Set Arth a task away he goes no stopping the man. The plunger for Cat’s cistern slipped from its moorings needed to be hooked back onto the two rusted screws either side. Whatever had been used originally had long perished, gone down the gurgler, fair chance. Something needed to be devised. Strong, but malleable wire was needed. There was old wire in the shed, couple of different ones to choose from. Both a bit thin, unfortunately. A coat-hanger?... Too hard. Some good copper wire hanging high inside the door of the old toilet out back was too brittle. There had to be something. Searching. Searching high and low. Wire fallen from the clothes-line was difficult to pare back to single strand; you’d be there a month of Sundays. Finally, on a shelf in a dark corner of the garden shed, Arth eyes an old paint tin. Contents dried up had they? Yep, nothing. Shaking again to make doubly sure. The handle possibly. Worth a try. Let’s see…. Ah. Hmm. Mmmm. Well, whatdya know? Turns out just the thing. Perfect in fact. Working the pliers, shaping, twisting. Odd. You wouldn’t have reckoned. Bending around a steel drill bit for the curled ends might do it, get the shape right. Working away with some confidence. The hook at the top should be a closed loop if it was measured right. Possibly. Couldn’t be too tight, Arth warned. Hmm. Mmm…. Fine and dandy. Fitted like a glove…. How you gunna secure it to the short plastic prong, but? More wire? You don’t wanna stress that little piece, breaks off you’re in shit creek, so to speak. Searching the shelves and cupboards. Searching. Twine. Because it sits outta the water, maybe. Lacker band? Rubber of some kind would….A ring rubber if there was a proper one. A seal or fastener. Washer.... The roofing screws were left over from the job down the road fifteen and more years ago. Sitting bound tight in a thick plastic bag. The little black ring at the base, the head of the screw. Sometimes they had come off when Greg the plumber had been fixing the sheet on the roofs. Prick of a thing! Greg cursed…. Fits does it? Does indeed. Indeed it does. Neat. Threading slowly and carefully. Seating snug as a bug. Rodjeno, Slavo, an untutored tradie, would have said. Born; created for the function. Slavo was good, mighty resourceful himself. Arth though was in a different class. Slavo had generously acknowledged the precedence. Worked perfect. A functioning cistern, just like new. Hooray for Arthur! Three cheers for the man! What would we do without him? (Cat thought he was being exploited without proper payment, but what would she know? She accepted his labour on her cars readily enough.)
2.
The night before the washing arrayed around the electric oil heater for the last of the drying. There had been some sun through the afternoon, but the clothes were still damp when they were taken from the line. Nights at the desk beside the heater the hands are run over the bars something like the petting of a dog—more briskly in this case to avoid the sting. When his supper is delivered one of the ways Arthur confirms the level of cold is by blowing out his vapour behind his side gates. For the display Arthur turns side-on, a large child-like OOO formed for the production, chin uptilted and proper Huffing. In the dark from a metre distance the evidence is not always easy to discern. 7pm weeknights the planes round overhead for the approach to Tullamarine, large illuminated four engine jets. The droplet when it forms on the end of Arthur’s nose is left alone most nights; occasionally there will be a shake of the head, not ever wiping or brushing away. Through the day Arthur never turns on his heater; if there is any sun he will come out back to catch the warmth, raising a leg on one of his piles in the old fashioned way, elbow resting on knee. If the grass is still wet and he is wearing his slippers Arthur won’t come to the side fence for a chat; the tree cover makes it too cold in any case. Cold evenings feet need to be warmed before bed; cold feet will never get warm under the covers. Through the day indoors foot stamping alleviates the chill; otherwise for confinement inside the house a treadle rigged up to run the television and computer would be just the thing. As the Africans have remarked at the café for cooling, Arthur suggests it’s all in the extremities at ground level. Cloud cover lessens the cold overnight, while a clear sky portends bitter passage. Wind too prevents the harshest cold, though of course it turns up the chill a notch no matter what the mercury records if you are caught outdoors. Early mornings Arthur gauges the cold by the vial of jojoba beside his bed. Particularly cold nights, nights only one or two above zero, the jojoba in Arthur’s bedside vial turns a grey cloudy colour; as the temperature rises in the morning the lightening marks the return to liquid. When Arthur’s bread and buns are delivered he usually has not turned on his heater and comes to the gates without jacket, scarf or cap. Knowing his body is sagging particularly in winter Arthur strives to stand himself upright for correction; after the battle of the day by evening at the gate his figure reminds of the drawings of the aged in Dickens. Dead winter there was no point rising much before 10; better to keep in the burrow and dream on. Unthinkingly once tongue quicker than brain, a correction was passed to something Arthur said about the best means of keeping warm at night. Far the best though Arth is holding tight onto a pretty babe!.... Yeah well, there was that, Arthur conceded. On his laptop it was mostly the porn Arthur surfed when the TV programming ran dry. When the net was down Arthur was sad, he admitted some weeks past before the winter had set in properly.
