Not the Minnow. She is thirty-one weeks and counting.
niblick nib’lick, n. a golf club with a heavy head with wide face, used for lofting—a number eight or nine iron. [Origin uncertain].
‘Haze, you busy?’
‘Always, darl. What’s up?’
I know nothing about golf, but Hazel is a fanatic.
‘I need to know some stuff about a golf club,’ I say, and I show her the dictionary entry.
‘This an assignment for school?’ she asks.
‘No. Jonathan Whiting gives me tasks.’
Hazel looks at me strangely. ‘It’s Kosher, right?’
‘Sure. He’s sweet. I live with his grandson. He’s in love with my Nana. I think he’s taken me under his wing.’
Niblick, I wrote, is a word-cousin of nitwit. Nitwit is slang for idiot or blockhead. It means literally to not (nit) have wit. Niblick is army slang for nobility. It is used to describe English officers whose position is granted through noblesse, rather than officers who earn their rank through hard work. Niblick refers to an officer who is found wanting, unprepared for the demands of army life, ill-equipped to the point of stupidity in the face of pressure.
Niblick is believed to have been transferred across to golf, in particular, to the niblick nine iron, in honour of a group of nine officers who played a five-day golf tournament while posted in the Falkland Islands. This, I said melodramatically, is unconfirmed.
‘You made this up?’ asked Jonathan Whiting.
‘Uh huh,’ I answered, smiling.
‘All of it?’
‘All except nitwit. That’s a real word.’
‘Brilliant, Tom. How did you know the task was an exercise in imagination?’
‘Because you said to give niblick an origin.’
‘Well done twice,’ he said. ‘For listening and originality.’
‘Thanks, Jonathan.’
I found a stand-in chauffeur through Hazel: a guy everyone calls Peter Perfect, although the ‘perfect’ bit is just a nickname. Peter Perfect’s brother, Marcus, also lives at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly, in the nursing-home wing. Peter visits him every second day.
‘Come and meet him,’ says Hazel, holding my elbow and steering me down the hall. ‘He lives near Jonah’s house, and he says it’s no problem.’
We walk past the kitchen, the staffroom and the dispensary, across a courtyard and through a security-coded door into the hospital building. We take the lift upstairs, and walk past the empty nurses’ station to room seventeen. The door is ajar.
‘His brother’s in a coma,’ whispers Hazel. ‘You ready for this?’ she asks.
I’m about to respond when Hazel knocks and enters, pulling me in with her.
‘Peter, this is Tom,’ says Hazel. ‘Tom is Valerie Wolkoff’s granddaughter.’
‘Oh, yes,’ says Peter Perfect, crossing one leg over the other and looking altogether too neat. ‘Tom,’ he says and pulls the chair next to him a bit closer, ‘come and sit down and let’s get acquainted.’
I look across at Hazel. She smiles and mouths the words ‘it’s only for a week’.
‘When are you going to tell Jonah about Rumbly?’ Jonathan Whiting asks me as he pulls the cream Bentley into a parking spot outside Fielder’s Pets and Supplies.
‘I’m waiting for the right moment,’ I answer.
It’s been over a week since I met Rumbly. Jonathan says he doesn’t mind the detour, although his question tells me it can’t go on forever. ‘We don’t have to drop by every day,’ I say.
‘Tom, it’s fine,’ he says. ‘It’s almost on the way. I just think you need to tell Jonah. Then you can take Rumbly home.’
Jonathan likes Rumbly. Yesterday he bought him a hutch. And he’s right: I really ought to tell Jonah. I haven’t said anything because I feel guilty. I should’ve said something earlier…and by earlier, I mean before I bought Rumbly.
‘Do you want me to tell him?’ asks Jonathan.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘That’d be great.’
I am dead to the world, dreaming of Sarah and Mum and me. We are walking along the sand spit at Fiske Point and for the first time ever there’s not the slightest breeze. I feel so happy. I’m smiling.
‘Look at that,’ says Sarah. She is walking on our left, the bay side, but she is pointing across to the ocean. Mum and I stop walking and turn to our right. The ocean is dark but clear, and swimming alongside us, almost close enough to touch, are three dolphins. They swim past and disappear.
