Russell had started calling him Danny the Greek very soon after Dan had started going to the caf�. They had fallen into conversation and he�d told the man that his father was Scots-Irish and his mother was Greek. That had made Russell cackle. �A Greek called Dan, a Greek called fucking Danny! Who could believe that?�
�What�s so funny about that?� Dan had countered. �It�s no more strange than a Chinese man called Russell.�
�What do you mean?� Russell had seemed outraged. �I know many many Chinese called Russell, many�but Danny the Greek, that�s funny!�
Dan sat in Russell�s caf�, drinking his coffee, looking out to the mall, at the rush of people battling the rain and wind and sleet. It seemed to Dan that he had only looked away for one moment, forcing a laugh at some sick joke Russell was telling, but when he looked up and out again, the darkness had vanished and the streetscape was flooded by pale winter sunlight. The wet street outside glistened, and every surface seemed to sparkle.
Russell stepped outside, his hands clasped behind his back. He sniffed the air, peered up at the sky, and turned back to Dan. �It is going to be a very good day, no more cloud.�
Yeah, thought Dan, swirling the last of his coffee in the cup, it was a great day to be going to a funeral.
Until he�d applied for the job with Eastern District Health, Dan had never been to that part of town. Just back from Glasgow, bedding down in his old room at his parents� house, his first priority was to get a job, any job. That would be his chance to start his life again, and starting life again meant work and money, and that meant a place of his own. What had scared him most on coming home was the idea of being a man in his thirties who still lived at home with his parents. He was terrified of coasting, determined to resist the temptation to just lie back, take it easy. Life in Australia could be like treading water�no, even simpler than that, effortless and much more addictive: with arms outstretched and eyes closed to the sun, like endless floating. In time your thirties became your forties and then your forties became your fifties and you�d become nothing more than driftwood. He remembered how when they first got together, Clyde would always say, �That�s what I miss about Glasga: at home you cannot float the way people here in Oz do�you gotta get into your boat and start fucken rowing, otherwise you�re sunk.�
The recollection brought forth an unexpected chuckle. �Ah, you Scots wanker, no one gets away with not rowing,� he whispered tenderly to the day. �Everyone has to row, even here.�
He had Regan to thank for getting him going. As soon as they had seen her in Nowra, he and Theo had wanted to rescue her, to bring her back home. Nowra definitely wasn�t home. She had not long before given birth to Layla and was living in a dilapidated fibro house near the town�s ugly industrial area, with the child�s father, a bad-tempered twenty-three-year-old called Trent, with a twitching left eye, a Southern Cross tattoo on his right breast and a terror of fatherhood. He was dealing with it by smoking methamphetamine. One afternoon he had come back from visiting mates, all jittery and aggressive, and had screamed at Regan for inviting Dan and Theo to stay. �But they�re my brothers,� she�d said, trying to reason with him, and he responded incredulously, �What�s that got to do with anything?� Dan realised with dismay that the man was being genuine. He really didn�t get it, didn�t understand how she could be loyal to family.
Theo had been unable to contain his rage. �What are you doing with him, sis? That piece of shit already has one foot out the door!� Dan had kept his cool but he too was desperate to get her out of there and back to Melbourne.
Regan had shot back at her younger brother, �I know I can�t depend on him but I can�t go back home, I can�t live with Mum�it would drive me spare.�
�But Mum can help you with the baby,� started Theo. �You�re gonna need her help.�
God, thought Dan, now it was Theo who didn�t get it. But Dan had understood�maybe as a result of the time he�d spent away from them all. It wasn�t that their mother did not love Regan, or that Regan didn�t love their mum. But somehow when they were all growing up, their mother�s focus had been on the boys; she hadn�t meant it to be but it had turned out that way:
her sons had dominated her thoughts and attention. Regan will be alright, I don�t have to worry about Regan: Dan had grown to adulthood hearing those phrases. Regan was no doubt scared that it would happen again, that it would be Layla who received all the attention and Regan would again be sidelined, in the corner, watching it all.
