I remembered one evening of my second visit to Melbourne when my brother had showed me the log book where all the numbers and calculations he used in his system were written. The instant my eyes had settled on the endless columns of figures which filled pages and pages of my brother’s book, I felt restless and anxious in the way that viewing any work of infinite patience always affects me. I remembered thinking in despair of the hundreds of hours which my brother must have wasted in writing these worthless marks on to the pages of his log book. I despaired of his weakness in submitting for more than two years to the endless routine of entering the numbers in their long, thin columns.

  Then, as my brother was speaking passionately about the system and its rigorous tracking of every possible variable in the running of a race, of the search for an equation adequate to all factors of environment, skill, past performance, whim, and chance, of the absolute impossibility of finding such an equation but of the endless tinkering and reformulating of existing systems in an effort towards completing exactly this hopeless task, I began to see the figures not as columns which bullied my brother but as the work of a careful, responsive hand which sought in the finest mathematical adjustments a sequence by which something might be finally guessed, and I saw in the arrangement of the numbers themselves, in the shape of their marks on the page, a kind of beauty, as if every evening for more than two years my brother had taken cotton and a needle and painfully stitched the columns of figures through the pages of the log book.

  I then remembered what I had completely forgotten, that when my brother was a boy he had been interested in painting and had attended Art Classes and had, through the ages of twelve, thirteen and fourteen, filled many canvases. He had, of course, I now thought, done several passable imitations of the works of famous painters, propping up books which contained reproductions of these works beside his easel in the bedroom we shared as boys. In addition to these copies, my brother had, of course, produced his own paintings, two of which still hung on the walls of my parents’ house. I remembered also that when he was a boy he had wanted to become an architect, before, as a young man he had travelled to Melbourne and finished up where he was now, somehow, in a job which, he said, used no part of his brain.

  I had completely forgotten all of this, though whenever I visited my parents’ house, I looked at one painting in particular which my brother did as a boy of fourteen. It is a simple painting with very few things in it, just a tree in a field. But the field is a thickly applied gold-coloured crop of some sort—wheat or corn— which gleams in the foreground with a light which is almost too bright for the eye to settle on, so that one’s sight travels over this luminous field towards the brown-coloured tree which sits in the distance. And often my eye has travelled like this across the expanse of my brother’s burning field with joyful anticipation, as if it is very hot under the clear, pale blue sky and that there amongst the far-off dark branches I will find shade. It is seen as though from the wide, clear window of a passing train or vehicle and, indeed, my brother painted it from a photographic slide my father took from just such a travelling vantage point; through the windscreen of our family car while on holiday in Spain several months before our return from London to Wellington and my first visit to Melbourne aged eight years.

  I then thought of the phone call I had received several months after I had returned from my fourth visit to Melbourne. On the fifth day of this last visit I had imagined receiving such a phone call upon my return to Wellington. Or rather, I had imagined receiving a different call, with the news that no more books would appear which carried on their gold-coloured spines the name of the writer who is the subject of this story. Instead, the call I had received was from my mother who had just learned from a letter written by my sister living in Melbourne that the woman who had been living with my brother for several years had left him for good to travel to a distant part of Western Australia which my brother had no interest in travelling to. My sister had written that as a result of the woman’s leaving, my brother had become even more uncommunicative than was his habit and that she was now worried about his future. She had written that all my brother did now was sit inside his house drinking beer and whisky and that he was leaving the job he had had for almost eight years in the Commonwealth Serum Laboratory to apply for entrance into a course in Design at a local school it was almost impossible to get into.

  As my mother told me over the phone what my sister had written, I could hear in my mother’s voice the exhilaration and relief which I also shared in listening to the news of the woman leaving my brother for good. I heard and felt the shared exhilaration and relief when she spoke of the sadness of the situation and of her own worries for my older brother’s future. She repeated the words my sister had written, saying that it was an almost impossible thing my brother was doing. And as my mother was speaking, I was thinking of the image which the writer who is the subject of this story had used in the film my brother and I had seen together in Melbourne, to describe his own process of composition.The writer, whose feathered hat my brother and I had looked for on Derby Day at Flemington Race Track, had said he wrote sentences by placing each word into position as if he was using tweezers and that this task was almost an impossible one, though it was the only task, he said, he considered worthwhile.

  The American writer went on with his lecture by saying that he would have no other method of picking a horse than by settling on a name which appealed to him. No Forgiveness, he said, there’s a name I like, so I put my money on No Forgiveness, which method of choosing, as the Greeks will tell you, is a complete waste of time.

  And while the writer, whose books I alone had truly loved as a young would-be writer in the years between 1984 and 1989, spoke of the horse in his mind named No Forgiveness, I remember thinking that perhaps I would now be able to leave the room in which I was sitting and return to the house, on whose walls are fixed images of the writer whom I had imagined as my father rising from the brown soil through the lilac of a special country blue sky, and there begin, finally and truthfully, to outline the story which appears on these pages.

  for everyone concerned

  —She must be feeling better if she wants her own nightie.

