Charles’s brother is in Melbourne catching up with family. He’s staying with Charles and Liz. Olivia thinks it’s great. She loves her Uncle Brian. Every night he comes into her room smelling of smoke. He lights a candle and lying on the bottom bunk, he tells her stories in a gravely whisper. The words rise up to her with the flame and she finds herself in other worlds. He has told her of the time he swam with humpback whales in Hawaii, how he was lost on Thredbo in a blizzard for three days and of the time he rescued a German tourist from the top of Uluru.
Another magical thing about Brian is that he lives on an Island, Magnetic Island, where he is the postman.
It would not be putting too fine a point on it to say that Liz can’t stand Brian. It goes back to 1981, just before he moved to Magnetic. Brian trod on a stingray in Port Phillip Bay. It was an unlucky thing to happen, given the number of stingrays that live in the Bay and the rarity of them being trodden on. He’d met this fantastic woman and taken her down to Brighton Beach in front of the bathing boxes. He rolled a large joint. His plan was to get her stoned, then into the water for a naked swim in the moonlight and follow that up with a shag in the shadows between the boxes. He rolled up a big one – it crackled and glowed as they inhaled. Then they lay on their backs and looked up at the stars. Brian let the minutes pass, then he said, as if the idea had just occurred to him, ‘I think I’ll have a swim – what d’ya reckon?’
She sighed and murmured, ‘You go ahead. I’ll watch.’
Brian stood, stretched and walked down to the shoreline. As he peeled off his clothes, he felt her eyes tracing his spine and pausing at the dimples above his buttocks. He paddled a little way until he was clear of the rocks, then he strode out into the deeper water where he planned to dive in, giving her a tantalising glimpse of his backside, illuminated by the moon, before it disappeared into the black water.
But the woman was out to it. She’d never had such a smoke and within minutes of inhaling, her heart began to thump in a way that consumed her interest entirely. She entered into a state of complete awareness of her body – to the exclusion of all else that was happening around her. She pumped and pulsed. She breathed and felt her blood being oxygenated, she felt the peristaltic movements of her bowel, she felt an egg ripen and break free from the follicle, she heard her hair growing, felt her teeth inexorably decaying and then fell into a deep sleep.
It was then that Brian took the fatal step. The creature slid out from under his foot, there was a beat and then there was indescribable pain. It shot up his leg, through his body to his skull, then on striking bone, it shot back down the way it had come. Back and forth the pain slammed through flesh and bone. He thrashed in the water and shouted for help.
About a hundred meters along the beach, two flounder fisherman were engaged in their hunt. On hearing a scream they turned and waded towards the sound. It was slow going. In addition to the effort of pushing against the water, the rubber waders that came to their armpits, not to mention the gear, hampered them: spears, torches and creels. Max was finding it particularly awkward. He had a small hole in his waders, the result of an error of judgement when handling the spear. The tide was slowly rising inside the thick pants. It was warm as wee. Ploughing on, they were momentarily shocked when they realised their torches were dancing on the figure of a naked man. But Max and Al had been around the block a few times and quickly gained composure. ‘Steady on mate,’ said Al. Then he turned to Max; ‘It’s my guess he’s trod on ray, judging by the palaver.’ He handed Max his spear and torch then gripped Brian firmly by the upper arm and steered him towards the shore. It was clear they had to get him up to the car and to the hospital quick sticks. The waders were a hindrance. What followed went against the grain for Max and Al. They were from a modest, less tactile generation. They removed the waders and stood on the beach in their Y- fronts. Max’s were wet and clung. Then they reached towards each other and held hands, making a seat for Brian who then planted his bare bottom on their arms. (This is one story that Brian doesn’t tell Olivia.)
Brian spent the next two days in hospital and it was months before the swelling went down. The big toe on his right foot (where the barb had pierced his skin) has never been the same. Years of favouring one foot over the other has led to all sorts of physical problems: lower back, bung knee and corns.
But returning to the woman on the beach …She didn’t stir till 2.00 am. She woke cold, alone and frightened. Not for a minute did she imagine something terrible had happened to her male companion rather, she jumped straight to the conclusion that she’d been dumped. Furious she vowed that she’d ‘show the bastard’ but that would have to wait. For now, she was faced with the immediate problem of getting off the beach. She needed courage. She had to move from her exposed position, through the shadows between the bathing boxes, up a sandy track that wound its way into a thick scrub of acacia and tea tree and onto the road. She heard the whoosh whoosh rhythm - the white noise of her anxiety inside her head. She heard the sound and sensed the eyes of the wankers and homosexuals lurking behind the tangle of branches as she passed. Finally she emerged onto the road and into the light and began the long walk back home.
