Jon was computer-friendly, checked mail, kept the accounts up to date, polished floors, cleaned windows, dusted, mowed lawns, weeded flowerbeds, and spruced up what was already a tidy ship. As a reward, I added his name to the letterhead: Maximillian's Gallery of Fine Art. Director: Peter Corringe: Manager: Jon Moore. He laughed, unimpressed by the title, merely hoping his salary would be commensurate. I kept the ship afloat with five sales.
After work on Friday we pushed a supermarket trolley together, returning to the flat to do our washing. On Saturday after the gallery closed we unwound with a long jog around the canal estates to the south. At first glance the damage didn't seem too bad. Uninviting rows of cloned brick- veneer bungalows still squatted cheek by jowl along their curving streets. Lawns, dotted with the occasional unthrifty shrub, still separated them from the neatly curbed and channelled road. It was only when we stopped to peer that we noticed the slightly drunken angles of wall and roof, cracked foundations and paths, lop-sided pergolas and, in the case of those right on the water's edge, great holes missing from back yards. The entire rear sections of some houses were overhanging muddy ponds. Three had collapsed into the ooze.
"What boring gardens. I thought this was supposed to be a sub-tropical paradise."
"Most people reckon that in paradise you shouldn't have to work. Gardening means work, so they plant something low-maintenance and get on with boozing, feeding the pokies, eating at the RSL, going on bus trips, playing cards, bingo, bowls - anything to distract them from the stark truth leering at them the minute they're alone."
"What truth?"
"This is the only life they're going to get, and they've wasted most of it."
""Mmm,,. My grandparents still grow their own vegetables, keep a few chooks, that sort of thing. They enjoy working, and seem happy enough."
"Do they live near your parents?"
"On the property. Dad built a cottage for them."
"I expect they feel useful. Retirees here have usually left their families behind in the south. Came up here for the warmth."
"But not everyone's retired."
"No. Lots of unemployed are in a similar boat. As you experienced."
Jon was thoughtful. "It was bloody awful being out of work. Sometimes I felt so hopeless I could only squat on the ground and wish someone would hit me on the head and put me out of my misery."
"And now?"
He grinned. "Now I'm excited about the future. There're lots of things I want to do and…' he hesitated, blushed and blurted, "for the first time in my life I have a friend… someone I can say anything to. Someone I can trust. I've never had one before… ' he glanced sideways. "Don't worry,
I'm not expecting you to feel the same. You've probably got lots of friends.' He blushed. "Say something… This is embarrassing!"
What could I say? Yodelling scarcely seemed appropriate, so I clapped him manfully on the shoulder and mumbled, "Real friends are like hen's teeth - and until this minute I was right out of them."
As usual, we ended our jog at the eroded shoreline in front of the gallery. Heavy rains overnight meant that water continued to flow from the ever-widening gaps in Jon's drain, and the river remained a torrent. Apartment blocks and fast-food outlets were now teetering on the edge of extinction. A brood of bulldozers, front-end loaders, ditch diggers and other devices of demolition had been busy piling up heaps of masonry, bitumen and other detritus for an onslaught on the watery enemy, but man's weapons in this battle looked puny. We wished them failure and agreed it was a pity humans hadn't tried coexistence with nature.
On Sunday the gallery was closed, so we headed for the hills before sunrise, me in the Mercedes, Jon in his Holden. I arrived at the cottage relaxed - he, shaken but exhilarated.
"Wow! What a place! I'm crazy about mountains. Do you know? When I first saw the ocean I thought I was back out west - flat, boring and endless. The only difference was no flies. But here? There's something to look at, somewhere to go, something to explore. I can't believe it!"
With a cry worthy of Tarzan, he ripped off his tracksuit, raced down to the dam and dived in, leaping out even faster than he'd entered. "It's freezing!' he yelled, racing back in long zigzags to dry off, before dragging on his clothes.
