitment to his man. I want ya to love ‘im an’ . . . do right by ‘im. Don’ give ‘im any cause for complaint. Like I never done with yer dad. Spite of . . . well, spite of whatever.
An’ remember, me an’ dad, we love ya. Always have. An’ . . . well, here I am bawlin’ now. Never meant to. Wait’ll I blow me nose.
(Gahhh! Get a grip on yerself, ol’ woman!)
Ahhh! ‘S no use, folks, I might’s well sit down. ‘Fore I do, though, I know Arlo’s dad’d like to say a few words. ‘S nice to think there’s still some men who can stand up an’ talk sense at the end o’ the day.
Now, those of ya who know Roland, know ‘im for a good man who’s raised his boy all alone for a lot o’ years. Ain’ bin easy, I don’ expect. Men don’ take naturally to raisin’ kids. But Roland done ‘is best. An’ if ‘is best is good enough for our Cath, it’s flat out good enough for anybody!
Roland? You wanna say somethin’?”
* * *
“You bet your knickers I do, Myrtle! You just draw yourself a deep breath there. Get a grip on yourself.
(Damn few of us here who could get a grip on her, eh folks? Ha ha.)
Typical woman, our Myrtle. Talk the ears off a deaf dog an’ finish up cryin’ over the pups. Ha ha. Well, I won’t take so long.
First up, my name’s not Roland. I’m Rollo to friend and foe alike, and I’ll fight any man says otherwise. Won’t fight you though, Myrtle. I remember you sittin’ on me once before, years ago! Yessir! Me an’ Myrtle go back a long way, folks. You know? Nudge-nudge, wink-wink? Ha ha ha.
(Alright, alright, Tone! Just a little laugh! No harm!)
Anyways, Myrtle, you nearly broke me spinal cervix even then and you was only half the woman you are now!
(Righteo, Tone, don’t go gettin’ yourself agritated!)
Anyways, second thing is, I’d like to thank Myrtle and Tone for givin’ the kids this send-off, right? That’s it! Put your hands together, folks! You bet! You know, some folks would turn their noses up at hiring out the back room o’ the Met’. But I’m here to tell you, there’s not a better pub in town. Except maybe the Palace when the girlie shows are on. Ha ha ha.
But that’s another story, isn’t it folks! Good on ya, Tone, for puttin’ at least one hand in your pocket.
Now! When Myrtle was hogging the limelight there, she said something about me that was dead right. Since his mum died, Arlo’s been my sole responsibility. And I take responsibility very seriously, right? So even though raising kids is women’s work . . . !
(Hey! There’s somethin’ else you were right about, Myrtle! Twice in one night! You just broke the record for the female race! Ha ha. Give ‘er a hand, folks! You bet!)
But seriously now! Seriously! Even though
it’s not man’s work, I took on that responsibility. For Arlo’s sake and for his mum’s. Because even us poor, benighted men can give a bit of a touch-up to the ear of a discombunctious boy now and again, right?
So me an’ Arlo, we’ve had our moments alright. But I reckon he’s done just fine by himself with Cathy. Even though I suspicion – and I do not mean any disrespect by this – but I suspicion Arlo’s choices were sort of . . . shall we say ‘limited’ for him, by the arrival of little Leah there. I mean, she’s a great kid an’ all but, even if she wasn’t . . . Arlo’s been raised to be the sort of bloke who’d always see a girl right if she got herself in trouble.
* * *
(Now I’m talkin’ here! HEY! You settle down, Tone! Nobody’s bad-mouthin’ anyone! I’m just relating the facts and letting all these fine folks know what sort of man Arlo’s been raised to be. It’s about responsibility, I’m talkin’. Not about your girl. It’s no slur on your girl, she got herself into a predicament. Wouldn’t be the first girl to go diggin’ amongst the roots, if ye take my meanin’, and find herself up a gum tree!)
* * *
I’m just sayin’, folks, that maybe sometimes . . . there could be times . . . when forgetting to take precautions isn’t entirely . . . ‘forgetting’! Know what I mean? So! Whatever! Cath, you oughta know that you caught yourself a real good boy here; one who’ll take care of you, come hell or high taxes.