Liz, for that’s who the woman was, began planning her revenge. Tomorrow was another day.
Brian was living in a house in Carlton - a two-story Victorian terrace share house. Liz had no idea what she was going to do but it was a long journey by train and tram to Carlton, so she closed her eyes and pondered while she travelled. Every time the memory of the night before surfaced, she burned with rage and shame.
The facade of number 42 looked like it had a bad case of eczema. Bits of the decorative cast iron had dropped off. The house looked like it was missing teeth and the sash windows were propped open with phone books. Miriam climbed the few steps to the front door and rang the bell. An odour, thick and stale hung under the verandah. The place was empty; she could feel it. She retraced her steps to the front gate and walked to the edge of the terraces and around the corner. The old blue stone cobbled dunny cart lane ran along the back of the houses in parallel with the main street. She followed the lane until she came to a corrugated iron gate with 42 painted on it. It’d been left ajar. She poked her nose into the small yard and seeing no reason not to, strode up to the back door. A gentle push and she was in the kitchen. It was not a pretty sight; she chose not to linger. Through the kitchen, into the hallway and up the stairs, an intersection at the landing, she hung left and walked straight into the front room - the one with the balcony that overlooked the street. She knew it was Brian’s room because of the very large collection of vinyl records. He had spoken volubly about his love of vinyls and his broad taste in music - an interest they shared, although her tastes were quite different. She flicked through the covers: Bob Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel, the Stones, Daddy Cool, Switched on Bach, Led Zepplin, Beethoven’s 9th, Leonard Cohen, Vivaldi. The flicking was a little hypnotic; a thought planted itself in her mind. Zombie-like, she took an armful of records out to the balcony and stacked them on a wobbly table. Methodically she slipped them out of the covers until there was a nice black stack then slowly, one at a time, she frisbeed them up into the air. There was a light northerly blowing and now and again one would lift like a flying saucer into the sky before it crashed and skidded on the road. Some landed on the narrow rim and wheeled along towards Lygon Street before they hit the gutter. Simon and Garfunkel skipped and scraped as far as number 48, Beethoven crossed the road only to be hit by a car and Joan Baez took off – freedom at last – turned the corner and disappeared.
Only when the last one was liberated did Liz feel satisfied. She had never committed an act of vandalism before but she felt vindicated. She left the house the same way she had entered and walked up to Swanston Street to catch the tram home.
She was still feeling slightly euphoric as she skipped up her driveway and slid the key in the door. The phone was ringing and she answered with a cocky, ‘Yup?’ It was Brian’s brother Charles.
‘Hello, Liz. We’ve never met but my brother Brian can’t stop talking about you. I’ve been trying to get you all day. I’m ringing from the hospital. Bri has had a terrible accident and he would really like to see you.’ He then went on to explain about the stingray. Liz listened and clutched her stomach. She felt sick.
That evening Liz visited Brian in the hospital. It felt like the bravest thing she had ever done. She told herself that she would confess, apologise and pay for the damage. When she walked into the ward, she was struck by how unappealing Brian seemed. Propped up by a tower of pillows, she noticed the nicotine stains on his fingers and the marijuana leaf earring that yesterday had seemed so cool, now looked daggy.
Brian beamed when he laid eyes on her; he’d been watching the clock waiting for her to arrive so he could explain his disappearance. Every time Liz came close to coming clean about the vinyls something would happen: the dinner tray arrived, a nurse with a thermometer, a gang of visitors for the other fellow in the room. Then Brian’s brother Charles arrived and she couldn’t possibly speak freely in front of him.
Finally the visiting hour was up and she left the hospital with Charles. He said, ‘It’s getting late and neither of us have eaten. Do you want to go for a bite somewhere?’
Liz accepted and the rest is family history.
The weeks passed and Charles and Liz saw more and more of each other. Brian was not blind to the blossoming romance but he reassured his brother there were no hard feelings. ‘We were never really and item anyway.’ Liz had failed to find a moment to fess up about the records and as the weeks went by, it become impossible. Months later and having coffee and sharing secrets with a trusted friend, Liz said, ‘It’s a weird thing. The records have never been mentioned. Its as if I imagined that I did it.’