"I want to stay here,' he puffed. "I didn't know such places existed. I've only travelled on main roads. Never thought of going up side roads. It's heaven.' He grabbed my shoulders. "You're not having me on? This is your place? I am allowed to be here?
"No, yes, and yes."
We laughed and gazed across the small lake formed by the dam. Trees and bushes on the other three sides were reflected in its placid surface. Papyrus and waterlilies decorated the nearer shore. Vapour tendrils drifted lazily from the surface into the cool air, joining mists rising from surrounding tree-covered hills. As we watched, a fleck of gold touched a distant bluff, dove grey against a soft blue sky speckled with pink-edged, fish-scale clouds. No breath of air disturbed the stillness. Whip-birds called, pigeons warbled, butcherbirds chimed duets, frogs screeched, noisy minors argued, a squabble of kookaburras laughed themselves silly, and five black parrots flew overhead, crying like babies.
The view gave me as much sadness as pleasure. Although beautiful, the trees were only regeneration from clear-felling about thirty years previously, and tiny compared to the forest giants that had clothed the land when the first Europeans arrived. Compared to primeval forests my beautiful remnant gave lean pickings. Half the plant species had been lost, most of the humus had gone, and alien invaders were everywhere - lantana, thistles, foxes, rats, cats and humans.
Having made myself dutifully miserable, I left Jon to explore and crossed to the cottage. It was worse than I remembered. Broken glass, ash and soot stains contaminated the exterior. Inside it stank. Damaged roof tiles hadn't kept out recent heavy rains and the interior was a bog. I tried the phone, squatting in its puddle of grey slime. Not a buzz; it wasn't indestructible after all. I backed out of the mess and leaned against the doorway, wondering how to get myself started. With a flickering of wet hair Jon squeezed himself infront of me, leaned against the door post and peered in.
"Shit!' he whispered. "Who did this? Did you know about it?"
"It happened last week. I've been putting off thinking about it, but I guess it's not going to go away."
"This is your house?"
"Yes."
"You built it?"
"Yep. And the studio over there."
"They're great. Romantic. The sort of place I'd build. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Hoping it hadn't happened."
He was staring at the rafters. I could smell wet hair, see a tiny pulse in his throat and feel warmth radiating from the loose collar of his tracksuit. Fine hairs on the nape of his neck shivered in my breath and my legs went limp.
"The strong, silent type eh?' he muttered as though to himself. "Well, today's your lucky day. I'm the expert at extracting method from muddle. A couple of crazy heifers did more damage than this to Mum's wash-house when they ran amok.' He ran his eye over everything again, then declared it was structurally sound and could be put to rights in no time.
"You reckon."
"I reckon. Four hands are better than two, and two heads are better than one, as Mum used to say."
I let my hands drop onto his shoulders and pulled him against my chest. "Your Mum is a fountain of wisdom and I accept your absurdly generous offer."
He went absolutely rigid. Tendons on his neck stood out like guy-ropes.
I quickly pushed him upright. "They had a go at the studio, too,' I said evenly, before walking purposefully over to the other building, cursing my stupidity. It took a couple of minutes to knock away the timber barring the door. I went in. "They were a bit more subtle in here!' I called through the window.
Jon was still standing where I had left him.
"They only trashed my drawings and painting gear."
He turned slowly and trudged sullenly across. After poking lethargically at the mess with a stick, he ended up squatting in front of a pile of torn, paint-spattered drawings. "These aren't bad. What's left of them. Who did the damage?"
"I'm not sure."
"Are we mates or not?' he snarled, willing me to define our relationship in terms he could accept.
"Mates,' I answered, then added flippantly, "comrades in arms; friends to the death."
"Right, then. Who was it?"
I told him about Patrick's anger over Max's bequest, and my suspicions.
"Figures,' he said nodding his head knowingly. "My brothers would sell me for forty pieces of silver."
"He's not my brother."
"Was for four years – virtually."
I laughed, imagining Patrick's reaction to that idea. "
"Well, what are we going to do about it?"