�Regan,� Dan had said, interrupting his brother, �you and Layla can come move in with me, we�ll find a place together. How does that sound? Would you like that?�
The worry and fear had been instantly erased from Regan�s face. In their place had been relief. And for the first time in a long, long while, Dan had felt trusted again.
Once again the three Kelly children had been living at home, and everyone doted on the baby. Dan had applied for a permanent job while working the night shift in the warehouse of a cannery in Broadmeadows. He�d been scouring the job classifieds in the newspapers and on the net. It felt as though he�d written hundreds of application letters�he�d been upfront about his past, had acknowledged the spottiness of his work history in Scotland, all that cash-in-hand work, the volunteering for disabilities services, and had written briefly but honestly about his criminal conviction and sentence. Few responded; only a couple of agencies even bothered to call him in for an interview. And then one morning he had come in from work to find his sister reading through yet another of his job applications as she fed Layla, the little creature sucking sturdily.
Regan placed the printout down on the table, watching him as he filled the kettle. �Dan,� she said, �why don�t you put in a mention about the swimming?�
�What would that have to do with getting a job?�
�It could be really useful. It certainly proves you can commit. And who knows, they might want you to take some swimming classes. You�d be great at aqua therapy.� Regan was nodding purposefully, her voice peremptory and increasingly excited, so much so that her nipple dislodged from Layla�s mouth. �Honestly, you should think about being a sports therapist.�
Before Dan could answer, the baby had started to wail. Regan tried to put Layla back on the breast but she would not be appeased.
Dan tickled her tummy and stroked her hair, but the crying continued. There was the sound of the key in the door; their mother was home. She came rushing in and reached out for her grandchild, saying, �Let me show you.� Regan passed the baby up to her mother, who cooed and cuddled and kissed and tickled Layla, and soon the baby�s sobs had subsided and been replaced with gleeful gurgling. Over his mother�s shoulder Dan had looked at his sister and searched her face: sleep-deprived, weary, inscrutable.
In the end, it had been his swimming experience that had got him the job. Noah, the earnest absent-minded man who interviewed him, had asked whether Dan would be prepared to develop a swimming and aqua therapy program, and Dan had answered enthusiastically. The interview went for forty minutes, and at the end of it Dan had walked out, dazed, into the neighbourhood he�d never visited until then; broad-trunked European trees lined the main avenue, the sky was clear, the sun was high in the sky, affording him an unimpeded view down a valley to the cobalt and silver silhouettes of the mountains on the horizon. Everywhere he looked, down the small streets, in the alleyways, the shopfronts were covered in Vietnamese writing, while other windows were painted with red and blue Chinese characters. He had walked into the first place he�d come to, and ordered three main dishes from a menu half written in English, half in Vietnamese, had eaten till he thought his belly would burst. As he finished his meal, he had come close to praying that he�d get the job and that he, Regan and Layla could move here, where the worlds of Asia and Australia seemed to collide and merge and be transformed into something close to an idyll.
�Box Hill,� his father had said that nig
ht, raising an eyebrow. �That�s pretty middle class, isn�t it?� and Dan had replied, simply, �Yeah, maybe, but I really like it.�
Noah had called him the next day. Dan had got the job.
He opened the squeaking gate and bent down to stroke the cat that was stretching out on the sunlit steps. Regan opened the front door, as if she�d been waiting for him. Layla was in her playpen, and music was softly calling from the small stereo on top of the fridge. It was old-school soul, Otis Redding plaintively, thrillingly crooning that he�d been loving her too long; old-school rhythm and blues, thought Dan, the music our parents loved, the music all of us have returned to.
Regan asked him if he wanted something to eat and he shook his head. He didn�t think he could keep anything down today. He was nervous, shaky; his skin tingled. It was more than just nerves. It was real fear, it was anticipation and dread.
