Peter Corris - The Marvellous Boy

‘No. I was selfish. My wife… I did nothing for her. My daughter died in childbirth.’ He was in the grip of it now, wandering painfully in the garden of his memories. ‘And Gertrude, Gertrude lost three children. There was nothing I could do. The people I loved and should have loved, my work did nothing for them.’

His voice broke. Tears were running down his worn-out old face. I lifted my hand in a sort of salute and left. I’d hardly been further inside his house than the verandah but I’d been deep, deep inside his life.

It was nearly noon. I hadn’t slept, I hadn’t eaten, I hadn’t shaved. I was tired, hungry, dirty and I stank. The day was cloudy but hot and I sweltered inside my sweat-stained clothes. I drove down to the foreshore, dug out a towel, and walked over some grassy dunes to the beach. The tide was out and the sand stretched clean and white in front of me. I walked as far from the other people on the beach as I could; they were a couple necking under an umbrella and two sagging mothers with about ten kids between them. A mile away the bridge looked like a spider’s web thrown across the estuary; a collection of small boats tossed up and down in the deep blue water out beyond a line of gentle breakers.

I stripped to my underpants and went into the water. It was cold; I went down under a wave and swam hard for the boats with short, choppy strokes. I got past the breakers but was still a long way short of the boats when my breath ran out. I floated on my back for a while looking up at the sky which was cleaner and closer than in the city. Then a plane ripped across it leaving a thin white streak behind it. I flipped over and swam back. The waves were no good for body surfing but I couldn’t have caught them anyway — the speed just wasn’t there.

After a walk along the beach and a cold shower in the toilet block I felt revived enough to contemplate the drive to Canberra. I got petrol and some salad rolls in Blackman’s Bay. It was still a nice town but my memories of it would never be quite the same. I bought a couple of cans of beer for company; I still looked rough but I felt fine.

From the coast to Canberra isn’t the worst drive in the world. The road is good for most of the way, a bit narrow in parts and some of the bends are hairy. I’ve never done it in a good car; for me, if I make it over the mountain without the radiator boiling, it’s a good trip. I made it and pushed on through the flat farming country at a steady fifty-five. The academics and public servants have moved into the cottages in the small towns and the main streets now have restaurants and shops full of pottery and raw wool.

The traffic thickened near Queanbeyan and held me down to a crawl. The city seemed to have its own patch of blue sky resting neatly above it. After the freshness of the hills and farms the air tasted of exhaust fumes and tyre rubber. I found a medium-price motel on the south side and checked in. I washed my shirt in the handbasin, took a swim in the pool and had a nap after asking to be called at 7 p.m. I came out of the sleep fairly fresh and shaved with an old blade and the motel soap. It hurt. I washed my hair with the same soap and thought of Ailsa, my ex-woman, my rich ex-woman, who’d bought me soaps and shampoos and shaving creams and kept me smelling nice. Then I thought of Cyn, my ex-wife who didn’t give a damn after a while how I smelt or what I did or thought or said. Funny thing was, I missed them both.

At eight o’clock I was wearing a freshened up shirt and a clean face and was ready to go calling. I got directions to Red Oak Road from the motel office and negotiated the circles and crescents they have in those parts to take the cockiness out of strangers. The neighbourhood looked like Professor and fat-cat territory; the gardens were wide and deep in front and the houses featured a lot of timber and glass and weren’t short on stone walls and terraces. The Baudin place didn’t let the street down. It had half an acre of garden out front and the trees seemed to have been specially chosen for their cumulative effect of taste and order. I could see a big garage at the end of the drive which held a brace of European cars. A few more of the same were standing out in the street.

I parked and went through the open gates towards the house. It was a well set-up affair in white brick with ivy or something growing on it. Splashing and the strains of jollity from behind the house took my attention and I kept on the drive towards the back. A gate in a white trellis fence gave on to a flag-stoned patio with a low wall around it. Beyond the wall was a swimming pool and a lot of smooth lawn. There was still some light and enough warmth in the air for fun, fun, fun; water splashed up from the pool and glittered like quicksilver. There were about ten people in the pool and three times that many out of it. The dry people were wearing casual clothes and drinking drinks. The sexes seemed to be about equally represented. I took a few steps across the patio and a big man in a dark suit came quickly out of the house and barred my way.

‘Private party sir,’ he said quietly.

‘This is the Baudin residence?’

‘A private party,’ he repeated. ‘By invitation.’

‘The night is young. I hope they enjoy it. I’m not here for a party, I want to see Mr and Mrs Baudin.’

‘What’s your business?’

I handed him a card. He read it and then looked me over carefully; he was poker-faced but his eyes told me he was wondering how anyone could sink so low. I felt resentment.

‘Who’re you by the way — the caterer?’

‘I’m Mr Baudin’s personal secretary.’

‘And bouncer?’

‘If necessary. There’s been no call for it so far.’

If it was an invitation I was prepared to pass it up. He had a couple of inches and many pounds on me and none of it looked soft. He held himself well and he’d put the card out of sight so fast I hadn’t followed the movement. His hands were free again.

‘I don’t want any trouble, just a minute or two with the host and I’ll be on my way — I won’t even dirty a glass.’

Our encounter must have looked intense because it had attracted the attention of some of the drinkers. A couple of them ambled across towards us. The secretary made a motion of his arm that suggested my dismissal, possibly by force, when one of the onlookers spoke up.

‘Hey, Cliff Hardy, Cliff.’ He lifted his glass. I recognised him as a reporter I’d known in Sydney. I’d heard he’d joined the staff of a cabinet minister. I raised my hand and my mind searched for his name. We shook hands.

‘How’s tricks Cliff?’

‘All right.’

‘Do you know Mr… Hardy, Mr Rose?’

Tom Rose.

‘Yeah sure, from my Sydney days. Still enquiring privately Cliff?’

‘Right. Still a fiercely independent voice?’

He laughed. Rose is a short, broad man and his laugh sounds like someone pounding on an oil drum. The laugh did for the secretary. I was in. He leaned forward and dropped a few discreet words between us.

‘Mr Baudin has been indisposed. I’ll take your card in and mention that you are acquainted with Mr Rose. He might see you.’

‘Thanks Jeeves,’ I said. He went off athletically into the house and I turned my attention to Rose. ‘You carry a little weight in this town, Tom?’

‘Just a little. Come and have a drink. Look Cliff I’d like you to meet Richard…’ He swung around to where his companion had been but the man had drifted away. ‘Shit, he’s gone. Never mind, come and have a drink, there’s gallons of it — the best.’ His voice was a bit sloppy. It wasn’t his fault there were still gallons. I fell in beside him as he moved towards the throng.

‘Who’s this Baudin anyway?’