“He’s the spitting image of his father! The same eyes, the same good nature…”
And so on and so forth.
When we were by ourselves on the ride back, I sat next to Father who told me how to drive a coach, or else he left me alone on the back seats, where he must have thought I’d dozed off, and I stretched out on the longest and let the shadows of the roadside trees fill my mind; depending on the moon, they came through the coach windows and moved as they did in the cinema. These were special moments, feeling safe with my father in front, in an empty, transparent coach still impregnated by the strong smells of the women who’d just got out, the small lights of night-time reflected in the windows like a shower of white petals, the deserted, silent roads, the empty village streets we drove through, the dark forest either side, and me speeding through the lot, you know, I felt like a prince in his carriage travelling deep into the night.
When I sat next to Father, he’d come out with some of his catchphrases that at the time I thought were really off the wall, though in a way they summed up a philosophy of life: “When I’m dead, I’ll shit on the living!”
“The dying to the grave and the living to a fanny!”
“By your door I plant a cherry tree, by your window a morello tree, for every cherry a hug, for every morello a kiss.”
“When you inherit, one eye laughs while the other cries!”
And so on.
Mother was more circumspect. When he came out with one of his sayings, she’d look at him and retort: “You like to complain so much about your father being a wastrel and not setting anything aside for his children when he died, I wonder what you’re going to do for your own. Personally, I’d hope you’ll cherish pleasant memories of me for the rest of your days.”
One night, when the coach stopped in Vic for a checkup in the company’s garage, Father went over to a huddle of men, mechanics and other coach drivers, and started to shoot the breeze and joke about whether they were going home or were off for a jar in a little café that stayed open to the early hours and even to daybreak. I’d stayed in my vantage post at the back of the coach, and could see my father pointing me out to the group as if saying he couldn’t have a night on the tiles with me around, and the others glanced at me and said that one day he’d have to let me loose and teach me how to let my hair down. In the end he signalled to me to accompany him and put his hand on my shoulder, as if to protect or guide me, and we joined the group, three or four older men and two youngsters. I registered the excited way they spoke and gesticulated. They all smoked like chimneys. It was as if they took the fug inside the garage to the café next door. They bantered as we walked over. Every sentence or declaration was greeted with hoots of loud laughter I felt were unjustified. They were talking about things I didn’t really connect with. They’d look at the youngsters and say things like “Wonder how you bright sparks will perform today!”
“You can never tell. Depends on the birds available.”
“Perhaps there’ll always be one who’s not filled the form out right or who’ll have to repeat the exercise because he spilt ink away from the dotted line!”
“The youth of today, lots of lip…and no spunk!”
“Follow the good shepherdess’s advice. She’s knows her flock.”
Dad kept trying to raise a small objection, think up an excuse: “I’ve got to get up early for the morning shift…”
Or else: “Let’s make sure everybody does their duty.”
But the others were all up for it as if they’d only just got out of bed: “Hey, come on, you!”
“Strike while the iron’s hot!”
“It’s all right for you, you couldn’t care less because they’re always crawling over you.”
The café next door was a real dive. The side street was dark and the dive’s misted windows gave out a dull, yellow light that was tinged almost a pale blue. Inside was a marble bar-top in front of a range of shelves crammed with liquor bottles and a fat, greasy, paunchy, revolting guy was washing glasses one by one in a sink with a dirty cloth, moving his fingers deftly, as if they were sticky snail shells. It was a small place with four tables with tops made from that same white cemetery marble, where five or six men were sat who gave me quizzical looks but said nothing. Dad and I stood by the bar. He ordered a coffee and a glass of hot milk for me. Two of his colleagues stayed with us, while the others went into the street, larking about.
“We’ll be back right away!” they shouted.
I watched them cross the road through a small patch of glass that an elbow or hand had rubbed clean. They shoved each other or slapped each other on the back as if they were going on an outing or to play football. They made for a more isolated house farther down the other side of the street out of which groups of men kept spilling. Whenever the door opened, a rectangle of yellowish light escaped that crossed the road like a moonbeam. Before walking in, one of the men in our group made a show of taking off his trouser belt, as if he were going to bring the livestock to heel.
Dad and his friends cracked dirty jokes about a couple of dogs who were sniffing around the café, until the fat waiter came from behind the counter and shooed them into the street. They said things like: “Those two are up for it too!”
Words that gradually opened my eyes to everything happening in that street and that house. Perhaps it was the house I’d heard the big kids at school licking their lips over, the famous Cal Set.
Someone laughed and said: “But they’re males!”
“Perhaps they aren’t what they seem and one’s playing the part of one who isn’t!”
That remark was like the theatrical gesture of the man taking his belt off before entering the house of ill repute. An equally theatrical utterance that left me on the doorstep to mystery. Words that began to lay bare a secret but only bared an inch of flesh to a spectator. A ray of light momentarily lit up the pitch-black street, allowed you a glimpse of the forbidden world within and then shut the door in the face of idle bystanders.
Father told me to wait for a second with his colleagues; he was going to the lavatory in the café yard.
While he was outside, the two men in the group who had stayed asked me if I wanted anything else, biscuits, another glass of milk, a sausage or chorizo roll, told me I could order whatever… I said I didn’t, that I wasn’t hungry, and thought Father was taking far too long to come back. But I expect it was because I felt tired and sleepy, and time drags more when you’re waiting for someone and you feel out of place, and I did really feel out of place there. Now and then I glanced through the clean spot in the misty window: the street was empty and the door to that house hadn’t swung open again.
Father came back through the door to the yard and put his hand on my shoulder. The other men returned shortly though I didn’t notice when they left the house. Father said it was time we were on our way. The others said they would stay for a while until they’d finished their drinks.
We drove home in silence. Now and then my father slapped me on the back as if trying to animate me, but he said not a word.
Mother wasn’t waiting for us in the dining room, as she usually was. The house was in darkness and Father carried me to bed and tucked me in. Then I heard sounds in the room next door and soon after the voices of my parents arguing.
“Have you lost your marbles?” Mother recriminated.
Dad’s voice was softer.
“Have you forgotten what time I get up?”