"Nothing."
"You're joking!"
"His time will come."
"If it doesn't, I'll arrange it."
I surprised myself by laughing. Until that morning the mere thought of the mess had me planning on warm baths and sharp razor blades. Suddenly it seemed funny.
Jon stood up. "Got me up here under false pretences, eh? Promise a quiet day in the country and it turns into a labour camp. Well, the exercise'll do me good. You set the studio to rights and I'll clear out the house. Where's the work gear?"
We climbed into overalls and sorted out a few tools before breakfasting on slabs of bread and cheese, washed down with chlorine-free rainwater from the tank. By lunchtime I'd cleared out the studio, repaired the door and replaced the bolt. The walls and floor resisted total cleanliness but, as Jon observed, it was an elegant smudging, eminently suitable for an artist's abode. (He said artist, not me.)
I lit a fire in the barbecue with all the useless drawings and paintings and while Jon washed off some of his soot and grime, grilled the meat and vegetables. Why is it when someone you like has dirty smudges under their nose, across their chin and around their eyes, they look great; but if you don't like them they look gross? He looked fantastic.
"I've got the easy job,' I apologised.
"Well, you're the ugly old brains of the outfit. Hard work's best done by young dumbos like me. " I glanced up, startled. Was that how he saw me? He caught my look and laughed uproariously.
"Gotcha! You're a vain bastard. I guessed it with those bleached bristles. And you shave your chest."
"Yes, well…' I blustered.
"And your bum and pubes. What's with the hairless look?"
"Trying to look younger."
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Shit! It works, I thought we were the same age."
"You've made my day. But - do you think I shouldn't?"
"Why the hell not? Go for it. The body's the temple of the soul - as Mum used to say."
"It's not only that,' I continued with an unwonted urge to justify myself, "it's cleaner. You wouldn't know, being a hairless babe, but hair traps dirt and smells."
"And shit,' he added carelessly. "Yeah, my older brother's hairy. He used to get sore from the dried dags round his ring when we'd been riding for a couple of days and hadn't been able to wash properly. I'll have to write and tell him to shave his arse. After all, cleanliness is next to godliness…' he paused, waiting for me to join in, "as Mum used to say.' He laughed wildly, and it was several seconds before he could speak. "That's why…' he burst into giggles. "That's why your farts have such a ring of confidence!"
"Prick, I don't fart much."
"Not compared to Steve. He used to stink the bed out. Some nights I had to sleep outside. The other two didn't seem to notice."
"Did you share a room?"
"And a bed. Me and Steve in one bed, Paul and Mark in the other. Dad's idea of economy. There wasn't much money to spare for non-essentials."
"How on earth did you study?"
"When I got desperate I knocked together a bed and desk in the outside washhouse. That way I could flop into bed after studying late. The others didn't bother studying, couldn't see the point."
"But you did?"
"I hoped it'd be an avenue of escape, but in the end the motorbike proved more useful."
"It wasn't wasted. You're the most intelligent young man I've spoken to in years. And the best looking."
"You're not exactly Quasimodo yourself. You looked cool the other night at the opening. Everyone had the hots for you, even a few blokes. You should've heard the comments from some of those well-dressed dames - make your hair curl!"
"Such as?"
"Sorry mate, I'm too pure to repeat it."
"Prick!' I threw myself at him and we wrestled lazily until he put a headlock on me and demanded submission.
After lunch I gave him a hand and by four o'clock all the irreparable contents of the cottage and studio were stacked in a heap beside the drive. We called it a day, stripped for a quick cold swim, soaped off the worst of the sooty smudges, and went visiting. As we forced our way through the overgrown track we heard loud voices.
"You've ruined my day! You're always criticising everything I do! I don't go around telling you how things should be done!"
Rory's voice was deeper and in another language. Placating, but equally loud.
"Hang on a bit,' I said, motioning Jon to sit. "It won't last long. Give them a minute and there'll be kisses and smiles."
