PALMER AVENUE

THE RETURN

‘G’day you ol’ fart,’ I call my father once a year.

‘G’day you young shit. You married yet? Got any kids?’ His voice booms across the Nullarbor plain. There’s never been any respect. I reckon he’s an ol’ fart. He reckons I’ve just grown into a bigger s***. Twelve years since I’ve seen him. One hundred and twelve would be too soon, but some things have to be said and done in person.

My father still lives in Palmer Avenue, Merrigum. A tiny town with insignificant orchard yields and even less significance on the road maps. Thirty miles west of Shepparton, it’s thirty million miles from me.

We pull in at Byrneside, the last petrol stop before Merrigum. Billy selects an ice-cream bar and forgets to collect the wafers. Too late – ice-cream all over his face and the new sheepskin seat covers. Bought specially for this trip.

For God’s sake, Billy! Can’t you use your head, just for once? Can I back-hand him one to make my point? Saltwater slides into the white patterns on his face. I keep driving. He’ll learn eventually.

‘What if we get lost?’

Not much chance of that, I assure him. Just past the petrol station, the road branches to the right. After that, it’s a straight run from Byrneside; another thirty million miles. There’ll be nothing much this side of the railway crossing except the pub on the corner and a few houses. My father lives at 11 Palmer Avenue. There’ll be a Vauxhall in the driveway and Tom Dooley serenading the high brown grass on the other side of the road. Out the back there’s a black mongrel, a horse named Bonnie, several chooks and vegetable beds surrounded by chicken wire.

The orchards seem to have burgeoned past the pub, and down both sides of the road, escaping all the way back to Byrneside. Sprawling chocolate brick houses squat at the end of sweeping flowered drives. The houses can’t be more than five years old. The orchards look ancient.

Summer. Palmer Avenue. Non-stop crickets irritate the air; plum trees on every nature strip. No houses on the right – only tall brown grass. We pull up in the scrawny shade of a twiggy plum tree. We’re here, Billy. Strains of Tom Dooley mingle with the crickets.

‘Who’s Tom Dooley?’ Billy wonders.

Coloured plastic quoits flower across the front lawn. Obviously, the other grandchildren have visited. Does he know already? Two small dogs yap incessantly out back. The gates across the driveway are still closed and a brown Gemini, not the Vauxhall, rusts under a makeshift carport of timber off-cuts and green shade cloth. Two figures emerge from the house.

‘G’day, you ol’ fart,’ I say into his chest.

‘G’day you young shit.’

‘Hi Noeline,’ I nod to his wife.

‘Hullo love.’ She chases me for a hug. I sidestep and pull Billy forward so he lands in her rotting contours. She never showers and years of stifling summers have baked country dirt and perspiration into the knots and crevices of her generous trunk and limbs.

‘Billy, say hello to your Pop.’

Billy’s gaze starts at Dad’s feet and works its way up to a sunny, smiling face. His smile was always welcoming. I’ll give him that. And Billy warms to him immediately, throwing himself into the open arms, and enjoying a boisterous hug until the ol’ fart has a coughing fit. My stomach turns while I listen to trails of congestion slithering around his chest cavity. He finishes by hawking a gob at the fence. His shiny creation clings for a moment then stretches itself into a new shape and drops. When it reaches the grass it’s the only green in a sea of yellow.

The narrow concrete footpath, grey with age, bears no new chips or cracks or scars, nothing to suggest activity since I’d gone. Maybe only ghosts walk its length. Up four wooden steps and it’s time to hold my breath again.

‘You’re hurting me,’ Billy whispers, trying to loosen my grip.

The smell of age, urine and stale air comes swimming out, wretched for escape. Billy wrinkles his nose and I flash him a warning look. Noeline walks in first. She stops only two steps from the door’s arc and waits until we are all inside. The ol’ fart closes the door behind us and I stop breathing. Noeline waves expansively at the lounge room.

‘It’s changed a bit since you were here.’

Overladen teddy chains grow like coloured grass on the ceiling and the lounge chairs glisten under sweat-ripened garbage bags: green and black plastic taped in place to prevent the spoilage of Noeline’s “accidents”. I can hear Billy beginning to gag.

‘Yeah sure, Noeline. I’ll just take Billy to the loo.’

I make it through the kitchen to the screen door at the back before taking in any more air.

‘We’ve got an inside one now!’ shrieks Noeline behind me. ‘It’s off to your left. Through the laundry.’

