Back of Sunset. Jon Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ hand: it took in a friendship that had lasted years of separation. “There’s nothing wrong with me heart, Charlie.”

      “You always were an argumentative coot.” Goodyear was talking now in the language of his youth; he had dropped even the hard-acquired smoothness from his voice. “I tell you, you’ve got a bad heart and I want you in hospital for a couple of weeks so I can have a good look at you. And I don’t want any flaming argument.”

      “It’s outa the question,” Tristram said emphatically, his teeth clicking sharply. “I’m leaving Monday night by Quantas to go back home.”

      “Where’s home?” Goodyear said.

      Tristram waved a vague hand. “Well, not exactly home. I ain’t had a home for years if it comes to that, not since I went bush. But I keep going back to Winnemincka, and that’s where I’m going this time. Me mate’s waiting there for me. We got a job coming up, managing a station during the Wet while the bloke comes south on leave.”

      “As your doctor—”

      “You ain’t my doctor, Charlie,” Tristram said, with a kindly grin, and looked about the room again. “I could never afford anyone like you.”

      “You’ll never owe me anything,” Goodyear said. “I’m the one who’s in debt, Jack.”

      Stephen stood on the outskirts of the conversation, feeling like a trespasser in the world of the past that bound these two men. His own father had belonged to that world, and he had talked to Stephen of it with the regret of a man who had seen the sun of his life pass the yard-arm. Tom McCabe had been a dreamer, and Stephen recognised now that there were still traces of a dream left in these two men as they talked.

      “Why did you come all the way south to see me, Jack, if you’re not going to take any notice of me?”

      “I come south mainly to tidy up the family’s estate. Me two sisters are dead, and I’m all that’s left. There ain’t much, but I can take a few quid back north with me – I know some people up there could use it. No, I come to see you, Charlie, partly because of this pain I’ve had, but I dunno—” He looked about the room again, at Stephen, and then back at Goodyear: the crackling voice was slow now: “I come to see you because of old times, Charlie. When I left here back in 1921, when they said I had T.B. and gimme twelve months to live, I said good-bye then, remember? I come back for your wedding, when was that, ‘28, and then again in ‘38, it was the sesquicentenary celebrations that year. I was still alive, and I bought meself a new suit, can’t remember what I was celebrating, being still alive or a hundred and fifty years of Sydney. This is it, the same one. Cost me twenty quid, I remember saying to the bloke price was no object.” He looked at Stephen. “That was when I met you, Steve. And the last time I saw your dad. I said good-bye to him then, and that was the end of that. He was dead two years before I knew about it. Read it in an old Herald I picked up one day in a pub in Derby. It was lining one of the drawers in the wardrobe in me room.” He was silent for a moment, contemplating the devious ways news went round the world: bad news could never be hidden, not even in a drawer in a fly-blown room in a ramshackle hotel in Derby, two thousand miles from where the story had been written. He blinked, all at once old, and looked back at Goodyear. “I come to say good-bye, Charlie. For the last time.”

      “I never say good-bye to my patients,” said Goodyear. “Or my friends. It’s bad psychology for a doctor.”

      Tristram grinned, shaking his head. “Well, we’ll think of another word for it, Charlie. But I’m catching that plane Monday night. Me mate is waiting for me.”

      “Write him a letter.”

      “He can’t read,” said Tristram, grinning. “No, Charlie, I’m grateful for your diagnosis, but hospital’s out. When I hand in me chips, I don’t want it to be down here.” He looked out of the windows, at one of the most beautiful views in the world. “I know a better place.”

      Goodyear attempted to argue, but to no avail: Tristram was a man you would have to knock unconscious before he would concede defeat. At last Goodyear rose, straightening his tie and pulling on his jacket. “I’ve got to go. Look, the family is going down to our place at Palm Beach for the week-end. Stephen is coming. You come, too.” He held up a hand. “No, don’t start another argument. You’re coming. Tell Stephen where you’re staying and he’ll pick you up.” He began to usher Tristram towards the door. “You’ll be interested in our house at Palm Beach. More glass than brick. The possums sit on the outside and we sit on the inside and stare at each other with equal curiosity. It’s called outdoor-indoor living or something. Peggy found the architect. Didn’t look the type that could ever look a possum in the face, but that’s what he prescribed for us. Do you ever regret having to give up architecture?”

      “Never a regret, Charlie.”

      “I’ve often wondered about you. Where you were, what you were doing—”

      “Been all over the north and north-west. Never stopped any particular place, never designed even an outhouse, never built even a humpy. Anywhere back of sunset was good enough, anywhere where there weren’t too many people.”

      “You’ve got something against people?” Goodyear said, smiling.

      “Some of ‘em. City people, mostly. No offence.”

      “And you don’t feel you’ve wasted your life?” Goodyear said, still smiling. “You had talent, Jack. You don’t feel you wasted it?”

      Tristram looked about him. “I could ask you the same question, Charlie. I dunno you could give any better answer than I could.” He turned to Stephen and put out his hand. “I’m at the Metropole, Steve. Pick me up any time you like. It’s been nice seeing you again, son.”

      “It’s been nice seeing you,” said Stephen, and looked at Goodyear standing in the open doorway, the web of the past, of dreams gone for ever, thick on his unsmiling face.

      III

      Stephen picked up Tristram just after six on that Friday evening and joined the streams of traffic fighting to get into the channels that would take them across the Harbour Bridge. “Lotta bad-tempered bastards,” said Tristram. “Where they all rushing to?”

      “Some going home, some going away from the week-end,” Stephen said, keeping the Jaguar steady, out-bluffing a Holden trying to crash in from the left. “Friday night’s always a bit of a mad panic. Everyone likes to get home for a restful week-end.”

      “Stone the bloody crows,” said Tristram, and stared out at the city as it battled furiously to get home for a restful weekend.

      They were going down the Wakehurst Parkway, through the cool grey dusk of the forest, away from the city and the bad tempers, before Stephen said, “I went home and dug out an old trunk I haven’t looked at in years. I found this.”

      Tristram took the small aboriginal charm. It was a rough carving of a bird, hung on a thin strip of kangaroo hide which passed through the closed beak of the bird. The charm had once been painted, but the red and yellow ochre now remained only in cracks in the wooden bird. It looked shabby and useless, a relic of childhood belonging with the broken top and the bent and rusted Meccano part. It’s magic had washed off with its paint.

      “I remember it,” Tristram said. “Did it ever bring you any luck?”

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