"You know them pretty well?"
"As much as they'll let me. They value privacy as much as I do. That's why we keep the track hidden. They don't want visitors to my place wandering through to them, and vice versa. They're madly in love, keep to themselves and spend their days fighting, making up and pottering around. Not much work gets done. Perfect neighbours - there when you want them, not when you don't. It's thanks to them the fire was put out on time.
The forest was suddenly quiet. After a respectable interval and talking loudly, we wandered across to the brightly curtained caravan in its clearing. Under an awning, a few comfortable chairs rotted silently beside pot plants jammed into every available spot. A dozen jobs waited for someone's attention, and piles of possibly useful materials rescued from the dump, littered the open spaces.
Rory is barrel-chested with the shoulders of an ox, biceps as large as my thighs and thighs as thick as my waist. In a torn pair of old shorts, skin tanned a glossy brown, hair a tangled mess of black curls hanging over dark brown eyes, full lips just visible through a beard and moustache streaked with grey, he looked thuggish.
Lida, as lean as Rory is broad, was standing beside her husband. Hair scraped back and caught with a rubber band, eyes peering through thick-lensed glasses, bare feet poking from a dirty pair of men's overalls, she looked tired. They welcomed me like the prodigal son, ran hands through my bleached bristles, laughed and reckoned it was a change for the better.
I introduced Jon. Rory shook hands but Lida merely nodded, averted her eyes, blushed and mumbled, "I'll go and put on the kettle.' She returned looking ten years younger, having dashed on lipstick, hoop earrings and a flowered shift. She wouldn't have bothered for me. After we had solved the world's problems over tea and sticky sweet homemade biscuits, Jon announced he'd be staying on in my cottage for a couple of days.
"I'm going to repair Peter's roof in case it rains again, and then I'll hire a small truck to take all the rubbish away. He won't let me dump it in the trees."
"Burn it,' was Rory's predictable response, his smile daring me to argue. I bit my lip, tried not to laugh, and wondered if Jon was serious. We hadn't discussed getting rid of the rubbish, nor his staying up here. I turned to see if he was joking.
He raised an eyebrow. "There's nothing urgent on at the gallery and I'll be back on Tuesday night, Wednesday at the latest. You can manage without me till then can't you, boss?"
No doubt I could. But I didn't want to. Then again, neither did I want him at the gallery unless he was there willingly. With what I hoped was an air of indifference, I nodded perfunctorily. "Good idea, if you're sure you can manage on your own."
"It'll be easier without you fussing around.' Jon grinned into his tea, and I laughed to hide my annoyance.
"Where will you sleep? What'll you eat?' asked Lida.
"There's a sleeping bag and tent in the boot of the Holden, and enough food left over from lunch till I get something tomorrow morning when I buy the tiles and dump the rubbish. Can I use your phone?' he asked cheekily, turning to Rory.
"Of course, Jon,' Lida simpered.
"And you must eat with us tonight. Mustn't he, Rory?' Rory's wary grunt turned to smiles and an offer to lend Jon his tools and half-ton utility truck, when I mumbled that Jon was my "friend'. We'd been good neighbours for four years but this was the first time he had offered to lend anything material. He was profligate with time and energy, but his precious tools and ute? I hid my jealousy but after an hour of feeling increasingly unimportant and increasingly irritated for feeling like that, I stood up and said I had to go, expecting to be pressed to stay. But no one tried to stop me. Jon walked back with me for a last check on things.
"No more work now, Jon,' called Lida sweetly. "You've worked hard enough for that slave driver. Rory's opening another bottle of home-brew, so hurry back.' Jon sent her a ravishing smile and a wave. I bit my tongue. We loaded some stuff into the Mercedes, I mentioned a few things Jon might find useful, got in the car and wound down the window. His face was wreathed in a smug grin.
"You're in with a chance over there, Lida has the hots for you,' I said seriously.
