Peter Corris - Aftershock

The Falcon had stalled, so the first move wasn’t too hard. Turn the key off and on again. I did that and the motor caught first time. Regular servicing, nothing like it. Then I tried getting into first gear. That worked all right so I was encouraged to attempt to straighten the wheels and drive across the railway line. No problems, although the jolting was something I could have done without. I was beginning to admire the guy with the crowbar. An artist. I was coming out of the fogjast with just a headache and a ringing in my ears to remember him by.

I drove super-cautiously to Whitebridge, always ready for the road to suddenly turn into a big dipper or end in the middle of a football ground. I’d been concussed enough times to know the tricks the brain can play. But nothing like that happened. The traffic both ways was light, the way it gets in the country when you leave the main road, and I blessed the fact. One oncoming headlight, unnecessary anyway in the evening glow and on high beam, hit me between the eyes like a stungun.

I made it to Whitebridge and turned onto Dudley Road running along the crest of the headland. There was sparkling, dark blue water in the distance on both sides and I felt as if I was driving along a highway that would take me all the way out to sea, maybe to Lord Howe Island. I stopped under a light, realising that the tap on the temple had affected me more than I’d thought. I consulted the Gregory’s and reckoned I could set a course for Bombala Road. Why not? It wasn’t nearly as far as Lord Howe Island.

I drove past the turn-off to Redhead, promising myself a look at the beach where thirty years before I’d ridden a surfboard and tried to convince a local girl to come and have a holiday in Sydney with me. Dudley has two pubs which seems at least one too many for such a small place. Both pubs had cars pulled up outside them and small groups of drinkers sucking it down quietly along with the fresh sea air. Ocean Street cut the headland in two. I tried to remember the number of Oscar Bach’s cottage and couldn’t. Well, that’s what note-taking is for. Dudley, this part of it at least, had closed down for the night. Men in singlets were watering lawns and the few elderly people sitting out on their front porches looked about ready to go in and switch on the TV. Almost every house sprouted a high mast and a set of complex antennae.

I turned into Bombala Street and saw the land fall away and the ocean spread itself out in front of me. Lights blinked on land in the far distance but I was too disoriented to know where those lights were shinin’. I was beginning to hear music in my head and I felt surprise when the car began to go faster of its own accord. I felt like saying ‘Stop’ but I had enough sense left to touch the brake. I stop-started down the steep street towards thick bush with the water beyond. A casual observer might have wanted to see my learner’s permit; a cop would have wanted me to blow in a bag.

I stopped outside the last house in the street on the left side by jamming the car’s wheels into the kerb. I got out and heard the surf crashing not too far away. The air smelled of eucalyptus and salt and cicadas started singing as soon as I slammed the car door. I walked across a wide nature strip towards a letter box that had the number 7 written on it in luminous paint. My kind of house number. I must have made it down the steps to the wide deck and all the way to the front door, but it wasn’t something I was aware of at the time.

I recognised Horrie Jacobs’ voice, although it was coming from far away. Then his diminuitive shape was close by and I heard a female make a noise between a gasp and a groan. Then I was sitting down somewhere quiet and warm and my head was being sponged. The female was doing the work and her hands were incredibly gentle. For some reason I preferred to keep my eyes closed.

‘Mrs Jacobs?’ I said.

‘May. Hold steady. There’s a bit of glass here wants getting out.’

I didn’t feel a thing. ‘You’re good at this.’

‘Horrie was a miner. Do you think he didn’t come home with cuts and bruises under all that coal dust? You bet he did. And who fixed him up? Me, that’s who.’

Horrie’s voice was coming from the same hemisphere as everyone else now. ‘You’re right, Cliff. She is good at it.’

‘You’ve got to be. How many times did Ralph come in after games with bits of skin hanging off him? And was Suzie all that much better?’

‘Our son and second daughter,’ Horrie said. ‘A tomboy that Suzie.’

I nodded and regretted it. ‘Did I bleed on anything?’

‘Just your shirt,’ May Jacobs said. ‘And I can put that in the wash.’

‘What happened?’ Horrie said. ‘Did you run into someone?’

‘Someone ran into me,’ I said. ‘He made his point with a crowbar, the point being not to push too hard on this enquiry of yours.’

‘Told you,’ May Jacobs said.

She was six or seven inches taller than him, making her a tall woman for her generation. She looked as if she’d been broadly built when younger and more active. Now she’d fined down somewhat, but she would still have outweighed Horrie by twenty pounds. Horrie Jacobs looked at his wife. ‘You didn’t say anything about this sort of trouble. This backs up what I think. Doesn’t it, Cliff?’

I was lying on a padded cane lounge in a large sitting room that seemed to have three glass walls. There was a towel under my head and the ache was easing. I sat up slowly and carefully. They’d taken off my shoes and the thick carpet under my feet felt good. Pleasant sensations were returning, always a good sign. I could think of another sensation that’d be welcome.

Peter Corris

CH14 — Aftershock

‘Leave him alone, Horrie, I’m telling you,’ May Jacobs said. I could detect the slight foreign sound in her voice for the first time. ‘Poor man’s had a terrible knock. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Hardy?’

It was about the last thing I wanted and it must have shown in my face. Horrie chuckled.

‘He needs something stronger than that, love. Hang on.’

He went quickly out of the room and I felt I had to apologise. I’d seen ex-boozers seize a chance to start again before, any chance. ‘Tea’d be fine, Mrs Jacobs,’ I said. ‘I don’t want…’

‘Hush. He knows what he’s doing. Are you well enough to talk? We’re going to have to thrash this out.’

Horrie came back before I could answer. He had a big brandy in a wine glass and he gave it to me. ‘That’ll see you right. Good stuff that, they tell me. Ralph brought it back from some trip or other.’

I touched my face and could feel where blood had crusted on some cuts. I sipped the brandy and then had a solid slug. Good stuff? It was Grade A Cognac and it seemed to run through every blood vessel to soothe all the parts that hurt. May went off to make tea for Horrie and herself and I looked around the room while I worked on the brandy. Big, cane furniture, carpet, huge windows. There was a large bookcase filled with a variety of books stacked in as if they were there to be read and looked at instead of displayed. There were cushions and magazines lying around. A couple of broad-leafed plants sprouted from earthernware pots. The fireplace was big and, to judge from the slight smoke stains on the wall and roof above it, got plenty of use in the winter. It was a nice, plain room. Horrie Jacobs watched me survey his domain.

‘Doesn’t look like a millionaire’s place, does it? Ralph’s always at me to do it up but I dunno, it suits May and me.’

‘I think it’s fine. Which way’s the water?’

He pointed to a window that was filled with points of light I took to be stars. Thataway. View’ll knock your eyes out in the morning. Oh, sorry, that’s not the best thing to say.’ He leaned forward and examined my battered head. ‘Didn’t miss your eye by that much. I’d better ring the police.’