Herrick - A Place Like This

Im just not working at the moment. School now seems a distant shame of ball games, half-lies at lunchtime and teachers fearing the worst. Im not studying either. Yeah, I got into uni, so did Annabel. Two Arts degrees does not a life make. So we both chucked it.

University is too serious. Im eighteen years old: too young to work forever, too old to stay home. Annabel and I make love most afternoons, which, as you can imagine, passes the time but I dont think we can make money out of it, or learn much, although, we have learnt something I want to leave town, I want to leave town, I want to leave. Jacks dad What can I tell you about my dad? Years ago I would have said an ill-fitting suit, brown shoes, a haircut of nightmares and a job in the city. Thats all. Thats what I would have said.

And a dead wife. Long dead. Dead yesterday. No difference. But not now. Now, he tries.

He reads the paper with courage. He never shakes his head when Im late home. Hes forty-two years of hope, seven years of grief and two years of struggle. Let me tell you this one thing about my father, and leave it at that. Friday night, two months ago, Im trying to sleep, when I hear this soft bounce, every few seconds, and the backyard floodlight is on. Its midnight, and theres a man in the yard.

I grab the cricket bat from the hall cupboard, check my sisters room shes asleep, still in her Levis and black top. (I like that top I gave it to her for her birthday, and she always wears it. Sorry, Id better go bash this burglar ) Wheres my father when the house needs defending? At the pub? At work? Not at midnight, surely? I grip the bat, wish Id taken cricket more seriously at school. I open the door slightly, think of newspaper headlines HERO DIES SAVING HOUSE, CRIME WAVE SOARS OUT WEST, HIT FOR SIX! Theres that bounce again, and the figure bends to pick something up. (A gun! A knife!) A cricket ball! What? He runs and bowls a slow drifting leg-spinner, hits middle stump. Dad turns, whispers, Howzat! and walks to pick up the ball again.

What can I do? My dad, midnight cricket and a well-flighted leg-spinner. I walk out to face up, tapping the bat gently. Dad smiles and bowls a wrong-un. The bastard knocks my off-stump out. He offers me a handshake and advice. Bat and pad together, son, dont leave the gate open.

Lets have one more over, shall we? He goes back to his mark, polishing the ball on his pyjamas, every nerve twitching, every breath involved. The stumbling bagpipes We make love every Tuesday afternoon. I kiss her eyelids and rub my hand along her arm to feel the soft hair that shines in the fading light. Sometimes the clouds float up the valley and the rain dances on our window as the parrots fly for home. I kiss her shoulders and her neck and we try breathing slowly, in time, under the doona. Theres a young boy next door whos practising the bagpipes.

He stands on the veranda and scares the hell out of the dogs. They howl in time as he blows himself hoarse. We love that sound: discordant, clumsy, feverish. It reminds us of that first Tuesday afternoon, two years ago, trying to make love before Annabels parents got home. We agreed on further practice. Thats why we celebrate like this, every Tuesday, me and Annabel, and the stumbling bagpipes.

What Dad said This is what Dad said when I told him about me and Annabel wanting to drive and not come back for a year or so Son. (When he says son I know a story is not far behind.) Son. When I was eighteen Id already decided to ask your mum to marry me. And I had my journalism degree half-finished. I wanted my own desk, my own typewriter, a home to put them in, and I wanted your mum. She said yes, and the rest followed.

At twenty-two, we had this home. At twenty-two, I learned gardening. You know the big golden ash in the corner? I planted that, first year here. Most of our friends were going overseas, taking winter holiday work in the snow, or getting drunk every night at the pub. At twenty-two, your mum and I were sitting on the veranda with a cup of cocoa and a fruit cake. Im fifty-two years old this August.

Youre a smart kid, Jack. A smart kid. I think you and Annabel should get out of here as fast as possible. Have a year doing anything you want. My going-away present is enough money to buy a car a cheap old one, okay? Youll have to work somewhere to buy the petrol, and to keep going. But go.

Let me tell you, it wasnt what I expected. But maybe, just maybe, I understand the old man more now. More than I ever have. For once in my life When Jack told me last night about leaving, what I really wanted to say was NO . Like a father should. NO .

And I had all the words ready, all the clichs loaded, but I couldnt do it. He looked so hungry, so much in need of going, that I gave him my first big speech in years, only this time it was one he wanted to hear. So thats it. When Jack was asleep last night I went into his room. I sat beside his bed and listened to his breathing. I dont know for how long.

I listened, and with each breath I felt his yearning and confidence and strength. I walked out of his room sure Id said the right thing, maybe not as a father, but as a dad. Id said the right thing, for once in my life. A 1974 Corona Its a 1974 Corona sedan thats been driven by a middle-aged, single bank manager called Wilbur who never went out on the weekend, except for a Sunday morning drive with his mum to church five kilometres down the road, and enjoyed cleaning its dull brown duco every Saturday instead of watching the football, getting drunk, doing overtime or playing with snappy children. All I had to do was give him $1,200 and a handshake to drive it home, through a mud puddle or two, and take that crucifix off the mirror give it to the kid next door and maybe even consider a paint job But no, lets leave it brown. Bank manager brown.