�I�ve got your suit ready.� Regan held up the trousers and matching jacket that she�d found last week in the Savers store. She�d also ironed his white shirt. He thanked his sister, leaning down to kiss her cheek, then brushing a finger across his lips and gently grazing his niece�s brow. He walked out the back to his bungalow, the air bruisingly crisp. He carefully laid the clothes on the bed and turned on the heater. He sat, placing his hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. The old soul music was still encircling his memory and it stayed with him as he took a moment of peace.
Dennis had found them the house. It belonged to an elderly couple who were retiring to Tathra, up on the New South Wales Far South Coast. Dan�s father had agreed to serve as their removalist. Dan�s father had always loved that part of the coast and it hadn�t taken much for Dennis to convince him to make the long-haul trip. The woman had offered Dennis and Neal coffee before they started loading the truck, and it was then that the man had mentioned that they were looking for tenants.
�My cousin would be perfect,� Dennis had replied, so eager to tell them about Dan that the words were jumbled in the mash of tongue, lip and saliva. �He�s got a job just down the road.�
The old couple were none the wiser but Dan�s father had understood and told them about Regan and Layla and Dan, and asked what the rent would be.
Having the bungalow attached, that small space apart, was what had made it perfect for Dan. Which was why Dennis had been so eager and so excited on seeing the house; he knew, he understood.
Dan showered, shaved, and dressed quickly. He pulled out the full-length mirror nestled behind the desk, wiped the dust off with a rag. He couldn�t quite recognise the man staring back at him in the unfamiliar dark suit, the slightly pudgy man with the furrows at the corners of his mouth, the man who was no longer the boy. He took off his jacket and stood side-on; his shirt seemed to billow above the belt, so he tucked it in again. He wished he had gone to the barber; his hair seemed too long and was uneven at the sides, making his head appear lopsided. He shrugged. It is who you are, he told the mirror, standing so close to the glass that a small mist formed then swiftly dissolved. He put his jacket back on and headed for the tram.
Walking up the drive past the wrought-iron gates with their elaborate crest, he found himself automatically heading for the Great Hall, as if he were still the young boy in the striped blazer running up the drive. Only at the last moment did he veer back and make his way to the other side of the quadrangle: the service was of course going to be held in the college chapel. Heavy fat clouds hung low in the sky and there was a light drizzle falling. Dan walked up the steps to the chapel. A man holding a clipboard nodded as Dan approached. �Are you here for the service?� The man peeled off a four-page photocopied sheet and handed it to Dan. There was the date of birth, the date of death, and there was the picture of the Coach, not smiling, staring defiantly at the camera, as if challenging the world.
When Dan had first moved to the bungalow in Box Hill, his father had driven over in the truck with the cluster of boxes packed with books, the crate of kitchen utensils and his bag of clothes, along with furniture Dan and his mother had found at the Brotherhood of St Laurence on Brunswick Road. Among his things had been a pile of magazines tied up with string. �What are these?� he had asked, and his mother had told him they were from his old school.
Dan had grimaced and untied the string, and his dad had grinned. �I always had a look at them when they came,� he said, �just to see what the rich little fuckers were up to. See how they were ruining the world.�
�Now, now, Neal,� Dan�s mother had said. �Some of them are
doing good things, aren�t they? Working for M�decins Sans Fronti�res, stuff like that. They�re not all fat cats.�
�Yeah, yeah,� his father had snorted, �some of them are salt of the frigging earth, aren�t they?� He had turned to his son. �Anyway, they�re all yours, mate, do what you want with them.�
What Dan had done with them was put them in the recycling bin, then ring up the college and ask for his name to be taken off the mailing list.
�Oh,� squeaked the flustered woman who�d answered the phone, �I�m not sure how to do that, I�ll have to talk to someone and get back to you.�
Dan had replied, �It�s OK. Maybe I�ll just change the address you send them to, can you do that?� He was about to make up an address, some fake street, some non-existent number, a suburb picked out of the air, but then he just recited his own address. They can come here, he thought, and when I move out of here they can be returned to sender or chucked out. They�ll never find me again.
