Miscarriages Chapter 6. From your red lips warm and wet

6. From your red lips warm and wet

I never saw Millie after she left the pub that time, with that pathetic bloke in tow. At least that’s what I told the Preacher when he came snooping around. Some bloke found her beaten and strangled to death lying on her bed on filthy sheets, dried black blood all over, and a beer bottle shoved up her you-know-what.

Mr. Counter came over and called me out of the bar. We went out back to the tap room were the Preacher was waiting. He had a fresh beer in his hand and took a sip, licking the foam from his lips with great satisfaction. I’m all dressed up in my uniform, just like Mr. Counter wanted, nicely pressed Fletchers that Mrs. Counter had ironed, and nice shirt with a thin tie.

“Young man,” says the Preacher, looking down at me over his long nose, “I want you to be honest and tell me exactly what happened.”

“What happened when?” I ask, belligerent as usual.

“Millie. You heard about her?”

“Nah, but I hope it’s bad.”

“She was found lying in her filthy bed, beaten and strangled...”

“Fuckn great!”

“…and a beer bottle shoved up her vaginal orifice.”

“Even fuckn better!” I say with a scowl and a smirk.

“This is no joke young man. This is an individual woman’s life that’s been violently and indeed consequentially taken away by a murderer doing the devil’s work!”

“Hooray for the devil!” I laugh, putting my hands on my hips.

Mr. Counter steps close to me and gives me a nudge. “Take it easy, son,” he whispers.

“Young man, this is no laughing matter. It is the devil’s work and I very much hope he is not in consequence working through you!”

“Me? Doing the devil’s work? That’s a good one. The fuckn devil has done me over, I can tell you that.”

“You were heard threatening to kill Millie.” The Preacher leans forward imposing his great height over me.

“Bull shit! I never did that! Who’s telling you that?”

“You were overheard in the waiting room at Geelong Hospital.”

“It’s bull shit. I never said that. They’re fuckn lying.”

“Young man. It is no secret that you have a violent temper. Where did you go after you left the hospital that night?”

“I bet I know who killed her.”

“That’s not what I asked you. Where were you after you left the hospital?”

“I walked all around Geelong and then I walked home.”

“Your walked all the way from Geelong to Norlane?”

“Yes. I was upset and angry. I wanted to think things over.”

“Can any person verify that you were with them on your walk?”

“I walked on my own. I wanted to think. I was confused.”

“Confused? So, you do not know exactly where you went?”

“I remember being at the Criterion pub at opening time that morning.”

“You walked all around Geelong that night?”

“I suppose I must have.”

“And did you booze on at the Criterion?”

“I don’t drink.”

The Preacher looks at Mr. Counter who says, “that’s right, officer. He’s on the wagon.”

“Then you walked all the way to Norlane from the Criterion?”

“Yes. All the way.”

“And you went nowhere else of consequence?”

“Nowhere else.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I think I remember mucking around a bit on the site of me old house that’s been pulled down.”

“And nowhere else of consequence?”

“Nowhere.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, I might have gone someplace else, but I might not.”

“Young man, this is unusual and of consequence. Is it not that you went somewhere else or is it so?”

“I was confused and I woke up having this dream or maybe it wasn’t a dream, and I was lying on my back when Spuds helped me up and I looked around and I was outside the Migrant Hostel.”

“At the back of the pub?”

“Yair. Spuds helped me up and we talked a bit and then I came straight back to the pub and I think I even got into me bedroom through the back window.”

“And the kitbag?”

“What about it?”

“You had it all the time?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you young man. Do not leave town, as I may need to speak to you again. Did you get all that Dopey?”

Dopey, sitting on a beer barrel across the other side of the tap room, has been furiously taking notes.

“Yes sir, got it all. Anything else sir?”

“Yes. Get off your ass.”

With difficulty, Dopey slid off the barrel and as he did so, he dropped his notebook and pencil. I darted down and picked them up for him, because there was no way he could do it himself with his belly getting bigger and bigger every time I saw him.

“It is that I thank you on Dopey’s behalf and also in my capacity as one of the Queen’s constabulary,” pronounced the Preacher.

“No worries,” I said.

The cops helped themselves to another beer and left.

On our way back to the bar, Mr. Counter touched me on the arm. “You know who killed her?” he asked.

“Yair, for sure.”

“Who then?”

“I’m not saying because he did me a great service and saved me the bother.”

“Did you go there, then?”

“Where?”

“That night, to Millie’s.”

“Don’t think so. I don’t know.”

