Another Night in Mullet Town

  she says,

  ‘That’s something your father would say.’

  The art of lawn mowing

  There’s a can of two-stroke

  in the plywood cupboard

  at the back of Dad’s shed.

  I shake the contents,

  and judge that it’s enough for today

  if I move quickly before the rain.

  I fill the mower,

  replace the cap,

  set the throttle

  and pull the cord.

  The mower splutters to life

  and I give it enough revs

  to wake the dwarves on Mr Crewe’s fence.

  When I was ten

  Dad taught me

  the art of lawn mowing.

  He called it ‘Zen on Saturday’.

  ‘Start from the fence,

  move forward and back

  and keep your feet clear when turning,’ he’d say.

  I remove the grass-catcher

  because I want to walk through the clippings

  kicking them as I go

  to remember how I felt as a child

  picking up piles and throwing them at Mum

  who’d brought lemonade to the back step.

  Mum would chase me around the yard

  vowing to stuff grass down my shirt.

  I’d escape her clutches,

  so she’d turn and run towards Dad,

  throwing herself into his arms.

  They’d roll around together in the grass, laughing,

  and I’d watch and wonder

  how long before they realised I was there.

  It seemed like forever.

  Mr Crewe waves at me

  and yells something over the fence.

  I bet he’s suggesting I mow his lawn

  when I’ve finished ours.

  And I just might

  because it’s never too late

  to be ten years old again.

  Business

  My phone beeps.

  I take it out of my pocket

  to find a message from Manx.

  It’s a photo of him

  holding a fishing rod

  with a mullet dancing on the line.

  The message reads:

  Third fish this morning,

  I’m going into business.

  I can’t help but smile.

  He’s signed it:

  Manx Inc.

  I text back:

  Meet you tomorrow

  and we’ll double the catch.

  I sign it:

  The Fish Brothers.

  I can see him now,

  sitting beside the lake

  laughing and swearing

  and planning on selling

  the extra fish to Mrs King,

  the old lady who lives

  a few doors down.

  In the soft light

  After spinach pie

  and mashed potato,

  with the rain echoing

  on the corrugated roof,

  and Dad somewhere

  between here and Adelaide,

  Mum sits at the kitchen table

  with a small jar of red nail polish.

  I watch as she files her nails

  to a smooth round tip.

  Delicate veins

  thread along the back of her hands.

  The fumes make my eyes water

  as Mum applies a second coat

  to the nails of her left hand

  even though

  she hasn’t touched the ones

  on her right.

  She carefully blows the polish dry,

  then hands me the jar

  and extends her right hand.

  I dip the brush into the polish

  and apply a thin smear

  to her little finger.

  We don’t speak

  all my effort focused on her nails,

  red and glowing,

  in the soft light of the evening.

  The end of the sentence

  ‘Jonah,’ Mum says

  as I finish her thumbnail

  with a deliberate flourish.

  ‘What would you think

  if I went to stay with your auntie

  at Balarang Bay?’

  I screw the cap back on the nail polish.

  ‘Just until the car gets fixed.

  My shift starts too early for the bus

  and your dad and I need to

  sort out a few things,’ she adds.

  ‘But you’ve been arguing for years,’ I say.

  I try to remember

  when it wasn’t like this.

  When I was at primary school

  and Mum didn’t work long shifts

  and Dad didn’t drink anywhere near

  what he does now.

  She touches my wrist.

  ‘You can stay with me,’ she says.

  I shake my head.

  ‘Auntie Trish looks at me like I’m Dad’s son.’

  Mum sighs.

  I thought they were meant to leave

  one another –

  not me.

  ‘I’ll borrow Trish’s car,’ Mum says.

  ‘And, when your dad’s not here,

  I’ll come and cook you dinner.’

  A vein throbs in my temple,

  like my head is about to explode.

  I know what she wants to hear,

  but I struggle to get out the words.

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ I say.

  Mum packs the nail polish back into her bag.

  ‘Just for a while,’ she says, ‘until …’

  Both of us know there’s no

  end to that sentence.

  The line-up

  In the darkness of my bedroom

  I switch on the computer

  and bring up photos

  from my school online.

  I find the class portrait of year ten

  arranged on three tiers

  in front of the Science block –

  uniform-neat,

  girls: knees together,

  boys: collars down.

  Manx and I are up the back

  on the far left –

  neither of us smiling.

  Patrick is front and centre

  between Rachel and Harriet.

