The Cartographer (6 page)

Now it was Saturday again, the last one for the September holidays. So I decided to return to my explorations. I reckoned there wasn't much chance of me getting involved in another
murder, so all in all I was feeling optimistic. Besides, I had to find a way to make myself feel better. One of my little tricks for cheering myself up was to have a conversation out loud with Tom, with me doing both voices, but while it always made me feel good for a few seconds, it usually ended up making me sad, so that I'd have to stop. Today I found myself doing it automatically, probably because I needed cheering up so badly.

‘What d'yer feel like doin', Tommytoes?'

‘Joinin' the navy, young feller.'

This was one of Tom's favourite games, mine being one where we joined the army. We never worked it out. It was like ‘Who's On First?'

‘What, you? What would you be, a cabin boy or somethin'?'

‘I'd be a captain. Of a submarine. The HMAS
Biggles
. Ha!'

‘You can't have that. Give me the army any day. I'd be a general.'

‘Then I'd be an admiral.'

‘Then I'd be a field marshal. I'd kill heaps of Japs.'

‘Don't rave.'

‘Don't you rave.'

‘I could sail away, and not come back.'

‘What, to Tasmania? You might run into Uncle Maury.'

‘I could rescue him.'

‘I don't think Mum'd like that.'

‘Neither would Dad.'

‘Best you leave him there.'

‘Yeah, bugger 'im. What's so good about the army, anyway?'

‘Free grub.'

‘We've got free grub already.'

‘Yeah. But —'

‘Yeah. I like your new bag — where'd you get it?'

‘It used to be Granddad's fishin' bag.'

‘Oh yeah — course.'

Then the rot set in.

So I was off for another wander, like Hume and Hovell. It takes a fair bit to put me off exploring, and now I felt like I had to prove to myself that I could do it alone.

I started out by wandering off up Church Street, feeling the thudding under the footpath as the ponderous trams whined and banged against the gaps in the rails, and noticing that the shadows were growing shorter — that would go into the map. The bottom end of Church Street had no churches, but it did have its own kind of buildings. Apart from the cardboard factory, and a factory that made cream biscuits, and another that made false arms and legs, I saw a gloomy doorway that led to a set of dark, red-carpeted stairs beside a brass plaque that said ‘Dr Abraham Berlin, Dental Surgeon' — that would go on the map. I saw a shop that sold haberdashery, and smelt like the inside of Mum's wardrobe. I saw a dark garage for khaki trucks that smelt of grease. I stepped inside and went for a walk around this place, and spoke to a mechanic wearing khaki overalls. He was sitting on the footplate of the truck, having a cuppa.

‘Are you in the army?' I asked, wondering if soldiers fixed trucks.

‘What does it look like?'

He had me there.

‘What's wrong with it?' I asked, having a critical look at the truck, which had shed lots of panels and black bits.

‘Buggered if I know, mate,' said the mechanic. ‘It was goin' all right yesterday.'

I noticed that the truck had a plate on the back with a picture of a yellow rising sun and two crossed swords, the same as the one Dad wore on his army hat. That was
definitely
going on the map.

As I still hadn't been thrown out, I went for another walk around the workshop, trying to look as if I was used to being there, and examined the parts that had been removed from the truck. When I reached the far end of the place, I saw in the floor something that was worth half a dozen trucks: a trapdoor. I couldn't see the soldier, so I pulled on the brass-ring handle, and lifted it up.

‘Careful you don't fall in, mate,' I heard him say from under the truck.

I could see right away what was down there. It was the canal, as we called it, though its real name was Dynon Creek. This was one of those creeks that they had just forgotten about and gone ahead and built roads and buildings right on top of, so it was still down there somewhere, sloshing along in the dark like the Lazy River in the song:

The canal was full of old car parts and rags. It was a long way down, and I had to grip the handle tightly to stop my fright.

‘What's all that junk down there?' I asked.

‘What d'yer mean junk? That's where we keep our spare parts,' said the soldier, emerging from behind the truck with a straight face. ‘And you better close it before the sergeant comes in and chucks the both of us down there.'