*

Abbie was very happy these days. Every morning I got up on the dot of seven and was in the kitchen by 7.30, eating her eggs and bacon and munching the burnt toast. Then I sat and drank a couple of cups of tea and smoked a Craven ‘A’. That’s right, after all that boozing, I never had a cigarette. But now, still on the wagon, I’d taken up the smokes.

Mr. Counter was happy too. It seemed like I had fulfilled his dream, or something like that. He had saved me from my father’s destiny, and that was enough for him. And something else he did was to move me across to work in the New Bar, away from the Old Bar that served the Snake Pit, so I wouldn’t have to worry about seeing Tank, Linda or the rest of them.

As for me, I was lost. For a few days after they took Iris to Melbourne, I carried around the crumpled piece of paper that had the number for me to phone. I’d roll it around in my hand, and put it back in my pocket. Pretty soon the numbers that the stuck-up matron had written down would be illegible. Nobody in the pub, all my old drinking mates, Mr. and Mrs. Counter and the rest, none of them asked me about Iris.

I began to spend a lot of time in “cell 4” as I called my bedroom, just lying on my bed, and moping around the room.

*

This old quack’s sitting at his desk, his fluffy grey hair sticking up from a long head that’s got too many brains crammed inside it. He doesn’t even look up when I come in—too busy writing something. It’s a long narrow office with a window at the end that’s really bright and I’m squinting to see the quack at all.

“Clothes off,” he says without looking up.

“What’d you say?”

“I said take off your clothes, and show some respect. I’m Doctor Robinson.”

“Pleased to meet you, doctor. So I take them all off?”

“That’s what I said.”

There aren’t many clothes to take off and they’re pretty smelly as well. With Dad just dying and me only now getting settled into the pub, I don’t know who’s going to wash my clothes. And I don’t really want to take off me underpants because they could be really filthy.

“Me underpants too?”

“Yes. And it’s my not me. You need to speak properly if you’re going to be a teacher.”

“Fuck you, you stuck-up pommie bastard,” I’m thinking. But I drop them anyway and I’m thinking if I stink, it’ll serve him right.

He keeps writing away and I’m standing there, feeling stupid. I give a little cough. Maybe he’s forgotten I’m even there! But doesn’t even look like getting up out of his chair. I’m dazzled by the light streaming in through the window so I close me eyes and I start to day-dream. It was only a week or so after I did me Latin exam, so you can guess where the dreaming took me. Yair, Ovid of course, and then I’m doing Iris all over again! And shit! You know what that means! I’m trying not to think of her, but me body won’t listen. I’m looking down there, and sure enough, there’s action. Shit! The quack’ll think I’m a poofda or something.

“Er, doctor, sir?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says without looking up.

“I have to go to the toilet.”

“It’s in there. And do a specimen for me while you’re there. Take a jar from my desk.” He points to a bunch of little vegemite jars.

I prance over to his desk, trying not to let him see what’s going on, trying to approach his desk ass-first. Don’t know if he saw anything, but he didn’t look up.

“Mr. Henderson, I have a tight schedule, We need to get on with the exam.”

“Be there in a jiffy,” I say, my voice kind of faint and shaky. I turn on a tap and run a bit of water, make a bit of noise.

“Mr. Henderson? Get out here please.”

“OK. I’m coming. Took me a while to get it flowing if you see what I mean.”

I come out, all red and embarrassed, carrying the little jar filled to the brim and I offer it to him, spilling some of it as I extend my hand.

“What happened to the lid?” the quack asks, really annoyed, “go back and pour some out and put the lid on.”

I’m happy to turn my back on him and gain a bit more time, and by the time I’ve done what he asked, I’m pretty much back to normal and I stand there, starkers, before him. He looks me up and down, then runs his hands down me sides, then says, “turn around, son.” I turn around and he runs his hands over me shoulders then down me sides again. “OK. Turn around again,” he says, then as soon as I’m facing him, his fingers feel around me balls and I jump a bit because I’m still a bit sensitive there, but at least I knew what to expect because me mates who’d already been in, told me that’s what he did. “Look away and cough please,” he says. And I do, and he says, “again,” and I do. He goes back to his desk and starts writing again. “You can get dressed,” he says, without looking up, “you’re in good shape.”

I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, and what feeling me up has to do with teaching little kids. Yair, that’s right. Just before me Latin exam I put in my application to Geelong Teachers College just in case I changed my mind and decided to go. I never went because I was supposed to show up first of February and I forgot to, or to put it another way, I was too busy getting into the booze. But you wouldn’t believe what happened.

