Dissonance by Stephen Orr Page B

Lindsay …’
    â€˜Charlie.’
    â€˜What can I say?’
    He raised and dropped his hand, like he was swatting a fly. ‘No, listen, it’ll only cost you a cup of tea.’
    â€˜I insist on paying.’
    â€˜No, I took care of it.’
    She stared at him and smiled. He was dressed in freshly ironed pants, a white shirt that still had the pins in it, an old dinner jacket and work boots he’d taken the trouble to rinse clean. She could smell him – California poppy and sump oil.
    â€˜I mustn’t keep you,’ she said. ‘You’ve got an engagement.’
    â€˜No, I don’t,’ he replied.
    She took a deep breath. ‘I’ll put the kettle on then.’
    â€˜Right you are.’
    Over tea and carrot cake she asked, ‘Was it much of a job?’
    â€˜Not much,’ he replied. ‘It killed a few hours.’
    Madge lifted her eyebrows. ‘I’d imagine you’re very busy. How much land do you have?’
    â€˜Enough, but there’s more to life than crutching sheep, isn’t there?’
    Like the piano, he explained. Beethoven and Mozart. Or books. You’ve got a few there, Madge. Who’s this one? Nietszche. What did he write about?
    He was a philosopher.
    Ah, you can keep that.
    As Madge thought, perhaps … maybe if … no …
    â€˜At least let me pay for the parts,’ she insisted, catching a crumb as it dropped from her lips.
    â€˜Na, you’ve got enough to pay for, Madge. I’ve had a few good years. Us Aussies, we gotta stick together, don’t we?’
    Madge wasn’t sure what he meant. He noticed the crease on her brow and said, ‘It’s the Fritz, Madge. They’re not real Australians like you and me. I tell you what, I was in Wohler’s the other day and bugger me, there’s this picture of Hitler up on the wall. No mention of Curtin, or anyone.’ He looked up at Madge’s token portrait of the King, leaned forward and almost whispered, ‘We lot have gotta stick together, Madge.’
    Luckily for Madge, just then the first of her students arrived. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Lindsay.’
    â€˜Charlie. Maybe I could pop back some time?’
    She handed him a pad and pencil. ‘Write down your number. Soon, perhaps.’
    Madge pulled up in front of Nuriootpa Station. Erwin was already waiting, reclining in the sun on a bench, his eyes closed. He could hear his mother but didn’t move.
    She sounded the horn a few times and shouted from the window, ‘You comin’?’
    He looked up at her with a blank expression. Then he gathered his satchel and walked across the weedy gravel. ‘Hello,’ he said, formally, as he climbed into the cabin.
    â€˜Hello? Haven’t you got a kiss for your mother?’
    He leaned across and kissed her.
    â€˜What’s wrong?’ she asked, sensing.
    Erwin ignored her. ‘How much did the clutch cost?’
    â€˜Plenty. Money I didn’t have. Still …’
    She executed a slow U-turn and came back onto the asphalt. They drove through a cold, sunny afternoon. Giant River Reds dropped steel girder roots into dry creeks – depressions that ran a few hundred yards before flattening out and merging with a landscape of red-brown soil, native grass and moss rocks, climbing hills that had eroded smooth, round and green, as though someone was pushing a stick up from under the earth. The vines were nearly bare – brown and rusted, pruned and trained. A flock of cockatoos passed overhead and Erwin wondered if they weren’t some kind of sign. He’d heard it somewhere – it meant death, or good fortune – or maybe that was when you got shat on.
    â€˜So, you had a good lesson?’ Madge asked, letting the truck roll down a hill, fighting to take a sharp corner at the bottom.
    â€˜You always do that,’ Erwin said, holding his seat.