Perky Old Indian Clerk Risen from the Dead

Late-seventies giving off the perfumed soap and talc was it? He rather than the Batam lasses. Hands stretched across the table liver-spotted; over the bald pate darker raised spots more prominent again. Touching the hand of the nearer woman, the one within reach opposite—tap, tap, tap and lingering. Fly-weight in shirt, slacks, socks and shoes; dye some weeks old. (Astounding of course in the case of a few sparse strands; the last comb-over might have been forty years ago.) Stainless watch-band below polyester sleeves rolled on the forearms. For his out-of-use English the man needed to dig deep and in delivering tighten his jaw to emit. You-are-going-back-to-Australia…. How-long-will-you-stay there?.... I-see, before turning back to the ladies. Both forefingers pointing close for emphasis. Clerk in a storeroom on the docks hazard the guess, meagre retirement funds. The flat up the road would be worth a pretty penny could it be winkled somehow, by hook or crook. (Of course a mistress had little chance against the children, especially a foreigner.) Lass returning the touch occasionally, keeping the fellow dangling, jiggling leg doubtless sensed under the table. Beside her the scarved support had dropped her head onto her forearm lying along the table edge like a dutiful dog, raising her eyes appropriately. Back in the day when the loneliness had not been evident and the man had kept nightly company with the old Chin-Malay, presenting as the quiet, sober sort, miser perhaps with the TV through the night, the fellow had told of his strict walking regime. Could you guess how old he was? What did you think?... (Such a number of ancients here well into their seventies and beyond still coming to terms with the number carried on their backs.) The bus was right there around the corner on Sims Avenue. But no; striding out afternoons and returning nights kept a chap in fine fettle. Completely out of character. Near two years striding past with his stand-by back to the flat before night proper descended. How had they turned the old widower out from his rut? Early-forties cartoon chipmunk voices, full-bodied, sleek-skinned and freckled both—Granddad was putty in their hands. Funds were lacking for a maid, doing his own laundry, polishing the shoes. I-see