Collected Stories (30 page)

Then, as if changing its mind, the albatross becomes a gypsy, a pedlar, or a drunken troubador. Glino’s head shakes, his foot taps, his hands dance.

Milligan jumps to his feet. He dances a sailor’s dance, Finch thinks it might be the hornpipe, or perhaps it is his own invention, like the pink stars stencilled on his taxi door. Milligan has a happy, impish face with eyebrows that rise and fall from behind his blue-tinted glasses. If he weighed less his face might even be pretty. Milligan’s
face is half-serious, half-mocking, intent on the dance, and Florence Nightingale stands slowly. They both dance, Florence Nightingale whirling and turning, her hair flying, her eyes nearly closed. The music becomes faster and faster and the five fat men move back to stand against the wall, as if flung there by centrifugal force. Finch, pulling the table out of the way, feels he will lose his balance. Milligan’s face is bright red and streaming with sweat. The flesh on his bare white thighs shifts and shakes and beneath his T-shirt his breasts move up and down. Suddenly he spins to one side, drawn to the edge of the room, and collapses in a heap on the floor.

Everyone claps. Florence Nightingale keeps dancing. The clapping is forced into the rhythm of the music and everyone claps in time. May is dancing with Florence Nightingale. His movements are staccato, he stands with his feet apart, his huge overcoat flapping, stamps his feet, spins, jumps, shouts, nearly falls, takes Florence Nightingale around the waist and spins her around and around, they both stumble, but neither stops. May’s face is transformed, it is living. The teeth in his partly open mouth shine white. His overcoat is like some magical cloak, a swirling beautiful thing.

Florence Nightingale constantly sweeps long hair out of her eyes.

May falls. Finch takes his place but becomes puffed very quickly and gives over to the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name.

The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name takes Florence Nightingale in his arms and disregards the music. He begins a very slow, gliding waltz. Milligan whispers in Glino’s ear. Glino looks up shyly for a moment, pauses, then begins to play a Strauss waltz.

Finch says, the “Blue Danube”. To no one in particular.

The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name dances beautifully and very proudly. He holds Florence Nightingale slightly away from him, his head is high and cocked to one side. Florence Nightingale whispers something in his ear. He looks down at her and raises his eyebrows. They waltz around and around the kitchen until Finch becomes almost giddy with embarrassment. He thinks, it is like a wedding.

Glino once said (of prisons): “If you’ve ever been inside one of those places you wouldn’t ever want to be inside one again.”

Tonight Finch can see him lying on his bunk in a cell, playing the “Blue Danube” and the albatross and staring at the ceiling. He wonders if it is so very different from that now: they spend their
days lying on their beds, afraid to go out because they don’t like the way people look at them.

The dancing finishes and the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name escorts Florence Nightingale to her chair. He is so large, he treats her as if she were wrapped in crinkly cellophane, a gentleman holding flowers.

Milligan earns his own money. He asks Fantoni, why don’t you dance?

Fantoni is leaning against the wall smoking another cigar. He looks at Milligan for a long time until Finch is convinced that Fantoni will punch Milligan.

Finally Fantoni says, I can’t dance.

They all walk up the passage with Florence Nightingale. Approaching the front door she drops an envelope. The envelope spins gently to the floor and everyone walks around it. They stand on the porch and wave goodnight to her as she drives off in her black government car.

Returning to the house Milligan stoops and picks up the envelope. He hands it to Finch and says, for you. Inside the official envelope is a form letter with the letterhead of the Department of Housing. It says, Dear Mr Finch, the department regrets that you are now in arrears with your rent. If this matter is not settled within the statutory seven days you will be required to find other accommodation. It is signed, Nancy Bowlby.

Milligan says, what is it?

Finch says, it’s from Florence Nightingale, about the rent.

Milligan says, seven days?

Finch says, oh, she has a job to do, it’s not her fault.

May has the back room upstairs. Finch is lying in bed in “the new extensions”. He can hear Milligan calling to May.

Milligan says, May?

May says, what is it?

Milligan says, come here.

Their voices, Milligan’s distant, May’s close, seem to exist only inside Finch’s head.

May says, what do you want?

Milligan shouts, I want to tell you something.

May says, no you don’t, you just want me to tuck you in.

Milligan says, no. No, I don’t.

Fantoni’s loud raucous laugh comes from even further away. The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is knocking on the ceiling of his room with a broom. Finch can hear it going, bump, bump, bump. The Sibelius record jumps. May shouts, quit it.

Milligan says, I want to tell you something.

May shouts, no you don’t.

Finch lies naked on top of the blue sheets and tries to hum the albatross song but he has forgotten it.

Milligan says, come
here.
May? May, I want to tell you something.

May says, tuck yourself in, you lazy bugger.

Milligan giggles. The giggle floats out into the night.

Fantoni is in helpless laughter.

Milligan says, May?

May’s footsteps echo across the floorboards of his room and cross the corridor to Milligan’s room. Finch hears Milligan’s laughter and hears May’s footsteps returning to May’s room.

Fantoni shouts, what did he want?

May says, he wanted to be tucked in.

Fantoni laughs. May turns up the Sibelius record. The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name knocks on the ceiling with a broom. The record jumps.

It is 4 a.m. and not yet light. No one can see them. As May and Finch leave the house a black government car draws away from the kerb but, although both of them see it, neither mentions it.

At 4 a.m. it is cool and pleasant to walk through the waste lands surrounding the house. There are one or two lights on in the big blocks of flats, but everyone seems to be asleep.

They walk slowly, picking their way through the thistles.

Finally May says, you were crazy.

Finch says, I know.

They walk for a long time. Finch wonders why the thistles grow in these parts, why they are sad, why they only grow where the
ground has been disturbed, and wonders where they grew originally.