‘Quick,’ says Sarah. ‘Catch up or we’ll lose them.’ Sarah lets go of Mum’s hand and runs ahead.
Mum and I continue walking. Sarah turns to look at us.
‘C’mon, you two,’ she shouts across the sand. Her words float towards us. Mum squeezes my hand reassuringly and I look up at her, but the sun is in my eyes, obliterating her face.
Obliterate was yesterday’s word. The thesaurus gives alternatives like annihilate, delete, destroy and eradicate, but the dictionary’s entry is much calmer: it says simply ‘to blot out’. I find it interesting that the thesaurus and dictionary can have such disparate perspectives. My thesaurus doesn’t have a listing for disparate. I’m a bit disappointed about that.
‘Slow down,’ Mum calls to Sarah. Mum and I have no chance of catching up. I’m not worried. I’m just a kid.
‘Sarah will have to stop when she reaches the point,’ I say, sensing Mum’s concern.
The sun is shimmering across the sand. It is becoming hard to focus, the glare is making my eyes water. If Sarah runs into the shimmer we’ll lose sight of her.
‘Mum,’ I say.
‘I know,’ she answers. ‘I can’t see her either.’
Betsy Groot has died. Hazel catches Jonathan and me as soon as we arrive. Nana, she tells us, is inconsolable.
There is a long and quite beautiful gardenia hedge that runs along the road frontage of the grand acreage that is the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. Gardenia granda flora, in the form of hundreds of plants packed side by side and two metres tall. Once inside the property, a fledgling version of the hedge continues. Knee high shrubs have been planted on either side of the drive, all the way to the main administration building. The entrance to the visitors’ car park is the only break, but the gap is hardly discernable given the double row of plants at the inward curve which, when fully grown, will conceal the car park altogether.
Papa uses the hedge as a living message board, nipping buds and deadheading at precise intervals so that today, for example, BETSY GROOT is spelled out in perfectly formed creamy-white blooms. Jonathan didn’t notice, but for the Minnow and me, it was impossible to miss.
Funerals are a constant at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. A fact of life, Nana says, without a trace of irony. But this one will be particularly sad. Nana and Betsy have been close friends for over forty years.
We find Nana in her room. She has a box of tissues on her lap and she is holding a framed photo of eight women dressed in regulation white. Four of the women are seated, the other four are standing behind them, and all eight are beaming at the camera. The photo has been taken on a bowling green, and on the ground in front of them is a rather large collection of trophies.
I know why Nana is crying. In the past two years, Amy Carpenter, Flo Allan, Enid Habib and now Betsy Groot have all died. Half the winning team.
‘I need a new photo,’ says Nana, as we enter. ‘This one is just too sad.’ She places the frame face down on the card table and blows her nose. ‘Pour me a gin will you, Jonathan?’ she asks, holding her empty tumbler towards him at full reach. ‘And for god’s sake, Jono, make it worthy of being called a bloody drink.’
Nana and I watch as Jonathan Whiting pours a hefty gin. Nana winks at me as though she and I are in cahoots. She would be disappointed to know that Jonathan is not alone in thinking she drinks too much. But I say nothing.
Jonathan screws the lid back on the bottle, tucks the bottle behind the sofa, and hand
s Nana her favourite tipple. ‘Cheers big ears,’ she says, lifting the glass in a salute before taking a large swig. ‘Tom, darling, pass me a coaster.’
Generally speaking, when Nana loses a friend, it is through old age. I envy her that.
Whenever I can’t sleep, I count sheep. My friend Tracey-Ann (from before the flood) taught me a special method. ‘You can’t just count sheep, one, two, three,’ she said. ‘You have to create your own flock.’
Tracey-Ann was adamant that counting sheep was the best cure for sleeplessness. The special method, she said, had been handed down for generations and her whole family swore by it.
‘First,’ she said, ‘you have to imagine a flock. It doesn’t matter how big, in fact, the bigger the better.’
‘Hundreds?’ I asked her.
‘Sure, if you want,’ she said. ‘There’s no limit.’