*

It was Sunday and I was in cell 4 thinking of going to church because I was all depressed and fingering the piece a paper with the number that now I could hardly read. I decided to copy the number on to another piece of paper, so I rummaged through my kitbag in the corner of the room looking for an exercise book with a blank page. I pulled one out and flipped through the pages and out fell an envelope addressed to me. It was from Melbourne University. Grecko must have grabbed it with a lot of other stuff lying around the old house. I turned it over in my hand. The address on the envelope was written in very small and neat handwriting sloping backwards, blue ink and made with a fountain pen. I wrote down the Iris phone number on the back of the envelope. It was a long-distance number and I didn’t know how to do a long-distance phone call, and I was too embarrassed to ask Mr. Counter how to do it, and as well, it would cost a lot more money.

I opened the letter and inside was a brief hand-written note that said:

Dear Mr. Henderson

I read with interest your translation of Ovid in the recent matric Latin exam. Your paper displayed a raw talent quite exceptional for one so young. It seems that you have not applied for admission to Melbourne University but instead applied to Geelong Teachers College. I think your talents will be wasted there, so please come by and see me when you are in Melbourne next. I may be able to arrange for you to begin studies here, possibly even with a scholarship.

Sincerely,

Professor Claude Pulcher

Chair, Department of Classics and Antiquity

University of Melbourne

*

I was wiping down the bar when all of a sudden, a big hand grabbed mine. I looked up and it was Tank. He was wearing his big slouch hat and had it pulled down nearly over his eyes. He leaned over and muttered, “I know what you fuckn did and don’t you forget it.”

My ears went red and I felt my cheeks burn. I ducked down so I could look at him straight in the eye, under the brim of his hat.

“And I know what you did, so now we’re mates, aren’t we?” I reply.

“What do ya mean? You little shit!”

“I’m not little. And you know what I mean.”

He reaches over to grab my collar, but I was ready for it and ducked away.

“You was there, weren’t you?”

“There where?”

“Don’t be a fuckn smart-ass, you little shit. Just because you went to school too long.”

“I don’t know what you’re fuckn talking about.”

“Yair you do. You was there. I saw you.”

“You were fuckn drunk. You wouldn’t know what you saw.”

“How do you know I was drunk?”

“You’re always fuckn drunk, you fuckn dummy bastard.”

“I’ll break your fuckn neck you little shit.”

“The cops were here, you know.”

“So, what?”

“I could have told them”

“Tell ’em what?”

“That you were there. That’s what you told me, isn’t it?”

“You’ve killed me daughter and now you’ve killed me favourite root. You’re a real asshole. And now you’re trying to pin it all on me.”

“Yair, well, I know about your daughter, you filthy fuckn piece of scum.”

“What’s that? Yer mean Iris?”

“Yair. She’s a freak, isn’t she? Her mum and dad, you’re brother and sister, you disgusting piece of shit.”

“Fuckn Flo, that bitch. She told you?”

“Yair. At the hospital. So fuck off and leave me alone.”

“She’s not a freak.”

“Not to me she isn’t. But Flo thinks she is because the two of you conceived her in sin so there’s no hope for her. She deserves to die, that’s what Flo thinks.”

“You talk too much, you fuckn asshole.”

“Yair. I do, but not to the cops. As for you. You’ve been beating the shit out of both of them, haven’t you? Ever since Iris was born. You’re a fuckn bully, and frankly, you’re a piece of the devil’s asshole, that’s what.”

“Where’d yer learn all that fancy talk? Been going to church with Flo?”

“Fuck off and keep your mouth shut, and so will I.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“And neither did I.”

“So who did then?

“I don’t care. Whoever it was deserves a medal. She killed Iris.”

“Yair, I suppose you’re right.”

We look at each other and suddenly discover that we’re mates. I reach for a glass and pour Tank a beer. And I see out of the corner of my eye Mr. Counter watching us. He calls out, “that’s all right. Go around the bar and have one with him. It’s on the house.”

“But I’m on the wagon, Mr. Counter.”

“Oh yes, I forgot. Then have a dry ginger.”

I go around and Tank and me lean our elbows on the counter and we clink our glasses. “To the fuckn good bastard that did her in,” I say, and we both say “Cheers!” Tank downs the beer then bangs the glass on the bar. “You’re all right, mate,” he says. And for the first time ever, I see him smile.

*

Flo lit up a Garrick while she stood across from the post office waiting for the Benders bus back home. Her eyes were red and watering from the coughing fit she’d just got over. It was so bad, people came up and asked her if she was all right. She’d had one in the Deacon’s office as well. He just sat there and looked at her as though she was scratching her ass and he was annoyed having to wait till she finished. The Deacon was a stern man, tall even sitting on his chair, a mop of silvery hair well oiled, combed back without a part, and a well-scrubbed pink complexion.