  Ella is in the middle row

  her hair tied back,

  her chin lifted just enough

  to show she doesn’t approve

  of this cattle call.

  And Angelo in the middle row

  is deliberately cross-eyed,

  tongue out –

  the class gargoyle.

  I stare at the faces as

  a storm bird calls in the garden

  and is answered by thunder.

  I count off the students

  with only one parent at home:

  six out of thirty,

  including Manx

  and Rachel.

  I close the screen

  and decide

  it’s the only time

  I don’t want to be like my friends.

  Sunday for leaving

  I shrug into a jacket, jeans

  and shoes without socks

  because I can’t find a clean pair.

  Mum is already in the kitchen,

  her suitcase beside the back door.

  She looks away when I walk in.

  I don’t feel like breakfast.

  ‘Trish will be here in a few minutes,’ Mum says.

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘I might visit Manx.’

  Mum reaches out her arms

  and we embrace.

  My head rests on her shoulder;

  I smell lilac soap

  and nail polish.

  I close my eyes.

  ‘I’ve left enough money

  for bus fares and food

  until your dad gets back,’ Mum says.

  I step away,

  suddenly a
ngry.

  ‘He has a name, you know.’

  I stomp out the back door

  and Mum calls after me,

  but I don’t stop.

  I leap over the fence,

  run towards the track

  and up to the top of Sattlers Hill.

  Auntie Trish’s car turns the corner.

  Mum walks to the footpath

  and tosses her suitcase into the back seat,

  but doesn’t get into the car.

  She says something to Trish,

  then runs back inside.

  She’s gone for a few minutes

  until Trish sounds the horn.

  Mum hops in the front seat.

  The car rumbles down the street.

  The sailor’s museum

  I sit against the smooth stone wall of the museum,

  closed ten years ago.

  I try hard to think of something –

  anything –

  other than Mum leaving home.

  From here I can see all of Turon

  scattered around the west side of the lake.

  To the north is a row of lakeside mansions

  at Tipping Point where Patrick lives

  bordering the National Park

  separated from the rest of us

  by a swampy creek

  and a million dollars.

  Patrick’s dad has planted a

  FOR SALE sign near the driveway

  that lists ocean views,

  a landmark setting

  and a price tag

  that makes my eyes water.

  Manx’s dad lobbied

  the council

  to reopen the museum,

  but all they wanted was a quick sale

  and money in the bank.

  Mr Lloyd-Davis

  gets a bonus if he sells it

  within the next six months.

  As if he needs the extra money.

  Three words

  A slow line of coal ships head north.

  On the rocks at low tide,

  a lone figure casts into the ocean.

  Mr Huth fishes, rain or shine.

  He lives in a shabby van

  the shape of a teardrop.

  If it wasn’t for fishing, he’d starve,

  although rumour says

  he keeps his money hidden in the van.

  I walk to the leeward side

  of the museum

  where the cemetery stumbles downhill.

  I pick my way through the headstones

  until I find Grandpa’s grave.

  Charles Douglas

  IN LOVING MEMORY

  Three words to decorate seventy-two years.

  Dad visited for the first month,

  but too many long hauls

  left the fireweed covering Grandpa.

  I think of the empty house

  waiting for me

  and, without knowing why,

  I grab a weed and pull hard.

  It comes up easily.

  I toss it behind the headstone

  and keep working,

  one fireweed at a time.

  I don’t stop until Grandpa

  has a clear view all the way

  down the hill to his old town.

  Fine specks of dust

  Opposite the cemetery,

  the town church

  is next on Mr Lloyd-Davis’s list

  of places to sell.

  It’s been given a lick of paint,

  a few garden beds, freshly planted,

  and a hardwood fence

  that preaches home, not God.

  Mr Lloyd-Davis bought it cheap,

  paid for the renovation

  and is now looking to double his money.

  I leap the fence

  to admire the stained glass window

  of Jesus among a flock of sheep,

  the distant hills of waving grain.

  I wonder how long before

  the new owners –

  spooked by Jesus looking down on them

  as they drink wine,

  eat lamb and have sex –

  replace the window

  with double glazing and curtains.

  What do you do

  with a second-hand pulpit

  and long wooden pews

  that haven’t been used in years?

  On a woodpile under the church

  is an uprooted sign

  that lists Sunday services

  and Easter celebrations,

  the paint flaking,

  the words hollow.

  I’ve been to this church once –

  for Grandpa’s funeral

  when I was nine years old.

  His coffin was draped in a fisherman’s net

  and carried inside by my dad

  and his rarely seen uncles.

