The Fine Color of Rust (18 page)

“Already did that when they first got here,” Brian says.

“Mum.” Jake pats my thigh. I can tell he's about to ask what they mean, so I grip his hand and give Melissa a touch on the back to urge her forward. She moves on to the next shop and gazes at the tops in the window.

“Got to head off. Hope you do better.”

“It won't pick up as long as that friggin' statue is down there. Makes a packet from standing still. Where's the talent in that?” Brian's glaring down toward the other end of the mall, where a small woman dressed in a ball gown and covered in gray paint stands on a rock-shaped pedestal in front of the chocolate shop.

She sees us watching and raises her hand in a slow-motion wave that takes a full five seconds to reach the top of its arc.

“Hmph,” Brian says. He begins twisting the pegs on the neck of his guitar and tuning the strings. “What that statue needs is a good chisel.”

For some reason, the thought of taking a chisel to the statue person makes me feel cheerful. “Hey, Brian, speaking of building, what do you know about the development down the Bolton Road?”

“Don't get me started, Loretta. That place is bad news.”

“So what is it? What's going on? Is it true they've got a license to take water out of the ground?”

“They've got a license to do whatever they bloody want.”

“Is that land a sacred site for you?”

“No, not for our mob. Our country's further out west. It's a beautiful piece of bush, though. Or it was until the council stopped maintaining it. Let it turn into a rubbish dump. I heard they sold it for a song.”

“Mum, let's go.” Jake is tugging at my sleeve.

“Can I call you about it, Brian? I'm trying to find out what's going on.”

“No point calling me, love. I don't know anything.”

THE BOLTON ROAD
seems particularly long today. My foot lifts off the accelerator as I pass the gash in the bush and peer down the dirt road toward the development site. I think about stopping and walking in, but only because I'm feeling a little wobbly about today's plan, which is to visit Merv Bull and get my windscreen wiper blades replaced. But before I can make up my mind to take a stroll into the development, the Holden, which needs at least a kilometer's warning before it can stop, has coasted into Merv Bull's yard and is throbbing uncertainly outside his shed. I turn the key and the engine dies with a shudder.

The blue heeler is at the door of the shed, basking in the sun. It lifts its head and looks at me for a moment, then flops onto its side and thumps its tail in a stretch before snoozing off. Last time I came the yard held an aqua Monaro, a Combi van, and an old Escort, but now it's jammed with cars of all shapes and sizes. I have to edge my way between two sleek new cars to reach the door. Lined up along the new cyclone wire fence are three earth-moving machines.

“Mr. Bull?” I call from the doorway. The heeler opens its eyes and watches me without moving.

Shadows inside the shed sway and dip, and then he's in front of me, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Yes?” he asks. He tucks a corner of the rag into the back pocket of his overalls and lifts his hand to shade his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“I brought my car in when you first came to Gunapan, I'm not sure if you remember.” I point to the Holden.

“Of course. Windscreen. Secondhand,” Merv says, nodding. “Is there a problem?”

“Boss,” a voice comes from inside the shed, “can we have smoko now?”

“All right,” Merv shouts back, then turns to me again. “Slackers, the lot of them.”

Three boys file out of a small door further along the wall of the shed and sit on plastic chairs in the sun. They pass around a packet of biscuits.

“So . . .” Merv says.

“It's only the wiper blades. The windscreen is great, but it rained the other day for the first time in ages and I couldn't see a thing.”

“No worries. It's an '85 Holden, right?” Merv says. He disappears inside the shed for a moment and comes back with plastic-wrapped wiper blades.

We weave our way back to the car, and while he fits the rubber blades, I try to make conversation. I remark on the heat. I remark on the fading paintwork of my car. I remark on the color of the wilted scarlet geranium by the fence. I can hear my voice starting to quaver. When I told Helen I was coming to Merv Bull's garage, she raced around to the house and made me wear a pair of her high heels and put on makeup. I tried to protest that I only wanted new wiper blades, but she insisted. “He's an attractive man, you can't deny it,”
she said. “So why knock yourself out of the race by turning up in your trackie-daks?” I was cross about that. I never wear my tracksuit pants out of the house unless I'm one hundred percent sure I won't have to leave the car. Then once I'd got dressed up, it seemed as if I was on a date, or a mission, and I started to feel sick. All this for a pair of wiper blades.