  —Why don’t I go and get it?

  —No, no, no.

  —Why not, Dad? And you wait here.

  —No, no.

  —Gimme the keys.

  —No. I’m very worried, Kevin.

  —But asking for her nightie, that’s a good sign.

  —A woman could, you could chop their arm off, they’d want their …

  —It’s reassuring, I suppose. To get your own stuff around you, hospitals are so …

  —He said she’d be wobbly for a bit.

  —Listen, why doesn’t one of us sit over there? So we’re facing each other.

  —She went down like a sack of … I was going to make a call on this.

  —On your calculator?

  —Losing it all right! Where’s my phone?

  —I’ll sit over there.

  —No, Kevin, don’t. Other people might want a seat.

  —We’re at this table.

  —There’s room for four.

  —God, Dad. No one’s going to come and sit …

  —Shush.

  —No one’s going to come and sit facing us.

  —I’ve got to work this out here.

  —I’ll run and get the nightie. Come straight back. If you’ll let me out.

  —How’s Mum?

  —Good.

  —Yeah?

  —Tired.

  —From what?

  —From … I don’t know, she’s, there was a flu.

  —Your mother has the immune system of—

  —I don’t want to hear it, Dad.

  —There have been, I suppose, some nasty flu bugs.

  —Did they say when Jen would be out?

  —No.

  —What did they say?

  —I told you.

  —I guess this means America’s off.

  —Why is America off?

  —Why, what did they say?

  —Nothing.

  —Did they give her the all clear?

  —That’s not how they work.

  —How do they work?

  —Not like that. They hedge things.

  —So you’re still planning to go to America?

  —She’s not been before. I told her, ‘You missed last time.’ Remember that?

  —Dad, if she’s still crook—

  —You know, I added it up. I’ve been to the States thirteen times in the last three years. Average of twenty flights each time? What’s that? She wanted to go, to see everything. Empire State, Grand Canyon, the works. Kevin, she’s taken two hours to recover from this … she didn’t know who I was! I thought she was joking. It was worse than the first time, even though this time we had an explanation, almost straight off, I knew.

  —That’s what I mean.

  —Two hundred and sixty! Two hundred and sixty flights, and that’s low as an estimate. Maybe I’ve done three hundred flights. Considering when I was married to Mum, I’d been once to Australia, total.

  Once overseas in forty plus years. It’s come in a rush, that’s for sure.

  —It’d be good to go with Jen, wouldn’t it.

  —In fact, I’ve never seen those things myself, in all the times. New York, New Orleans, all that.

  —Then you should, with Jen.

  —Because I see the insides of hotels, motels on the big highways, convention centres bigger than you could imagine, really quite impressive places. I’ve been in ten feet of snow in Denver but I’ve never seen the sights. Airports. Did I tell you the time we took off, when was it, little place, up in one of the Dakotas, and we were getting into the plane, it was minus 23, we were climbing up the steps, having walked through the snow, and I look down and there’s this poor bugger digging us out!

  —Yes, I remember.

  —He’s got a shovel and he’s actually digging us out of the runway!

  —Yep. And you said to him—

  —I said to him, ‘You probably want a hand with that, do you?’

  —I remember.

  —I always remember what he said back too. ‘God bless you, sir.’ Eh?

  —Mmn.

  —Two hours, now she’s asking for her … things. ‘Not the blue one but the pink one.’ There could be a serious serious accident, they just have enough oxygen in their lungs. ‘I told you the pink one.’ It’s coping, it’s how they cope, she gets on with things. At least we know the procedure, we’ve been here before. It’s great of you to come, Kevin.

  —Well, you called. Sounded like it was …

  —No.

  —Yeah, you said she was pretty close and all.

  —No, this is Jen.

  —Gave me a fright.

  —Gave you a fright? You weren’t there.

  —I know I wasn’t. I wasn’t saying … She needs to take it easy for a while.

  —Sure, sure. Take it easy, that’s it.

  —Probably so do you, Dad. With your blood pressure.

  —I told her in a month, you’ll be on the stand at the show.

  —You’re doing the show again.

  —Got to. Can’t afford not to. Exposure is the name of the game. Create a bit of bloody interest. We know we’ve got a great bloody product. Did I tell you about the guy from Wrightson’s? —Could I get out?

  —Why?

  —‘Why?’ I need to get out, Dad.

  —What are you going to do?

  —I’ll climb over the table.

  —I’ll let you out. —Thank you.

  —If she doesn’t come through, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  —Rubbish. She’s … really fit.

  —Jen?

  —All that gym.

  —She cares about her shape. She’s fifty-two.

  —She’s taken very good care of herself, Dad.