* * *
(It’s an expression, Tone, ye bloody peanut! ‘Caught’ is an expression! What? Oh for Chris’ sake! Stick your head back up your bum where it belongs. When was the last time YOU took precautions? Taking precautions is a woman’s responsibility!
What? Who’s a mongrel? You call my boy a mongrel? Listen, MATE! I’m not one to cast dispersions but, if some little tart chooses to drop her knickers, NO man – short of a raving bloody poofter – is gonna stop to ask what pre-bloody-cautions have been taken! Man delivers a free load o’ gravel to your door, you don’t for Chris’ sake ask him if he’s lookin’ after his truck!
What? Why you . . .! Hold me back! Someone hold me back! Or I’m gonna walk right down this table an’ clock that bastard! If it wasn’t for ladies present, Tone, I’d have you eating those words, and you can take bloody book on that!
Well look at him! Huffin’ an’ blowin’! Keep ‘im in line, Myrtle, or the ol’ coot’ll give himself a bifurcated rupture! Lemme go now! I’m okay! I’m okay!)
* * *
Sorry ‘bout that, folks. Little loss of composture there. Reckon I’d best finish me say and sit down. So I’ll just say to Cathy . . . my boy doesn’t do right by you, girl, you come an’ tell me. I’ll thrash ‘im right through to Tuesday for you. Welcome to the family.
Now I’m told the Best Man’s gotta talk after me. Not that anyone’d believe there’s a better man than me in the place, eh girls! Ha ha. So anyways, here’s Geoffo. On your feet, Geoffo!”
* * *
“Ta, Rollo. Real good speech, mate. Real entertainin’. Well, I gotta bon-voy-ah-gee Arlo here. Me ‘n’ him go back a long way. ‘S bin a good mate. ‘S a big honour to be Bes’ Man at his weddin’. I’m gonna miss ‘im. No more pissin’ it up of a Sat-dee night. Haveta stay home with the Missus now.
Yuh got the third ring comin’ up at ya now, mate. First there was the ‘gagement ring. Now there’s a weddin’ ring. Nex’ comes the suffer-ring. (Jus’ kiddin’, Cath.)
Nucifora twins said to say ‘Ta for everything.’ (Jus’ kiddin’, Cath.)
Akshully, only Maria said to say Ta. Sophie says he’s a poxy mongrel. (Jus’ kiddin’, Cath.)
‘Nuff frivolity. I’m gonna miss ya, mate. Won’ be the same. Hope ya manage to bust out now an’ again.
Julie? Yer like a legless dog with a flea problem. You wanna say somethin’?”
* * *
“Thank you yes, Geoffrey. I do indeed. I’ll just . . . ! Let me . . . ! Pull that chair back, would you? (hic) (s’cuse me).
Good evening, people. As Maid of Honour, I feel compelled . . . compelled . . . to stand up and speak for my dear and much cherished friend, Catherine Grice-nee Robbins. (hic) (s’cuse me) I must tell you that I have been appalled . . . appalled, at the tone of some of the comments passed here tonight! To the extent that I believe a (hic) slander has been perpetrated. And at the . . . !
* * *
(Mister Robbins, I assure you, the word ‘perpetrated’ in no way relates to what you’re suggesting! If you’ll do me the courtesy of listening?) (hic)
* * *
At the risk of intruding on the . . . childish . . . puerile banter of the so-called ‘men’ in the room (and I use the word lightly) (hic) I’d like to say that I’ve never known a sweeter, gentler, more honest soul that Catherine Grice-nee Robbins. The very suggestion that there might have been some . . . (hic) deviousness . . . some effort at entrapment . . . makes me want to spit. (Pardon my French.) It is, in fact, a hoot! (hic) To think of this innocent girl doing anything other than following her innocent, childlike heart – even if down a path that some ha(hic) have thought to be rather poorly considered – is beyond the pale!
Geoffry! (hic) Geoffrey! Look at me. Wipe that smirk off your face! Your coarse remarks are simply not acceptable! You ought to be ashamed!
And Arlo! If you had (hic) a gram of gumption in you, you would stand up here and now, as you should always and ever after do, and speak out for the integrity of your beautiful wife. That’s all I have to say.”