He says, do they make you sad?

May says, what?

He says, the thistles.

May doesn’t answer. Finally he says, you were crazy to mention it. He’ll really do it. He’ll
really
do it.

Finch stubs his toe on a large block of concrete. The pain seems deserved. He says, it didn’t enter my mind — that he’d think of Nancy.

May says, he’ll really do it. He’ll bloody well eat her. Christ, you know what he’s like.

Finch says, I know, but I didn’t mention Nancy, just the statue.

May wraps his overcoat around himself and draws his head down into it. He says, he
looks
evil, he
likes
being fat.

Finch says, that’s reasonable.

May says, I can still remember what it was like being thin. Did I tell you, I was only six, but I can remember it like it was yesterday. Jesus it was nice. Although I don’t suppose I appreciated it at the time.

Finch says, shut up.

May says, he’s still trying to blow up that bloody statue and he’ll get caught. Probably blow himself up. Then we’ll be the ones that have to pinch everything. And we’ll get caught, or we’ll starve more like it.

Finch says, help him get some dynamite and then dob him in to the cops. While he’s in jail he couldn’t eat Florence Nightingale.

May says, and we wouldn’t eat anything. I wouldn’t mind so much if he just wanted to screw her. I wouldn’t mind screwing her myself.

Finch says, maybe he is. Already.

May pulls his overcoat tightly around himself and says, no, it’s whatshisname, the big guy, that’s who’s screwing her. Did you see them dancing? It’s him.

Finch says, I like him.

May says nothing. They have come near a main road and they wordlessly turn back, keeping away from the streetlights, returning to the thistles.

Finch says, it was Nancy’s idea. She said why don’t we eat the statue.

May says, you told me already. You were nuts. She was nuts too but she was only joking. You should have known that he’s serious about everything. He really wants to blow up everything, not just the fucking statue.

Finch says, he’s a fascist.

May says, what’s a fascist?

Finch says, like Danko … like General Kooper … like Fantoni. He’s going to dig a hole in the backyard. He calls it the barbecue.

In another two hours Finch will have earned enough money for the rent. Fantoni is paying him by the hour. In another two hours he will be clear and then he’ll stop. He hopes there is still two hours’ work. They are digging a hole among the dock weeds in the backyard. It is a trench like a grave but only three feet deep. He asked Milligan for the money but Milligan had already lent money to Glino and May.

Fantoni is wearing a pair of May’s trousers so he won’t get his own dirty. He is stripped to the waist and working with a mattock. Finch clears the earth Fantoni loosens; he has a long-handled shovel. Both the shovel and the mattock are new; they have appeared miraculously, like anything that Fantoni wants.

They have chosen a spot outside Finch’s window, where it is completely private, shielded from the neighbouring houses. It is a small private spot which Fantoni normally uses for sunbathing.

The top of Fantoni’s bristly head is bathed in sweat and small dams of sweat have caught in the creases on the back of his head; he gives strange grunts between swings and carries out a conversation with Finch, who is too exhausted to answer.

He says, I want the whole thing … in writing, OK? … write it down … all the reasons … just like you explained it to me.

Finch is getting less and less earth on the shovel. He keeps aiming at the earth and overshooting it, collecting a few loose clods on the blade. He says, yes.

Fantoni takes the shovel from him. He says, you write that now, write all the reasons like you told me, and I’ll count that as time working. How’s that?

And he is not sure how it is. He cannot believe any of it. He cannot believe that he, Alexander Finch, is digging a barbecue to cook a beautiful girl called Florence Nightingale in the backyard of a house in what used to be called Royal Parade. He would not have believed it, and still cannot.

He says, thanks Fantoni.

Fantoni says, what I want, Finch, is a thing called a rationale … that’s the word isn’t it … they’re called rationales.

Alexander Finch shivers violently although it is very hot. He makes a fair copy of the draft. When he has finished he goes upstairs to the toilet and tries, unsuccessfully, to vomit.

Fantoni is supervising the delivery of a load of wood, coke, and kindling in the backyard. He is dressed beautifully in a white suit made from lightweight wool. He is smoking one of Florence Nightingale’s cigars.

As Finch descends the stairs he hears a loud shout and then, two steps later, a loud crash. It came from May’s room. And Finch knows without looking that May has thrown his bowl of goldfish against the wall. May loved his goldfish.

At dinner Finch watches Fantoni eat the omelette that Glino has cooked for him. Fantoni cuts off dainty pieces. He buries the dainty pieces in the small fleshy orifice beneath his large moustache.

May wakes him at 2 a.m. He says, I’ve just realized where she is. She’ll be with her brother. That’s where she’ll be. I wrote her a letter.

Finch says, Florence Nightingale.

May says, my wife.

Glino knows. Milligan knows. May and Finch know. Only the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is unaware of the scheme. He asked Fantoni about the hole in the backyard. Fantoni said, it is a wigwam for a goose’s bridle.

The deputation moves slowly on tiptoes from Finch’s room. In the kitchen annexe someone trips over Fantoni’s bicycle. It crashes. Milligan giggles. Finch punches him sharply in the ribs. In the dark, Milligan’s face is caught between laughter and surprise. He pushes his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and peers closely at Finch.

The others have continued and are now moving quietly through the darkened kitchen. Finch pats Milligan on the shoulder. He whispers, I’m sorry. But Milligan passes on to join the others where they huddle nervously outside the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name’s room.

Glino looks to Finch, who moves through them and slowly opens the door. Finch sums up the situation. He feels a dull soft shock. He stops, but the others push him into the room. Only when they are all assembled inside the room, very close to the door, does everybody realize that the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name is in bed with Florence Nightingale.