  —Then why’s this happened? Why does this keep happening? What do they want us to do, sit in our bloody rocking chairs for the next thirty years? Trying to run a business here!

  —This is probably just bad luck.

  —Only reason I’m doing this is for the family.

  —Can I get out now please?

  —I’ve got to phone this chap.

  —It’s eleven pm.

  —He’s the chap I see in North Dakota. What’s the time there?

  —I have no idea. About twelve or ten hours behind, I don’t know. Don’t call, please.

  —What’s the problem, sitting next to your father?

  —Nothing.

  —What’s wrong?

  —Nothing’s wrong.

  —Squirming away.

  —No.

  —So I’ll wait till tomorrow to call him.

  —Can I get out now? I need to go to the toilet.

  —Where are the toilets?

  —Just over there.

  —I need to go too.

  —You go first then.

  —Why?

  —I’ll mind this.

  —Mind the table? There’s no one else here, Kevin.

  —God.

  —Why can’t we both go?

  —Fine.

  —Is there something wrong with that? What are you hiding?

  —Nothing.

  —What’s your mother been telling you?

  —Nothing.

  —She’s always tired from something. She’s not healthy. It’s because he has her working like a dog.

  —I’ve got to go.

  —Okay, okay.

  —Just stand up, please.

  —Give me a minute. Please, Kevin.

  —We’ve had a minute.

  —Give me a couple of moments.

  —It’s late.

  —This is a real special time to have with you here. It was good of you to come. Are you all right there? You all right, Kevin? I’m appreciative of the time we have here. Very much so. To know you’d come right away. That’s a huge plus. For everyone concerned.

  dirt

  Before we had our own child, I had a sort of fantasy of adopting these two kids from down the street— brother and sister. They’d pass by our window, the father walking ten feet in front of them, yelling abuse, not even bothering to turn his head, just shouting stuff into the air. You never saw this guy with anything but the foulest look on his face. What sweet kids, maybe six and seven years old. The obvious thing here is that they weren’t eligible for adoption. The fantasy was very dodgy, I know. But their foul father required something. We’d say hello to the kids and they’d say hello.

  That was three years ago. The brother is now nine or ten, puts product in his hair. I’ve got to go out again and tell him to stop throwing rocks over the roofs of the parked cars. You can see the marks in his hair from the comb. He’s standing on top of a pile of dirt, chucking rocks. How many times do I have to tell him! Clods of earth and stones are all over the bonnets of the cars. I didn’t do that, he says. That wasn’t me. Who was it then? That was my sister.

  Next day he’s back on the pile, chucking rocks. His sister is with him, dirt in her hands. The pile of dirt is from where our neighbour dug out his basement to create a new bedroom. He’s dumped it on the street, waiting for removal by a contractor who never shows up. Who did it this time? I say to the kids. Now get off there and go home or I’ll tell your parents.

  There’s a crying child in the restaurant. The gay man I’m eating with has no patience with the child or the mother, who’s holding the child on her knee while trying to eat. She’s not with anyone else—just the child, who continues to cry. The mother is hunched over her plate, trying to scoop up her dinner as fast as she can. This is a meal she has to pay for and she wants to finish it. My companion drops his fork against his plate in protest. Just ignore it, I say. What’s the big deal? I’m trying to have a nice dinner, he says. It’s only a kid crying, just tune it out. Tune it out how? You can tune that out? Yes, I say. I’m lying. The meal is ruined—but only by my companion’s attitude. Is it because he’s gay he has less tolerance? But then there’s the guy at the next table—sixties, hard to imagine him in bed with another man—who says in a loud voice directed at the mother, I’d have been knocked from here to kingdom come. I’d be dead by now.

  Our neighbour hasn’t put curtains in his new bedroom, though he’s moved in down there. The walls are lined but the place still smells of clay. Sometimes at night, when I’m taking the recycling down, or carrying a tool up from the basement, sometimes I just want to be out of the house for a moment—everyone steps into the night, don’t say it’s just men hiding from the mothers of their children screaming in their baths, soap in their eyes—I see his girlfriend laying out her clothes on their bed for the next day’s work. It’s very exciting. Her—what is it—thoughtfulness? The composing— the blouse, the skirt. She is already wearing her white dressing-gown. She puts a version of herself down on the bed, looks at it, then changes the blouse or the skirt.

  Once she told us, when our child was about to be born, she couldn’t imagine something growing inside her. ‘I’d feel too full.’

  My father smacked us. I remember curling under a shrub at the side of our house and crying. He lies down on the floor and our daughter tells him she wants to look in his mouth. ‘It’s all right,’ she says, ‘you’ve been a good girl.’ He cries out because she’s kneeling on his chest.

  When he knows she’s coming to visit, he shaves. He combs his hair! His combs were always dirty— who would clean a comb? He used to chase my sister around the dining-table after she’d wound him up, the noise so great—her screams and his thunder—you could shout with joy and not be heard.

  divorce

 

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