“Nice shoes,” Merv says after he's dropped the plastic wrapping and bent to pick it up.

“Thanks,” I say in a cheery voice. A twitch above my left eye flickers like a broken neon light and I thrust my hips forward in an attempt to balance on Helen's high heels. I'm pretty sure I could pass for Quasimodo. I remark on the earth-moving machines. “I suppose they're for the development. When's it going to open? I heard—”

“Um,” he interrupts. “Geez, I'm sorry, but I can't remember your name.”

“Loretta Boskovic.”

“Of course, sorry. So, Loretta, they brought the machinery up the other day and I signed an agreement. Part of the deal, you know. Commercial-in-confidence stuff, they said. So I'm not supposed to talk about it.”

“Sorry! I didn't want to know anything secret,” I say hurriedly. The sun is quite hot, even though it's only ten in the morning. I think my face is melting.

“Like I said, I've signed that thing.”

“Sure.” I try to think fast and stand steady on high heels at the same time. Make conversation, make conversation. “No problem. I was just excited. About having the development here. It's going to be great for the community, isn't it!”

“Yeah,” Merv says. “Hey, hang on, aren't you the lady who organized the Save Our School thing? With the chocolate drive?”

“Mmm,” I answer. I'm not sure I want to be known as the chocolate-drive lady.

Merv glances to the side and I realize the three apprentices are staring at us. One nudges the other and they slump back in their chairs and pretend to talk casually.

“I'd better be off. How much do I owe you?”

“Don't worry about it. Complimentary service,” Merv says, and I hear a low whistle from one of the boys.

As I totter around to the driver's side with Merv following, I apologize for having disturbed him, for parking in the driveway, for not having brought my car in for a full oil and grease change. He has to catch my elbow when I stumble in my heels on a rut in the driveway. His hand is warm and firm on my arm. He doesn't let go, but guides me to the door.

“I must get the car tuned soon,” I say stupidly. The yard is so packed with cars he must need five more apprentices.

“Anytime,” Merv says. “We can always find a spot.”

The car door squeals as I pull it open, ease myself in, then slam it shut.

“Can't have that,” Merv says. He tells me to hang on while he gets something from the shed. In a minute he's back, spraying the hinges of the door. “There we go,” he says, swinging the door soundlessly open and shut. “The smell won't last long, don't worry.”

“Thanks.” I hesitate. He didn't have to do that. “Thanks a lot.”

“Boss! Phone!” a shout comes from the shed.

Merv looks around. One of the boys is holding the phone handset up at the door of the shed.

“It's the Fiat guy!”

Merv leans down to my window.

“Whenever you want that tune,” he says.

I nod. He nods. My heart starts to thump a little. The boy shouts again, and Merv shouts back that he's coming.

Once I start the engine of the Holden I can't hear a thing. Merv says something—who knows what?—as I give a wave while I back out of the driveway and into the road, completely forgetting to look behind me. The screaming horn of the car that follows me down the Bolton Road is quite melodic to my ears.

IT'S UNCANNY SEEING
Norm and Justin together when I drive into the yard on the following Monday. They're sitting in the shed, side by side, as if they've been here forever. Norm's got his radio up full volume, listening to the races at Moonee Valley, while Justin is bent over the table, screwing a plate onto a bicycle frame. They both look up when I knock on the corrugated iron wall. Even their movements are in sync, like an old couple who've lived together for years.

“Made too much pasta last night, Norm.” I plonk the pot on the table. “Thought you might be able to use the leftovers.”

“Thanks, Loretta. Have you met Justin, my son?”

Yes, I should answer, I sneaked in and met him while you were listening to race three. Instead I put out my hand and we shake.

“Loretta Boskovic. Loretta can't sing, but her pasta's all right,” Norm tells Justin.

Justin nods and smiles. So this is how Norm looked thirty years ago. I only met Justin's mum, Marg, a couple of times, but I can't see anything of her in Justin. Only Norm's long face, wide mouth, sticking-out ears. The son's a lot cleaner, though.