‘Yeah, righto,' I said, thinking hard. I had no idea the buildings around here were so interesting.

Next, I went past a business that made signs, and had a sign in the window of the glass front door that said: ‘Sign-writer wanted. Apply within.' It would have been far more interesting if it had said: ‘Sign-writer wanted. Reward, £100.' I reckoned Blarney Barney would have been right onto that. On the other hand, the Lone Ranger would have caught him for free. I wasn't so sure about Tonto — nobody was.

I went past the Prince of Wales Hotel and saw a few familiar faces in the public bar, which smelt like beery burps. Then I went past the Miners' Institute, which Dad told me had nothing to do with miners, the Mechanics' Institute, which he said had nothing to do with mechanics, and the Temperance Institute, which he said had nothing much to do with temperance. I could see that unless you were particularly careful, people might laugh at your sign. I resolved, right there, outside the Temperance Institute, that my map would tell the truth, no matter what people thought. It would be no laughing matter.

As I walked I looked up the hill in the direction of Bridge Road and tried to find the twin red domes of the Gala Theatre, my favourite place on earth. The Gala had red carpet that smelt like Luna Park, and dim red lights in the foyer, like the lights of a spaceship caught in a space fog. Inside the Gala, your footsteps made no sound, and when you spoke, you could hardly hear the words. The usherette who took your ticket wore the same colours as the outside of the place, maroon and gold. And if you came in late, she used her torch to find you a seat in the dark, even if you were only a kid. The last time I was there I found a zac on the floor, which meant extra lollies at interval. That was the first time I'd ever been paid to go to
the flicks. The picture was
Old Yeller
, ‘the story of a boy and his dog', it said in the trailer. And it was. A lot of kids cried when Old Yeller died, and I cried too. I knew everyone would think I was crying over Old Yeller, but I was really crying about Tom … and me.

The funny thing about
Old Yeller
was that Fess Parker was in it, and he had been in my favourite movie of all time,
Davy Crockett
, which I had also seen at the Gala. All the best things happen at the Gala. I saw Macka McGuire get thrown out for pulling some girl's hair and then swearing — it was the swearing that did it, I reckon. He'd been asking for that for ages. That was a lovely arvo.

In the time it took me to walk to the next corner I had that Saturday afternoon all over again, including the movie and half of the walk home — and I met myself right at the spot I had arrived at, if you see what I mean.

A few yards around the corner, where you can see down into the open part of the canal, I leaned over the rail and sang, loud enough to hear the echo, a bit of the
Old Yeller
song.

Reminded me of me.

I was just about to shoot down Hastings Street, which was nothing more than a lane with a narrow footpath on one side, when I heard someone shout my name, and I turned around and saw, hanging out of a tram that was stuck behind a turning beer truck, Johnno Johnson, my fellow Commando, and the only boy in my class who could eat three sticks of chalk and
still spit. Change of plan. I dodged a blue Bedford ute full of highchairs then stepped onto the tram's running board and grabbed the handrail.

‘G'day. Where're you off to?'

‘Home,' says Johnno, unnecessarily loud.

‘Strewth, I'm not deaf or anything. Hey, you don't live down here.'

‘Shh. I told the clippie I haven't got enough money to get home.'

I could see the sense in that. We were always pulling clippies' legs to get free rides. I once told a clippie I was the driver's kid. She said: ‘All right then, say something in Italian.' So I say ‘Buon Natale', which I'd picked up at Luigi's. Then I explained: ‘It means “Merry Christmas”.'

‘Yeah, pull the other leg. It could mean bloody anything,' she says.

‘You ask my dad then,' I say.

So she goes down to the front and opens the driver's door and sticks her head in, and I can see her asking the driver, who's probably called something ending in ‘o', how to say Merry Christmas in Italian, so I pull the cord, forcing him to stop at the next corner, and jump off. The clippie gives me one of those looks that could kill, and as the tram gets going I wave to the driver's mirror and yell ‘Ciao, Papa', just the way Luigi does when I'm over at his place.