3.
One dollar seventy sour dough rolls delivered at Arthur’s side gate. Gee it was cold, though. Mid-afternoon emerging from the Footscray Net place the clouds had closed in, wind sprung and the chill had us all muffled. Arth reported the same on the home-front. Well short of 7, Arthur had already turned on his heater. Brrh!... Still in shirt sleeves however, the man, green checked flannel with baby blue skivvy beneath. The zipper on the camel suit trousers had somehow turned askew, possibly from Arthur’s inexpert mending. Usually of course Arth was a fantastically precise worker in all he turned his hands to, sewing perhaps bringing him undone. Hearing about the machine Haze had left behind the other day on a visit, Arthur said he would take it if nobody wanted; a sewing machine was always good in the house. Being particular about cleanliness and hygiene, the bag of rolls was always held out for Arthur to pull out his own. What have you got there? pitched in the voice of the child at Christmas. The Royal Melbourne Show was on again currently. Years past boys who bought the different show bags would gleefully plunge their hands into the same a little like Arthur at the gate here for his bread. In the gathering gloom when it was fruit delivered it might be presented to Arthur with a little foxing—mango described as apple, mandarins passionfruit. Thin and bodily slight, Arthur’s workingman’s hands could nonetheless safely clutch a large ripe mango and two mandarins in one paw, no fear mishap. Despite the textural difference in the dark, Arthur could not dispute the type of fruit immediately; as the talk progressed, the jest was forgotten. The last few nights around twilight the possums in Arthur’s front veranda could be heard scampering, one night a pair either fighting or making love, it was impossible to tell which. A great racket created and the conversation had needed to pause during the course. Arthur had not been much concerned by the disturbance. The spitting, growling, gnashing and bustling about in the narrow space left Arthur still and quietly listening. A certain kind of parent by a fire with children fighting adjacent might have let it all be in the same way as Arthur here with poss. Once or twice one of the possums had passed along the side fence just beside Arthur while we talked; once or twice along a wire running behind between his house and the fence. When Arthur sighted one of the poss. he gave a kind of chuckle and smile. The possums, they’re alright. Arthur repeated his tale of the possum next door at the girl Jessie’s house on the corner. During the re-building there Arthur had once spotted a protruding tail inside the wall behind a weatherboard. Pointing it out to Jess the woman had asked Arth to pull its tail to get the animal out of her building. That however was something Arthur was not going to do. Nah. You don’t do that. Nothing cruel like that. The beast might be frightened to death; certainly alarmed. Later on another night when the carpenter was finishing up at Jess’s for the day he was shown the poss. in the same place, protruding from beneath the weatherboard. The man had happened to be eating an apple, which he then placed in the vicinity, and as soon as the poss. emerged from his cubby banged up the access. The trees through the street, in the yards and along the pavement, gave our quarter a softer look now, especially in the twilight. In Catriona’s front yard next door to Arthur, our old place that she was renting, the Norfolk Pine centre stage was now surrounded by a court of lush, aromatic greenery. In the evening leaning against the living-room window in front of the richly perfumed evergreen a forest glade was suggested. The possums of course were right at home in the bowers, especially with the fruit on offer. There was the old apple in Bab’s front yard by the letterbox just beginning to blossom, lemon, almond and plums behind. Arthur had plums in his backyard too and a large brown pear on the rear fence. The recent night of the sourdough delivery, as we talked there had been what looked like a scamper into the pear out behind Arthur. Up in the centre near the top of the tree the dark form was pointed out. In the gathering dark the shape was difficult to make out. After a minute Arthur saw it; but a minute later he proceeded to discount the possum. A particular twittering had started up at some point. It may have been a few minutes before the sighting in the pear and Arthur knew the call being made. That wasn’t a possum up there, Arthur decided; that was a blackbird. The bird was calling out warning cats were on the prowl. Catriona’s fat ginger Claude was often over the fence at Arthur’s, either in the back or front yard. The black & white striped tabby was also a frequent visitor. Arthur had never been seen patting either, but the animals clearly recognised his welcome. There were a couple of other cats in the neighbourhood too. The birds warned each other when they were about, Arthur said. The blackbird’s was a general warning to all the birds around the place; Arthur recognised the particular call. Feral and domestic cats created havoc for wildlife, birds in particular. Arthur had seen a television program recently telling of the decimation of native species in various locales.
Melbourne May 2017 - Sept 2019
NB. The second piece here, titled “Arthur’s Meteorology,” was published in Idiom (2018), an annual CQU anthology.
And special thanks to Carl & Robbie down there in Spottie doing all that was needed for our marvellous neighbour and friend.
RIP brother Arthur
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