 Damn! The laundry floor sprouted mountains of unwashed linen and greasy overalls that blossomed high on either side of a treacherous pass littered with ripe socks and underwear. Billy shoots me a look as he closes the toilet door.

‘I’m right here, Billy,’ I say a little too loudly.

***

 There is no back yard, no mongrel, no Bonnie. Just dry, hard, orange dirt. Two Chihuahuas strain at their chains; they jump, spin, bark and run as far as their chains allow. After the inevitable whiplash, they return to their kennels and start again.

‘Do you ever let ’em off the chain, Pop?’

The ol’ fart glances at me. ‘No Billy. They run away if I do that. Took me ages to catch Fighter last time. Bloody near killed me running after him. So, I starved him out ’til he came crawling back on his belly.’

‘He came back?’ Billy is incredulous. ‘But isn’t that cruel, Pop?’

Another glance. Always the do-gooder, my son. ‘Shut-up and mind your own business, Billy.’ I tap his backside and watch his back arch from the force of my hand. I wonder if my back ever looked like that.

The outside loo has been converted to a storage shed. Rusting spades and rakes stand like dead boughs against the shed walls. The ‘dunny man’ used to change the pan weekly. There is no pan now, just a hole with a heavy wooden toilet seat over it. Billy lifts the lid. Fingers of phenyl charge from their ancient prison and curl toward daylight. Billy holds his nose and points.

‘Look!’

I move closer. Silk threads shiver in the draft. Something scuttles inside the hole. I shiver and close the lid before shooing Billy out. The tour is over.

Back in the kitchen with green marble linoleum and red cushioned chairs, my father brews tea while Noeline sits smoking.

‘Pop?’

‘Yup, Billy?’

‘Can I have a drink of something?’ He sees my look. ‘Please.’

Noeline rummages through a cupboard and brings out a bottle of yellow cordial. The lid is stuck to the bottleneck and sugar tracks down the label have long since hardened. Noeline wrenches the lid off the bottle, then finds a Vegemite jar and pours a glass of thick cordial. She sets it down beside Billy. Too close to his arm. He turns toward her and knocks the glass. A river of yellow vomits across the table and lemon tendrils join the other household smells.

‘Ah, you stupid – ,’ Noeline raises a hand but the ol’ fart wheels around and catches her arm. Billy grips mine. He is wide-eyed and his colour had changed.

‘Was an accident, Noeline. Wasn’t it Billy?’ The old man coughs again. Billy nods dumbly at this unexpected alliance and Noeline sits down.

‘Your mother used to be the same. If there was a piece of fluff, she’d trip over it. What’s brought you three thousand miles to see me?’

‘Mum died last week.’

He slaps his thigh and roars until he coughs. ‘All this way for that?’

I hate challenges. ‘No, course not.’ The silence lengthens. ‘She left a will.’

‘Pay dirt at last! That mine must be worth something now.’

I rummage in my bag for papers. I’m shaking slightly. ‘These are for you.’

His arthritic hands scrabble furiously through them until understanding dawns. ‘Bitch! You got it all. What about the mine?’ He glares and shakes the papers until he coughs again.

He needs nothing from me. Silence is the best retreat. When he finishes coughing, he pulls Billy toward him.

‘Can you do this, Billy?’ He moves his ears and scalp so that his hair looks like a sliding carpet on his skull while his ears wiggle. Billy tries it, but for all his concentration he can’t move a muscle. He gives up and settles himself on the ol’ fart’s lap.

‘Where’s your bucket, Pop?’

‘Bucket?’

‘The one you’re going to kick soon?’

I choke on my mouthful. My father’s tea cup only makes it half way to his mouth. He places the cup on the table, deliberately, quietly, gently. I know the signs. Time to leave. But he fixes me with his eyes. I know how rabbits feel when caught in the glare of a headlight. I’ve behaved like a rabbit most of my life. If I stare him out, will it make any difference? I feel around for keys in my bag.

‘Billy, it’s time to go.’

‘I think Billy wants to stay here. Don’t you, Billy?’

‘Can I, really?’

‘Billy, it’s time to go. We have to- we have to go now.’

‘Ohh! Can’t I stay?’

‘Now, Billy!’

‘But the boy really wants to stay. Why don’t we make up the spare room for him? You can pick him up tomorrow.’

My father never believed in tomorrow. His white knuckles on Billy’s arms remind me of all the tomorrows that never came. What was one more?