Bridge of Clay(67)

    A few times he’d admit it.

He’d say, “Hey, Rory, it was me.”

You don’t know what I’m capable of.

But Rory wouldn’t have it; it was easier fighting with Henry.



* * *



—

To that end (and this one), it was proper, really, that Henry was publicly infamous back then, when it came to sport and leisure—sent off for pushing the ref. Then ostracized by his teammates, for the greatest of footballing sins; at halftime the manager asked them: “Hey, where’s the oranges?”

“What oranges?”

“Don’t get smart—you know, the quarters.”

But then someone noticed.

“Look, there’s a big pile a peels there! It was Henry, it was bloody Henry!”

Boys, men and women, they all glared.

It was great suburban chagrin.

“Is that true?”

There was no point denying it; his hands spoke for themselves. “I got hungry.”

The ground was six or seven kilometers away, and we’d caught the train, and Henry was made to go home on foot, and the rest of us as well. When one of us did something like that, we all seemed to suffer, and we walked the Princes Highway.

“Why’d you push the ref like that, anyway?” I asked.

“He kept treading on my foot—he was wearing steel studs.”

Now Rory: “Why’d you have to eat all the oranges, then?”

    “Because I knew you’d have to walk home, too, shithead.”

Michael: “Oi!”

“Oh, yeah—sorry.”

But this time there was no retraction of the sorry, and I think we were all somehow happy that day, though we were soon to start coming undone; even Henry throwing up in the gutter. Penny was kneeling next to him, our father’s voice beside her: “I guess these are the spoils of freedom.”

And how could we ever know?

We were just a bunch of Dunbars, oblivious of all to come.





“Clay? You awake?”

At first there was no answer, but Henry knew he was. One thing with Clay was that he was pretty much always awake. What surprised him was the reading light coming on, and Clay having something to say: “How you feeling?”

Henry smiled. “Burning. You?”

“I smell like hospital.”

“Good old Mrs. Chilman. That was pretty hurtful, that stuff she put on, wasn’t it?”

Clay felt a hot streak on the side of his face. “Still better than metho spirits,” he said, “or Matthew’s Listerine.”



* * *



—

Earlier, a fair few things had happened: The lounge room was cleaned up.

We convinced both the fish and bird to stay.

The story of Henry’s exploits came out in the kitchen, and Mrs. Chilman dropped in from next door. She’d come to patch up Clay, but Henry needed it more.



* * *



—

First to the kitchen, though, and before anything else, Henry had to explain himself, and this time he mentioned more than said it; he talked about Schwartz and Starkey, and the girl, and he was a lot less jovial now, and so was I. Actually, I was ready to throw the kettle, or smack him in the head with the toaster.

    “You did what?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “I thought you were one of the smarter ones here—this I’d expect from Rory.”

“Hey!”

“Yeah,” agreed Henry, “show a bit of respect—”

“I wouldn’t start any shit like that right now if I were you.” I had my eye on the frying pan, too, lounging around on the stove. It wouldn’t be hard giving it something to do. “What the hell happened, anyway? Did they beat you up, or run you over with a truck?”

Henry touched a cut, almost fondly. “Okay, look—Schwartz and Starkey are good guys. I asked them, we got drinking, and then”—he took a breath—“neither of them would do it, so I sort of started in on the girl.” He looked at Clay and Rory. “You know—the one with the lips.”

You mean the bra strap, thought Clay.

“You mean the tits,” said Rory.

“That’s her.” Henry nodded happily.

“And?” I asked. “What did you do?”

Rory again. “She’s got tits like bread rolls, that chick.”

Henry: “You think? Bread rolls? I’ve never heard such a thing.”

“Are you two quite bloody finished?”

Henry ignored me completely. “Better than pizzas,” he said. It was a private conversation between him and Rory, for Christ’s sake. “Or doughnuts.”

Rory laughed, then serious. “Hamburgers.”

“You want fries with that?”

“And a Coke.” Rory giggled; he giggled.

“Calzones.”

“What’s a calzone?”

“Je-sus Christ!”

Still they both grinned, and blood ran to Henry’s chin, but at least I’d gotten their attention.

    “Are you right, Matthew?” said Rory. “That’s the best bloody talk Henry and I have had in years!”