Roland Burrows -The Mind Clock (39KB)

The Mind ClockMrs Taylor approached Jack as he got out of his car outside his father’shouse. “Hello Jack,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear about David. There’s nothingin the papers about when the funeral is. Do you know when it is?”“David’s not dead Mrs Taylor.”“Oh! Your Dad said your brother – ”“No. He’s not dead.”Next day his father gave Jack dire news about his sister.“They’ve buried What’s-her-name.”“Who, Dad?”“She lives down the other end of the street.”“Katie?”“Yes! Tomislaw couldn’t afford a funeral so he put her in a cardboardbox and slid her into the creek.”“Shit.” Jack sighed.“Well, it’s a lot cheaper.”“Katie’s not dead Dad.”“Isn’t she Jack?”“I’ll make a cuppa and we’ll go and sit in the yard. Have you wateredthe ferns?”“I think so . . . or was that yesterday?”* * *1

ferns hanging on thick galvanized chains from overhead beams. In front of thefernery, on the western side, stood the massive gumtree. The terracottabirdbath, popular with the bird population and the cause of many squabbles,was beneath the lowest branch. ‘Locals’ could be seen lining up along theback fence or on the low bough, waiting to get in. Dead fronds littered thefernery floor. Chooks clucked and scratched around on the narrow pathmeandering through the structure. Bush orchids, maidenhair, and azaleasgrew beside the path, which opened onto the vegetable garden. A dog with agrey muzzle lay in the sun beside a corrugated iron chook shed. His jawssnapped as he caught flies.The magpie returned from his mission, landed on the bough andwarbled. The old man closed his eyes and mumbled. Bloody navigationgadget . . . there was a dirt track that got real narrow . . . lots of potholes. Lowbranches were hitting the bloody windscreen. There was a construction site.Shit lying everywhere. Then they took me car off me. He sighed again andscratched his ear. ‘Snap,’ went the dog’s jaws.He stared at the dog. Flemington Racecourse. The stands were . . . TicTac men on the North Hill. It was hot. The bloody bookies were dying of thirst– they had their mouths open like birds when there’s a northerly blowing.Someone took water out to ‘em on their stands. Shoulda let the bastards dieof thirst.The old man cocked his head to one side. Footsteps.“G’day Dad.”The old man smiled. “G’day son.”3

Jack positioned a chair and plonked down next to his father. The dogopened one eye and wagged his tail.“You lazy old bugger Bendix.”“He’s old like me,” said the father. He looked at the red hair sproutingfrom his son’s ears and nostrils and said, “I went to the Melbourne Cupyesterday, David.”“I’m Jack, Dad. The Cup’s not on for another month.”“They ran it early. I was there yesty.”“What won?”“Buggered if I know.”“What number?”“Sorry, son, I dunno.” I know I went to the Melbourne Cup yesterday.David seems to get mixed up lately. “Go in and get Marj to come and look atthe maggie will ya . . . David.”“Dad, Mum died years ago.”“Did she son?”* * *Jack drove, his face grim. His wife Sheila’s face was as white as Jack’sknuckles on the steering wheel. The old man in the back closed his eyes asthe warmth from the heater relaxed him.“It’s not too late to – ”“Sheila. He got lost again yesterday. We can’t . . .”“I know Jack. I’m sorry.”4

A driver behind them honked.“You’ve slowed to a crawl Jack.”As they drove on Sheila watched a girl with a picture of ‘Pepper Pig’ onher backpack skipping along beside her mother.“Everyday-things have a poignancy about them today, Jack.”Jack reached across to squeeze Sheila’s hand and looked in the rearvisionmirror. “Dad’s asleep. Poor bugger.”* * *What are we doing here? Jack said we’re gonna do some tests. Lookat that poor bloke. He must think he’s a teenager with his baseball cap onback-to-front like that. What are all these people waiting for? How did I get –“Mr Hopkins, my names Joe. I’m a doctor. I’d like to ask you a fewquestions.”What is this place? Jack must . . .“Mr Hopkins?”“Mmm?” We should have brought Marj with us. If we have to pay I can’tuse the machine. We had a bankbook and they took it.The old man looked at the doctor. His glasses were hanging on a chainaround his neck and there was a little mole on his top lip. He must havetrouble shaving with . . .The doctor offered his hand. “Joe Martino.”5