We’re lying on the floor of the tree house. We’ve been here since lunchtime.
‘Imagine the sheep, grazing in a paddock,’ she said. She paused and looked at me. ‘Close your eyes, Tom,’ she said in her terse voice, ‘and pretend it’s night-time and you’re in bed.’ She waited a beat.
‘Now, this is important,’ she continued. ‘They’re not taking any notice of you. They’re grazing. You’re observing.’
I lay perfectly still, imagining my sheep and waiting for her next instruction.
‘Imagine every detail,’ she said after a lengthy pause. ‘What do the sheep look like? Are they all white, or do they have black faces? Are they woolly or recently shorn? Are they noisy or quiet? Are there any lambs? Is the paddock lush and green or brown with winter grass?’
‘You’re serious?’
‘Trust me, the more clearly you imagine it, the more potent the sheeping-pill,’ she said, and she turned to face me. ‘Get it?’
‘Oh, yes, sheeping-pill,’ I said, with emphasis. Tracey-Ann looked pleased.
Actually, it was easier than it sounded. When I bothered to focus, I realised the paddock had been there all the time. And I had a few hundred sheep, heads down, grazing, content. Okay, I thought, what’s next?
‘That’s all you do on the first night,’ answered Tracey-Ann. ‘I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon.’
I was sure she was dragging it out just to get another one of Mum’s lunches. But I didn’t care.
Everyone at the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly designs their own farewell. The first Tuesday of every second month is set aside specifically for ‘the last hurrah’. Residents have to book ahead to make one-on-one appointments with Hazel. Some of them take it quite seriously, logging every detail and making new appointments for the most minor alterations. Every aspect of their funeral is thought out, discussed, written down. Sometimes residents even plan their own wake.
Betsy Groot was a lapsed Catholic. Nana said she adored this title and took every opportunity to use it to describe herself. That being said, she had planned a traditional service, even requesting the Catholic priest from Hillier Saint Martin in West Wrestler to deliver the eulogy.
The Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly has its own chapel. The Jeffrey Gallico Chapel is named after Mavis Ornstein’s closest friend. It is hidden behind a hedge, a short walk from the common room.
Nana and the remaining bowling girls are seated at the front, dressed in their whites. I am directly behind them, sandwiched between Papa and Betsy.
The air smells of incense, gardenias and gin.
‘Now imagine you’re standing in the holding yard,’ said Tracey-Ann.
It was the following day, and Tracey-Ann was talking me through the next step. She’d arrived after lunch. Mum said I shouldn’t be so quick to judge people.
‘The sheep,’ she said, ‘which last night were grazing, are now looking at you…’ I pictured them raising their heads ‘because, in a moment, you’re going to open the gate.’ Tracey-Ann made this sound quite dramatic.
I realised my paddock was missing a gate. I plonked one in.
‘But before you do,’ Tracey-Ann interrupted my train of thought, ‘you need to decide whether you’ll choose the sheep yourself or invite them in and take pot luck.’
‘What’s the difference?’ I asked. I didn’t want to go into this unprepared.
She sat up and looked at me long and hard. ‘Choosing is harder because you have to manoeuvre the sheep through the gate yourself. This can take ages.’
She delivered this in the manner of a late-night newsreader.
‘Inviting them is easier,’ she continued. ‘You just wait for the curious ones to move into the holding yard by themselves.’
I thought about this for a few seconds.
‘I think I’ll choose,’ I said, rather happy with my decision to go against the tide.
‘Cool,’ said Tracey-Ann. ‘Although you might live to regret it.’
Nana moves to the front. It is her turn to speak. She clears her throat and looks directly at the space on my right. ‘Betsy Groot,’ she begins, ‘will be missed.’
‘She can see us, you know,’ says Papa, leaning forward and speaking directly to Betsy.
‘I thought so,’ Betsy replies.
‘Maybe you’ll have better luck,’ he says. It is fleeting, but all the sadness of Papa’s loneliness is captured in that moment.
They stare at each other as though I’m not there.