Justin brushes dust and wood shavings off a chair and uses a hand gesture to offer me a seat. He hasn't spoken a word yet. I was nervous coming here this morning. I'd never met an armed robber before. I expected Justin to have a mean snarl and tats up to his ears, but he seems to be an even gentler version of Norm.

“How are you enjoying Gunapan?” I ask him.

He presses his lips together in a half-smile and looks at the ceiling and nods a few times.

“He hasn't seen much of it yet,” Norm says. “We might head out for a pub tea tonight, right, Justin?”

Justin nods again. I'm starting to wonder if he has a tongue.

“They've put Thai curry on the menu at the Criterion.” I'm trying to keep up the conversation.

Justin raises his eyebrows as if to say “Really?”

“What do you think of curry, Justin?” Norm asks.

Justin shrugs and shakes his head. I think this means he's never tried it. I suppose if he lived in Gunapan until he was twenty, then moved to Geelong and promptly got fourteen years for armed robbery, he's probably never eaten anything more exotic than a banana fritter. Sammy Lee's father used to run the Chinese café here fourteen years ago, but his Chinese food had more to do with Rosella tomato sauce than Chinese herbs and spices. Now the Chinese café is run by an Indian family.

“Well, that's settled,” Norm says. “An early pub tea, then home to watch the footy on telly, eh?”

Justin smiles gratefully at his dad. He looks tired. So does Norm. Justin goes back to screwing the plate on the bike frame.

“Justin's thinking of working at Morelli's Meats,” Norm says.

I guess we're going to chat about Justin as if he's not here so that he can go on being shy without having to pretend to enjoy talking, so I join in the spirit of the conversation.

“Has he ever worked in an abattoir?” I ask Norm.

“No, but he's been living in one, by the sounds of it,” Norm says, perfectly straight-faced.

A soft laugh comes from Justin's bent head. He has a crew cut, and under the bristly dark hair I can see a scar on the back of his skull, running from the crown right down to his neck. As I'm sneaking a look at him he rolls his shoulders and flexes his fingers. He's long and muscular, like a racing greyhound.

“I suppose if the work's there.” If I'd just been released from prison, I don't think I'd want to work in an abattoir. But what would I know?

“I hear they're short-staffed because Heck's competing again. Justin can probably get casual work to fill in for a couple of weeks.”

I can't see Justin's face, but his scar shifts a little, as though his face is moving. I wonder if he truly wants to work at the abattoir.

“I offered him a job in the yard, but he said no.” Norm looks away at the wall of the shed, which he has plastered with colorful centerfolds of Massey-Ferguson tractors.

An awful silence drags on. Justin doesn't raise his head. He's finished attaching the plate to the frame, and now he's sanding rust off the wheel forks. He's a natural for the yard. I can't imagine how Norm would pay him, though. People come into the yard, spend two hours talking at Norm, and leave with a five-dollar purchase. He doesn't sell a lot, but he knows everything about everyone. He could set up a good sideline in blackmail. Norm Stevens Sr.: spare parts, scrap, and confidential information to order.

“Anyway, Norm, are you coming to the next Save Our School Committee meeting?”

“Sure. I can help make up the numbers.”

“Great. I want to talk about the development as well. And I'll make orange cake.” I have to create an incentive or no one will come. “Feel free to come along, Justin.”

“Thanks, yep. Ta,” Justin mutters without raising his head.

Having succeeded in getting Justin to speak, I feel as if I've already done a good morning's work. “Well, I guess I'll be off. Have to clock on at the Neighbourhood House soon.”

Actually, I don't want to go. This morning was chilly with the crispness of new autumn, and now the fog has disappeared and Norm's rusty shed is bathed in morning sunlight. I wouldn't mind sitting in companionable silence in the sun with the two Stevens men. I could pick up a piece of machinery and try to take it apart.

“Meant to say, Loretta.” Norm turns down the volume of the racing, which has been droning on in the background. Outside the kookaburras are going crazy laughing in the stand of messmate trees across from Norm's yard. “Meant to say, Loretta,” Norm says again. “Have you met the people in the old MacInerny house?”