The old man looked into the doctor’s eyes. “Bruce Hopkins,” he said ina soft voice. They shook hands. He’s got big hands for a doctor, more like aboxer.“I’d like to ask you a few questions to test your memory. Is that allright?”“I suppose so, but it’s David who is having trouble rememberingthings.”The doctor and Jack exchanged smiles. Sheila reached for Jack’shand.An old woman with inflammation around her eyes was lambastinganother woman in Italian. The other woman looked at her and shruggedbefore shuffling away.There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I can remember when I wasthree years old . . . sitting on the little seat on the back of Mum’s bike,clutching her jumper–“What day is it Mr Hopkins?”“Eh? Bruce.”“What day is it Bruce?”“What day . . . Tuesday?”“No. It’s Friday. That’s all right though. What year is it?”“What year?” What’s the matter with this joker?“Yes, what year?”“What do you mean?” Why is he asking these questions? David knowswhat year it is. There are some strange people here. That bloke at the other6

table has been colouring in pictures since we got here. We should be goingsoon. It’s warm in the car. His frown deepened as he looked at his hands.“Don’t worry Bruce. I’m going to ask a few more questions and then wecan have a cup of tea.”Cup of tea old chap mmm? I could handle a beer though. He meanswell poor bastard but why is –“I want you to remember three things: a ball, a piece of string and aletter,” said the doctor.The old man shrugged. “String, ball and letter.”“That’s right. I’ll ask you again in a few minutes time.”Letter. I was on my postie round delivering mail in Lawson Street.Letters were out of order. I had to turn my bike around and go back to theright house. They were standing on the other side of the road watching me. Ican hear the bastards sniggering now.The old man nudged Sheila and said, “Did I tell you that I had a bit oftrouble on the round today?”“No Dad.”“Dad you’re not a postie anymore,” said Jack.“Jack,” Sheila looked at Jack and shook her head.“They were short-handed and asked me to come back for a few days.”“Oh, I see.”“You don’t believe me.”“Yes I do.”One of us has got problems and it’s not me.7

The doctor continued asking questions. A woman, clutching herhandbag had taken a credit card from her bag and was swiping it across themachine that activated the lock. Standing back she watched as staff, usingtheir cards, activated the lock for visitors. She swiped her card again andwaited for the click.“We are locked in dear,” said a man nearby. “We’ve done nothingwrong but we are locked up like criminals.”“I want to go home,” the woman said. “My husband will be waiting forhis tea.”“We all want to go home.”The woman looked at the small man who was wearing dark blue worktrousers and a red and green checked shirt. She nodded and walked away.Sheila and Jack watched as a nurse allowed a man in a wheelchair togo through an electronic door into a courtyard. The lock clicked as the doorclosed behind him.Out in the courtyard the man’s empty trouser legs flapped in the breezeas he rolled to a stop. He glanced at a cigarette packet, with its gruesomepicture of a diseased organ, lying on the path like a discarded lung, and lit upa smoke. He watched as a carer helped an old woman to move from herwalker into a chair. The old woman was crying, telling the carer that she didnot like the clothes she was wearing. The carer knelt beside the old woman’schair and talked to her. Then she took a cigarette from a packet and placed itbetween the old woman’s lips, like a mother giving her youngster a dummy,and lit it for her. The old woman sucked the smoke in and then exhaled,blowing smoke into the air in a magnificent stream. Then she started8

coughing, the putrid tar gurgling in her lungs. After she stopped she turnedand said, “Thank you.”“You’re welcome,” said the carer.Inside the secure area Sheila wiped her eyes with a tissue and lookedat Jack who shook his head. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and indexfinger. The old man sighed and looked around. A nurse was doing her roundshanding out pills in little plastic cups.What’s all this? I want to go home. Bendix will be hungry. He won’tknow where I am. The chooks will be ready to roost. He rested his elbows onthe table and put his head in his hands.The doctor turned to Jack and Sheila. “I know that this is hard for you.I’ve seen so many people go through this. If you would like to go out to getDad’s case . . .”The old bloke looked up and grinned. My case! Thank Christ for that.We must be going for a holiday. I’ve had enough of this joint.9