One of the really big differences between living with Jonah and living with Bill is that Jonah is hardly ever moody. Even when he is tired or a bit crabby, he doesn’t take it out on me. For example, this morning he woke with a cold, but he didn’t complain. When we realised we had run out of milk, he didn’t get upset: he jumped on his bike and cycled four kilometres to the dairy and came home with two litres, still warm from milking. When I told him he was amazing, he just shrugged his shoulders and said I would do the same. But I’m not sure. I think I would get the shits.
The other night I had a chocolate craving, and Jonah brought me the jar of Nutella and a spoon and said that he didn’t mind if I ate the lot (even though Nutella on toast is his favourite thing for breakfast). I made sure I left him some. When he noticed, he said, ‘Tom, you’re so thoughtful,’ and he meant every word.
If Bill had said something like that, it would be full of sarcasm.
I find myself making comparisons.
Jonah is an amazing friend. He would be the one thing I’d take if I were stuck on a desert island.
‘Aren’t you forgetting someone?’ said the Minnow.
Jonathan told Jonah about Rumbly, and he doesn’t seem to mind. Jonathan delivered the hutch this morning, and Jonah and I have set it up on the veranda. We put in hay and guinea pig food and a water dispenser, and an old beanie of mine in case he gets cold. Rumbly seems happy with the arrangement. Mrs Blanket let him keep the little heart pillow and right now he is lying across it, fast asleep.
‘Rumbly’s a really cool name,’ says Jonah. The two of us are sitting on the veranda watching Rumbly sleep.
‘Thanks,’ I say.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Oh, I don’t remember,’ I answer.
I’m not going to tell Jonah another Bill-and-me story.
I’m done talking about Bill.
Mum lets go of my hand and starts to run.
‘Sarah!’ she calls. There is a panicky sound in her voice.
I want to run but my legs are as heavy as stone. I fall forwards onto my hands and knees and try to crawl. The breeze has picked up and it is blowing sand into my eyes. I can hardly move, barely see. ‘Mum,’ I yell, squinting into the abyss, ‘don’t leave me.’
I feel a hand on my shoulder.
‘Tom.’
It’s Jonah. He is gently shaking me awake.
‘Tom,’ he says again. ‘You were having a nightmare.’
I start to cry. Before the flood, I always felt relieved when I woke from a bad dream.
‘It’s okay, Tom,’ says Jonah. ‘I have them too.’
‘Jonat
han, do you think it’s possible to compress time?’
We are having our usual chat while driving to the Mavis Ornstein Home for the Elderly. ‘Time certainly feels compressed when you get to my age,’ answers Jonathan, smiling to himself. ‘Years disappear in the blink of an eye.’
‘I was sort of wondering about dreams.’
‘Dreams are an altogether different proposition,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure whether they compress time or simply alter our perception of it.’
I always use my thesaurus and dictionary together, not in any particular order, although on this occasion I turn to the dictionary first. Perception is one of those words with a dictionary definition that is meticulous, and a bit overwhelming, so I decide to check if there is an entry in the thesaurus. It is a rewarding sight; the thesaurus has a listing for perception, perceive, perceptible and perceptive. I read them all; then I reread the dictionary entry.
‘Here we are,’ says Jonathan, as we’re pulling into the car park.
‘Jonathan,’ I say, as I pack my books into my old schoolbag. ‘I won’t be needing these today. Can I leave them in the car?’
‘I don’t know how you do it,’ he says, turning to look at me and using his eyebrows to indicate the books on my lap. ‘I’d be as sick as a dog.’
Sarah used to get carsick. She would hang her head out the car window. She said that the wind made her feel better. Mum always let her sit in the front. I couldn’t see how sitting in the front seat could make a difference to her stomach.
Nana pauses. She doesn’t like interruptions, and this one seems to be my fault. Jonathan and Mavis are standing in the aisle, looking at me.
‘It’s all right dear,’ says Mavis. ‘Just shuffle along.’
Easier said than done, however, as Betsy appears reluctant to budge. Understandable, given that it is her funeral, but if she doesn’t vacate her seat in about three seconds she’ll suffer the indignity of either Jonathan or Mavis sitting in her lap.