That wiped the grin off his face. "But, she's old!' was his shocked rejoinder. "At least thirty-five."
"So? Do you think desire stops at thirty?"
"Shit. I was just being nice. What'll I do?"
"That'll teach you to try and wind me up."
"Were you? Wound up? I just wanted to see how far… how much you…' He looked trapped then finished in a rush. "Whether we were equal or… or if in your heart you really felt more like a boss than a friend."
"And what did you discover?"
"I'm not sure. I think we're equal. I think you trust me… but you don't seem to care what I do."
"Isn't that what you want?"
"I…I don't know… I don't know what I want. I think I want you to care, but not so much you stop me doing what I want."
"I care, OK?"
"And…?"
"And I'm not looking for a faithful dog."
"And it's a wise man who knows what he wants."
"As your Mum used to say.' Neither of us laughed. It was all getting a bit serious. Suddenly Jon let fly with a wild whoop. "Yaheee! Alone in this magic place! I want to get to know every part of it.' He turned back, serious again.' Are you sure you don't mind, Peter?"
"You're joking. I'm grateful you want to clean the mess up. But accidents happen! Promise to ring me in the morning as soon as you get to civilisation, no later than nine o'clock. Here's some money for the tiles and things, also a new phone. And pay Rory two dollars a kilometre for his ute, as well as filling it with petrol."
"Yes, boss. But – what'll I do about Lida?"
"Be subtle. Let her know we share a bed."
He looked nonplussed, then grinned in relief. "Brilliant. Why didn't I think of that?"
"Too pure of heart."
"It's true,' he responded almost sadly. "Anything else?"
"Yes. Do not go on the roof unless either Rory or Lida is there.' Jon looked aghast. "I'm not a stupid kid!"
"And I'm not insured against strangers having accidents."
"Mercenary bugger. OK, I promise."
"And so I know you're safe, you must ring me on the dot of seven each morning, except tomorrow when you'll phone at nine, and on the dot of five every evening, starting tomorrow evening. Promise?"
Jon promised, repeated the instructions, crossed his heart, pointed to heaven, waved goodbye, and was already heading back to the exotic Rory and Lida before I had crested the rise.
It was only five o'clock and I was regretting being in such a hurry to leave. Lida had certainly expected me to feel included in the dinner invitation, I'd eaten with them often enough in the past. I was biting off my nose to spite my face, as my mother used to say. Served me right.
It was too early to go back to an empty gallery so I let the Mercedes decide and forty minutes later was parked in front of the Alconas. Their welcome was even warmer than the previous time, and when I was dismantled I discovered why. Brian had been kicked in the back by a sick show-pony.
He'd been brought home on a stretcher and placed on a plank on the spare bed in the downstairs guestroom. After two days of his complaints, everyone's tempers were fraying and I was deputed as entertainer in chief. Rigid on his back, supported by pillows on each side, he looked like a handsome cadaver in a padded sarcophagus.
"Are you ready for the last rites my son?' I inquired solemnly from the doorway.
"Peter! Thank heavens. A man! If you knew how tired I am of women and children.' He was in considerable pain. The analgesics were helping, but he hadn't been able to sleep, refusing sleeping pills. "They addle your brain, old man. I'm not going to shut down any of my precious grey-matter. Talk to me, there's a good chap. Take my mind off my miseries."
That was easy. As an only child I'd conducted endless conversations with the world around me. My mother soon gave up worrying when she came upon me talking to the lawn-mower, a plant, my Teddy, the bed, the contents of my wardrobe. I've always been more than half convinced that all things, both animate and inanimate, will be better disposed towards me if I talk to them as equals, but antagonistic if I take them for granted. On cold mornings when I didn't commiserate with my bicycle, I'd get a puncture, a nut would drop off or it'd fall off its stand.
Brian lay back, closed his eyes and grunted occasionally as I chattered about what I'd been doing; Jon; how we met, floods, erosion, today... After an hour or so the others joined us, and Mad put plates on our