Onward & Upward

Looking the worse for wear Carlo when we met suddenly on the landing between the back house and the Studio, very much the tippler in Dickens with the bloom in his cheeks, red-button nose and ragged coat. Celebrating an experimental film-maker friend’s fiftieth in Hepburn Springs on the Friday was to blame; it had taken Carlo all of the weekend to recover. Two years ago on the first return from the Equator this birthday boy had been met down at Cat’s, the pair of film buffs bent over an old vintage camera. The chap, Carlo remarked, sometimes seemed ten years older, rather than the actual reverse.
         Carlo was working from home now, going into the U only for meetings with his fellow researchers. One of the AI projects Carlo’s team was working on was a Sensory Room for dementia sufferers. A comfortable room furnished with beanbags and rugs was lit with soft, ambient light, suitable soothing music programmed and it may have been scented candles and artwork added. Another project involved training a camera on a small sandpit where the visitors were aided in their manipulation of form by a program that sensed intention and that helped the sand granules collect in the desired shape. Castles, yachts and animals presumably. The earlier Defence contract of Carlo’s developing sophisticated AI helmets for fighter pilots had reached term a year or so ago.
         In the back house Kristie, a twenty-something Kiwi, was working in an upmarket travel agency on the other side of the river that catered to the Scandinavian market. Well-heeled travellers had their cruising, hiking and sight-seeing all neatly packaged by Kristie. Two and a half years ago Kristie had moved into the house; after housemate Hazel’s breakdown the sorting through the latter’s abandoned belongings had fallen to her. The remainder of that task now would be left to the landlord.
         Old tax returns, ancient docs, old photos, clothes, nicknacks and a stash of empty wine bottles and glasses went out in the first round. Beautiful fabric was difficult to discard and the handmade soft toys likewise. One of Haze’s signature woollen scarves has come in handy in the cold; a number of other silks will go down to Cat’s girl, Soleil, before the Op Shop option.
         Haze eventually replied to a Whatsapp telling of her further progress with her troubles. The first message a few weeks ago had mentioned two things that were helping over in Wales—volunteering and mountain climbing. In the latest message the former was again mentioned, though not the later; added was the fostering of an orphaned hedgehog through an organisation called Hedgehuggles.
         One of the old photos left behind of Haze with a mass of flaxen hair from her early teens show precisely the kind of Famous Five adventurer one could work back toward from the mature woman.
Tuesday Veki was met at the Viet bakery opposite the African café after his annual ophthalmologist appointment. Retired now from the library, music, painting and sports fandom kept Veki occupied. The previous weekend he and his band had performed at a ninetieth birthday party where the particular person involved had unfortunately been unable to attend due to illness.
Veki’s relationship with Jen was going strong as ever, a little triumph of matchmaking. Bab had managed more than one brilliant union and it was wonderful to be able to continue that tradition with a schoolboy friend from earliest days.
The old family home in Altona North had been sold after the death of Jen’s mother, the proceeds sufficient for Jen to buy the new house outright. As the most financially stressed, Jen had been provided a half share of the estate. Initially the older brother had demurred, but after the intervention of the next eldest he was brought round. Following her marriage breakdown Jen had returned to the house of her parents and cared for both over twenty-five years. It was a pleasure to hear of the concession over the property and the absence of grasping.
For the last number of years Veki had written of the marvellous dog of Jen’s. A wonderfully friendly, playful and loveable dog. Veki had said more than once that he did in fact love the dog. The enthusiasm had surprised.
Now suddenly it was a different story. Some months before the dog, Shenzi, had nipped at  Veki’s cheek. In the usual way Veki had bent down to say hello and instead of the usual playfulness, all at once Shenzi snarled and either nipped Veki’s cheek, or else scratched with his paw.
Prior to Shenzi another dog named Benji had been the house pet, a tiny little fluffy fly-weight. The process of succession had been missed up on the Equator over the email. The new dog was an entirely different kettle of fish. Not a little cuddly nipper, but in fact an American Staffordshire Terrier. Initially it had been thought that the dog was the British Staffie breed, the one that had featured in recent news stories mauling owners to death. Shenzi was the American variant, but still a daunting prospect in the wrong circumstances.
        That the old mother, Teta Marija, had allowed a dog in the house in the first place had been unexpected. It must have been because of the granddaughter, Jen’s daughter Chantelle, who suffered badly after her father had abruptly turned his back on her.
Since the drawing of blood the pair, Veki and the new Staffie, Shenzi, had become estranged. Now on Veki’s visits the dog needed to be barricaded in the back of the house.
Usually Shenzi slept at the foot of Jen’s bed. Sometimes however it slept with Chantelle. In the bed in fact with the young woman.
While being walked by Jen Shenzi  had attacked one or two dogs on the street. When Shenzi saw Vek and Jen hugging goodbye the poor jealous devil growled and jumped about behind the security door.
If any other incident occurred Chantelle told her mother she would have the dog put down. Meantime she continued sleeping with Shenzi.
Chantelle had briefly tried counselling. It was over fifteen years the father, an Indian who secured his PR with the marriage to Jen, cast his daughter aside. The new wife was to blame, some in the family circle judged. Chantelle’s struggle continued. How she would cope in the event she was left without Shenzi was unclear.
Now the oldest resident in the street, at the bottom end, Arthur continued the same as ever, a reassuring, fixed and steady point. Arthur was truly a treasure, always ready and helpful for all there by the rail-line. A delightful, wry sense of humour lightened any encounter with Arthur.
         Arth had noticed his sagging frame in the bathroom mirror over the last couple of years and eventually bought himself an inversion table in order to try to correct his posture. In the cold of winter he had perhaps not kept up his exercises. When he went to fetch a washer for a leaking tap at the Studio Arthur had moved like a caricatured ancient again from Dickens; like the elderly in the old villages after a lifetime of carrying on their backs.
It was over five years now that Arthur decided at the last minute, while waiting on a hospital trolley before theatre at Peter Macallum, not to proceed with his skin cancer operation. Face marked for the incisions and in the hospital gown, Arthur had made his way out onto the street and down to Flinders Street for the train home. Black seed oil and granules and various other resorts found on the Net had Arth in pretty good shape. His blue eyes still shone bright in the winter light when he gave a direct glance.

            Spotswood,  Melbourne, Aug 2019