That fixed her.

‘So where're you off to?' says Johnno.

‘I dunno. Where's this thing going?'

‘Buggered if
I
know.'

‘Well, here's my stop,' I say, even though we've only gone a few hundred yards. ‘Pull that cord for us, will ya?'

Just before the tram stopped I swung out in front of the traffic with my trademark getting-off movement and dropped to the road. Looking back, it might have been better if I'd stuck with Johnno and helped him brighten up the clippie's day.

I had arrived at the next street down towards the river from my own street, the street where Douggie Quirk lived. I walked right past his house, as he was staying with his cousin in Dromana for a few days. Lucky bugger. A few houses further down was a narrow footpath between two side fences. Through here I went, expecting to come to yet another lane or street, but instead coming out in the front yard of the worst-looking house I had ever seen. Its owner had made no attempt to keep up appearances, because no one could see it anyway, and the yard, which was huge by local standards, was full of rubbish and junk. Normally I would've congratulated myself on finding a place like this, but for one thing: it smelt awful, the kind of smell that only people can make.

In the centre of the yard was a large tangled black tree with drooping leaves, a kind of wattle. It was the only natural thing in sight. The house was weatherboard, and if there had ever been paint on it, it had flaked off long ago to reveal sad, curling grey timbers. The front entrance had no door at all, I discovered, and the windows were broken. There were some rough curtains crookedly hung, and on the porch there were a few faded toys. Inside, I could hear Kay Starr singing ‘Side by Side' on the wireless somewhere towards the back of the house. I peeked around the side and crossed the yard and peeked down the other side. I was looking for signs of a dog; you know: bones, kennel … dog. But the coast was clear. So I peeked in the door, because the place seemed to be deserted apart from Kay Starr lazily doing her thing.

The living room — I call it that only because it was in the front — was a jungle of furniture and toys and clothes. In front of me was a passage, and what looked like a kitchen at the other end. To the sides of the passage were doors, all closed. I had come to the point that is finally reached by all great explorers, the point at which one chooses either obscurity and shame, or fame and fortune. I had to admit that standing there with that smell in my nostrils and Kay in my ears, shame was looking
damn
good. But I was a sucker for a mystery, and I took a step as close to the wall as I could, to avoid making the floorboards creak, just as Larry Kent had done in
Destination TNT
— or was it
Sweet Danger
? I was halfway down the passage when I smelt smoke.

There was no doubt about it, it was smoke, and a lot of it, and it was coming out of the room I thought might be the kitchen. At the same time there was the scraping sound of a chair or table being moved suddenly. I was about to retrace my steps, not worrying about how Larry might have done it, when out of a room to my left and just a foot in front of me rushed a large lollopy woman with crazy red hair and a transparent nightie that did not hide anything at all. She rushed into the kitchen with a long scream of rage and started going crazy at a kid I couldn't see, but whom I guessed had decided to find out what would happen if he disobeyed that well-known rule:
Never play with matches
. The woman seemed to be in control as the tap was on and I could hear water going everywhere, and there was a great deal of screaming and slapping and a lot of
you little bastard
-ing.

I froze in my tracks. It was too fascinating to miss, and too frightening to face. But when the woman told the kid she was going to teach him a lesson he would never forget I started to
back up. I mean, this was
his
lesson, not mine. But I had only taken one step when the kid's screams ceased and he suddenly swung around the corner, ran right into me and bounced off again, landing on his bum. In a flash, the woman's beefy hand reached around the corner and grabbed him by the hair, which was a good call because there was nothing else to grab. He looked at me in terror and screamed as she pulled him towards her and suddenly appeared in the doorway with her face only a foot from mine. She was roaring like a wild animal and breathing a mixture of foul breath and sherry into my face, but without seeing me at all. I could tell right away she was blind. Blind and blind drunk. And she was carrying a fork the way the Phantom's enemies, the Singh Brotherhood, carry their daggers. The kid yelled ‘Mum!', as if he was trying to wake her from a nightmare, but it had no effect.