  The light through the Jesus window

  shone on the pulpit;

  fine specks of dust

  flickered in its beam.

  The priest offered blessings

  for the dead.

  And ill-conceived promises

  for the rest of us.

  Grandpa’s wake

  While Mr Crewe helped Mum

  clear the discarded glasses and plates

  of Grandpa’s wake,

  Dad got two fishing rods

  from the shed

  and placed one in my hands.

  He carried the bait box,

  while I walked alongside,

  all the way to the lake pier

  as the evening light faded.

  Dad baited the hook

  and watched my nervous hands cast.

  The lure landed barely metres away.

  He smiled

  and deliberately cast close to mine –

  two bobbing floaters

  in the shallows.

  We sat like that for hours

  listening to the slap of water

  against the pier.

  By the light of a half-moon,

  I watched my dad’s face

  unpack the meaning

  of being a son

  without a father.

  That was enough

  I remember my head tilted forward,

  and I would have fallen into the water

  except for Dad’s firm hand on my shoulder.

  I woke and saw the fishing rod beside me,

  the dark lake and my father’s smile.

  I asked him if we’d caught anything,

  and he said,

  ‘A large mullet.’

  I looked around for the fish,

  but on the boards of the pier

  there was nothing but an empty beer bottle.

  Dad said,

  ‘Your grandpa taught me,

  no matter how desperate I was,

  no matter how hungry,

  the first-caught fish

  should always be returned.’

  It didn’t make sense

  and I said so.

  Dad replied,

  ‘That fish took a risk –

  bit something it wasn’t sure of –

  and deserves a second chance.

  Like we all do.’

  ‘But didn’t the next fish

  also take a risk

  and the one after that?’

  I asked.

  Dad laughed.

  ‘A father’s rules

  aren’t always wise,

  but it’s how we remember

  and judge a man.’

  He reeled in his line

  and helped me to my feet.

  We hadn’t caught a fish,

  but I’d spent a few hours

  with my father,

  and that was enough.

  Grandpa’s town

  When we returned from the lake,

  my father hugged his uncles

  and walked them to their cars.

  But, instead of waving goodbye,

  they sat on t
he fence

  and told stories

  into the night.

  Grandpa and the outboard motor.

  Grandpa and the volunteer fire brigade.

  Grandpa and the scar he wore like a badge

  above his right eye.

  He told everyone it was from a pub fight,

  but it was really a plate thrown by Grandma.

  She was smart enough to die

  before Grandpa did,

  just to prove how much he’d miss her,

  lost in the big house

  they rented for cheap –

  spooking the verandahs,

  wandering the gardens,

  baffled in the kitchen …

  without her.

  Grandpa spent his last years

  wishing he was dodging flying crockery

  rather than waiting for the inevitable.

  I sat listening to these stories

  from my bedroom window

  and saw the lines of memory

  creasing my father’s brow,

  while he talked his uncles

  into being sober enough

  to drive away from Grandpa’s town.

  The colour of rich

  Manx is sitting on his front steps,

  a fishing rod at his feet

  as he works on threading a line

  through a hook.

  ‘You’ll go cross-eyed doing that,’ I warn.

  He tosses me the rod,

  runs into the house

  and comes back carrying an esky.

  ‘Full of ice and beer,’ he says.

  ‘You’re hoping,’ I answer.

  ‘I caught six yesterday

  and sold four to Mrs King,’ he says,

  spitting between the gap in his teeth.

  We walk along the curve of sand

  to our favourite spot under the swamp oak.

  Manx casts a line into the lake,

  the twirling reel imitating the wind.

  The yellow floater bobs on the

  ti-tree burnished surface.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Jonah,’ he says.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘You wanna hear my idea or not?’

  ‘Always, Manx.’

  He stares across the lake

  to the row of double-storey houses

  at Tipping Point.

  Counting them off, he says,

  ‘Rich, rich, for sale, Patrick’s palace, rich,

  old man Beattie, rich, rich.’

  He frowns. ‘Some of those places

  are only used on school holidays.’

  Manx narrows his eyes and grins.

  ‘They’re vacant,’

  he waits a few seconds before adding, ‘now.’

  Then he points to the weatherboard mansion

  at the end of Tipping Point and asks,

  ‘What colour is that, Jonah?’

  ‘Salmon pink,’ I say,

  ‘or delicate rose with an autumn-mist trim.’

  ‘I’d call it erect nipple with a baby-poo highlight.’