* * *
“Oh ho! Righteo! Pushy stuff, Jules! But you give me a challenge an’ here I am, risin’ to it like a barra’ to a lure. An’ I’ll say this: man’s wife is . . . well, his wife! An’ havin’ a wife don’ hafta cost ya yer mates, last I heard! I mean Christ! A ball an’ chain’s one thing, but a ball o’ pain’s a whole different kettle o’ mackerel! Okay? That do ya, Jules?
Now while I’m up here, there’s somethin’ else I was s’posed to do. What was it? I dunno. What? Whassat? Oh yeah, right! The Bridesmaids! Thanks, youse. Bunch o’ good lookin’ skirts. Wouldn’ mind gettin’ amongst ya’s meself. ‘Cept I’m married, o’ course. Got to mind me manners.
An’ a special thanks fer yer heartfelt words, Jules. Didn’ understand ’em all but they cost me a carton anyways. Me ‘n’ Geoffo had a bet on whether you’d get up an’ have a whinge about somethin’. Reckon you set me up there, Geoffo! ‘S alright though. Ya live an’ learn, eh mate?
(Though I wouldna thought there was much left to learn about women, eh? Ha ha!)
Well, that’s all I gotta say. Thanks t’all of ya’s fer comin’ to the bunfight. Let’s get the dancin’ over with.”
* * *
They led off, Cath and Arlo, he rocking from foot to foot like a badly soldered tin man, she stepping measuredly around him. When sufficient of the night had passed, they moved to the door, amid hoots of good fellowship and beery lewdness, there to enact the last symbolic gesture.
Cath drew her hem up over her knee and Arlo slipped the garter gently from her thigh. He lobbed it backwards over his shoulder and it shot like an omen into Geoffrey’s hand. Smiling and nodding with embarrassment, he flapped at it like Br’er Rabbit with a piece of the tar baby. Within moments, however, he rose to the occasion and stretched it over his head to wear like a laurel.
The crowd roared its approval. Cath and Arlo stepped through the door into their separate but joined futures. As they turned back to the party for one last hurrah, Geoffrey winked hopefully at Julie who immediately fell head over heels over a bar stool and slipped into unconsciousness.
The Notorious Fence (first published ‘Oz-Wide Tales’, Vol.2, No. 1)
Time left Billy Lloyd stranded for years of his life. Behind the decaying fence that surrounded his retirement home, and beneath the rugged hump of his back, he withered into dereliction, while dreams and memories washed endlessly over him. For Billy, the retirement years had become idle years. And idleness had lured him onto the haunted shores of reminiscence, where he’
d stuck fast.
Often he would trudge into the yard, his hat pulled low, and fold his heavy arms like bits of flotsam on the fence. But his mind would immediately wander off to go wading sorrowfully amongst the sparkling years of his prime. He was a grizzled, fading, toneless man, without purpose or function, and he was sinking ever deeper into a dreary limbo of decay.
The fence, of course, was no more a boundary than was the footpath or the road or the mango tree. To Billy, it was just a place to stop, a mast to which he daily tied himself to wait for whatever siren voices might sing to him out of the past. Yet over time the fence, as fences will, had begun to echo its owner’s indolence. The metal rails and posts had corroded in the sun and weeds had straggled up, drawing the wire inexorably into the earth. And beneath the daily weight of Billy’s arms, the mesh had begun to sag, as though it had quite forgotten what fences were about. They were an apt pair, the man and the fence, so painfully drab and decrepit, leaning together in a years-long reverie, each at the dry edges of their usefulness.
School children in crisp uniforms passed Billy’s house daily, though always on the opposite side of the road. Amongst themselves they whispered laughter and peeped through raised fingers. The old man, they would giggle; he is a goat, with funny whiskers, tied to a broken fence.
“Baah-ha-ha!” they would call to the air as they passed. Then they would laugh and scamper on, treasuring their joke on old Billy. To Billy, however, the children were merely shadows that moved on the edges of a vision, clouds on a distant horizon. He was old and he was weary and he had done with his life what he could. Of what significance could children be?
* * *
One day a small voice intruded itself.
“Hey Mister!”
The immediate world was ever a difficult place for Billy in those days. His focus was often incomplete and confused. But there was this annoyance, this sound, this intrusion; this child who made no sense. What did she want?
“Can I get my dog, Mister? He went through your fence and under your house!”
Through the fence? Under the house? Billy scratched at his stubbly chin and squinted across the yard. Through the fence? Surely not!