That was how he had found out that Coach had died and the school was planning a memorial service. On page five had appeared the same black and white image that was printed on the prayer card; the grim-faced man in the open-collared shirt, the man he had not seen for over fifteen years, the man who had wanted him to be better, faster, stronger. The man he had failed.
Walking into the gloomy vestibule of the chapel, he recognised a few of his old teachers milling around, now elderly men. They all looked past him, over him and through him. Then there were the younger men, his age�a few had brought partners, one or two had brought their children along�they too looked past him and through him. It wasn�t because of his second-hand suit, it was because of who he was and what he had done. He saw Wilco, recognised him straight away and raised his hand in an anxious awkward wave, but his hand fell to his side as the tall man looked up, noticed him and then refuted him. Danny Kelly did not exist. Danny Kelly had never been there. Danny Kelly should never have been there.
Dan held his breath as Wilco turned to greet someone, and there was Martin Taylor, heftier now, his hair darker, and with dark shadows beneath his eyes, but it was Martin Taylor, lean and elegant and confident, still perfect except for the two scars: the pink crescent tick at his right temple and the long thin line that started just below his left eyebrow and finished at the corner of his mouth. Dan felt his hands shaking as the man looked across and there was just a moment when their eyes locked, Martin Taylor�s eyes still grey and cold. Without missing a beat, Martin continued his conversation. Martin Taylor also seemed to think that Danny Kelly did not exist at all.
So he did not tear up the stairs, he climbed them slowly, humbly, and took a seat in a pew at the back. He was there to pay his respects to the man he had failed. He was doing that. He was there to apologise, to the man and to the boy.
He did not hear the service; instead he spoke silently to the Coach, thanking his ghost, and laying his soul to rest.
You didn�t always have to give it back. And in that cold, sombre chapel, Dan Kelly discovered that there were some things that you could not be forgiven for, and those were the things that you carried into the next life, if there was such a place; and if there was no next life nor any God, the consequence was the same: if you were not forgiven, you would die with regret.
As he crossed the quadrangle to take his last ever walk down the bluestone drive, he heard his name being called. Dan swung around. A man was descen
ding the chapel steps.
There was something familiar about the man now standing before him, overweight and moon-faced, perspiring even in the cold, his head shaved close to hide his waning hairline. The man held out his hand, not looking through him, not refuting him.
Dan breathed out and examined the man more closely. �Morello?�
�Yeah. You remember me?�
Though the man was no longer a boy there was still something youthful in his gleaming dark eyes and the way his face crinkled as he smiled.
�John?�
�Yeah, that�s right.� John fell into step with him as they started down the drive. �I�m glad you came, Danny, I�m glad you came to pay respects to Torma. He was a good man, wasn�t he?�
Dan wasn�t sure how to answer that, not sure he knew anything about the Coach except that he�d wanted Dan to be a champion.
�Yeah, I guess he was.� They were at the gates and Dan indicated the tram stop. �Good to see you, John,� he said. �I better head home.�
�You didn�t drive here?�
�No.�
�Where do you live?�
�Box Hill.�
�Look, I�m heading off to Frank�s house�there are some things I need to check there. Why don�t you come with me? I�ll drop you off afterwards. I�m in Mont Albert, not far from you at all.�
Dan was trying to remember something about Morello, something more than the fact that he�d been one of the group of boys who�d teased him when he first went to the new school. He remembered then that Morello had always been a follower, always sucking up to Taylor and Wilco, always a little arsewipe. He�d been an average swimmer with little talent or drive, and had only lasted in the squad for that first year. Then he just dropped away from Dan�s memory. He couldn�t think why the Coach would have had any time for him, why Coach would have bothered with him at all.