Eventually Charles and Liz cemented their relationship one spring day with a beautiful ceremony in the Ripponlea Gardens. Liz was a vision in white and Charles wore a matching tuxedo. They looked like the figurines on top of the cake – flawless. Brian arrived in a purple tie dyed caftan, marijuana leaf in his ear and no underpants – a detail he insisted on sharing with the guests. ‘I’ve had a bit of the thrush. It’s a dam nuisance in subtropical climates. Hard to get rid of. Plenty of air circulation is the secret.’
By the end of the day Liz felt she had two substantial reasons not to like Brian: he never mentioned finding his record collection destroyed and he wore a purple caftan and no underpants to her wedding.
Now Liz and Brian have been related by marriage for over twenty years. They’ve never had a row although there is tension in the air. Every couple of years he comes down south and stays for a month or so and just when Liz thinks she will explode – he leaves. With this visit, he is excelling himself in terms of irritating behaviours. He leaves corn pads all over the house: in the shower recess, on the mantle piece, by the phone. She found one of the flesh pink circles in one of her socks! ‘Has the man no boundaries!’ she mutters under her breath. She thought it couldn’t get any worse and then today he comes home with a metre high plaster statue of Jesus that he’s fished out of a rubbish skip. When her eyes widen, he explains, ‘I’m not religious meself but I didn’t think it right to leave Him in with the rubbish. Bad karma.’
Liz has been scrupulous in protecting Olivia from religion and now this happens. The child’s eyes glaze moist when she sees the statue: love at first sight: the golden beard, pink lips, blue robe and open hands. She takes Him into her bedroom and places Him on a low stool, she then arranges candles around His feet and fills a shallow bowl with water and floating rose petals. Tonight she refuses any dinner and weeps for all the children in the world who suffer.
Liz watches Brian watching television. She can’t bear to sit in the same room. She’s sick and tired of looking at that one testicle hanging out of the bottom of his shorts. ‘Hasn’t he ever heard of underpants?’ And she knows he is poking around her vinyl collection. She hasn’t caught him at it but she’s been coming home and finding them out of the covers. ‘What interest does he have in Les Mis, Phantom and Cats?’ She wants to ask him what he thinks he is doing but can’t.
Thank goodness tonight is Brian’s last. In the morning he will be gone. He has to be at the bus station by 6.30am. Olivia calls him in for a story. ‘You won’t have to light a candle tonight,’ she says smiling at the light flickering around Jesus. She has added to the arrangement with a photo of her dead grandmother and a stick of incense. A perfect circle of fairy glitter frames the lot and there are two pillows on the floor – one for the teller and one for the listener.
The story begins, ‘I was in Greece, travelling light – a pack and a tent. Summer was just around the corner; the tourists had not yet arrived. I rented a motor- bike. The plan was to ride in the daytime and sleep in the olive groves at night. I travelled like this for several days, enjoying the hospitality of the villages. Then one morning, a fellow traveller, also on a rented bike, flagged me down. He’d run out of petrol. I said, My camp’ s close by. Why don’t we wheel the bikes back and I’ll make you some lunch. I could do with a bit of conversation. He seemed like a nice bloke, shy, English. He said his name was Dan. We had lunch – bread, yogurt, honey and nuts washed down with cold retsina. Then we dozed under the olives. The next thing I know Dan is shaking me. Bri! Wake Up! He says. A woman is calling for help! Sure enough someone was in trouble. We raced through the trees and there was a woman clutching her belly and moaning. She was having a baby. She’d been travelling by donkey to her village but now there was no time. The baby was on its way. The poor donkey looked relieved to see us. We lay the woman down and although neither of us had any previous experience, our hands were guided somehow and knew exactly what to do. While I soothed her Dan delivered a beautiful baby boy into the world. We wrapped him in a shawl and then when the women had rested a while we helped her back onto the donkey and walked with them to her village. While we were there we bought a can of petrol for Dan’s bike and then walked back to the camp. We spent a few days on the road together and then it was time for us to go our separate ways. Dan said, If you’re ever in the UK you should look me up, and he handed me his card.’
Brian stops the story there, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He opens it up and rummages through some old receipts then produces a card. He hands it to Olivia and she reads, 'Daniel Radcliffe'.
Brian’s knees creak as he gets to his feet. Olivia looks up at him, breathless. ‘You keep it Ol. I’ll see you when I see you. Eh?’
7.00 am and Brian is gone. The household is woken by the shrill scream of a smoke detector. Liz, Charles and Olivia rush to the kitchen where black smoke is leaking out of the oven. There’s an acrid smell of burning plastic. Charles grabs a tea towel and waving the smoke aside turns off the oven and opens the door. They stare at the cause of the problem – a stack of vinyls, melting, dripping.
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