“Have a seat Mrs. Devlin. I expect you’re here for the usual thing. We’ve been through this many times. You must bring your husband to church. There is little I can do without my getting to know him. You have to help him find Jesus. You know that.”

“Deacon, I’m not here about me husband.”

The Deacon sits up straight. “No kidding?” he says, surprised.

“I gave up on him years ago. You know that too.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Does there have to be a reason?” Flo searches for a window to look out of.

“You are not well, Mrs. Devlin, I can see that.”

“I never slept all last night. Don’t know when I last slept. I want to die, I think.”

“Mrs. Devlin, you must not talk like that! Jesus is with you. Jesus is always with you. Dying is not of your choosing. It is up to God.”

Flo looked over his shoulder at a photo on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. It was a group of happy smiling people all arranged around the Deacon standing tall and imposing. The photo had been touched up with colour to make the grass look green and the sky blue and all the people have pink faces.

“I pray to Jesus all the time. It’s all I do except take abuse from my husband. But instead of comforting me, Jesus has forsaken me. He has taken my daughter from me.”

“You have a daughter? You never told me that before.”

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you, Deacon.”

“Then tell me about her. How old is she?”

“She was seventeen, and she’d been kissed too much.”

“And what has happened?”

Flo stood up suddenly and fell against the Deacon’s desk. There was an awful wheezing sound as she tried in vain to find her voice. The Deacon pushed himself back from the desk.

“Mrs. Devlin! Are you all right? What has happened?”

“I can’t tell you, except that she’s dead, I know it. And it’s all my fault.”

“What do you mean? Where is she?”

“With Jesus by now.”

“She died?”

“I killed her, that’s what. I killed her.”

“Mrs. Devlin, I can’t believe that you’d do such a thing. But in any case, we must pray to God for salvation.

The Deacon came quickly around his desk, took Flo tightly by the arm, pulled her down to her knees beside him and they knelt together as he prayed:

“Heavenly Father, hear our pleas for forgiveness. Your world is so vast we tiny inhabitants cannot comprehend your great design. Have pity on Mrs. Devlin who comes to you with an open heart. She has stayed with Jesus all her suffering life. If it is her time to go, please let her know that her daughter sits with your Son in Heaven, awaiting the happy reconciliation with her mother. For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory. Amen.”

Flo remained there, her hands clasped together, her grey head bent down, sobs choking her rasping throat. The Deacon stood and tried with difficulty to pull Flo up. But she remained there, coughing and sobbing.

“Mrs. Devlin. Are you all right? Shall I call a doctor?”

Flo coughed more and lost her balance, falling backwards on to the carpeted floor and she lay there, choking.

The Deacon rushed to the door and called out to his secretary. “Phone an ambulance! Mrs. Devlin’s having a fit. I think she’s choking.” He turned back, leaned over to peer into Flo’s face. It was grey, gaunt, her eyes red and glazed over. He pulled at her arms to get her sitting. She pointed to her hand bag that had fallen to the floor. He handed it to her and steadied her while she opened it. She grasped her green packet of Garricks and with a shaking hand managed to pull out a cigarette.

“Mrs. Devlin. For God’s sake—excuse me Lord—you can’t have a smoke now. You’ll kill yourself.” The words came out too soon as he realized that it was exactly what she was trying to do.

“Take me Jesus, take me,” she said weakly.

The Deacon snatched the cigarettes from her. “Mrs. Devlin! Shame on you! How dare you tempt Jesus like that! It’s a grave sin for you to smoke cigarettes in your condition!”

And with that, Flo shook her head in a spasm and blinked her eyes. She had awoken as if from a terrible nightmare. She snatched back her cigarettes, put them in her handbag and struggled to stand. The Deacon helped her up, but it was now with a feeling of distaste, even disgust. “You seem to have recovered,” he said, almost dis¬appointed. She took out a cigarette, struck a match and lit up right in front of him.

“Thanks a lot, Deacon. God has heard us both and I know Jesus is beside me still.”

“Cancel the ambulance!” called the Deacon.

*

It was Sunday and I was in the old bar polishing up the glasses and trying to clean the mould from the lino counter top. I was into cleaning stuff. It made me feel a lot better. Mr. Counter was tink¬ering with the old cash register. One of the keys was jammed.

“Looks like Sugar’s coming back,” he said.

“Yair? He’s all right, then?”

“I think so. Depends on how he holds up. He’s got a walking stick now, you know.”

“Yair. It’s too bad.” But I didn’t feel all that sorry. He deserved what he got. And besides, now that everyone knew what he was like, he wasn’t going to last long in the pub. Somebody else will do him over and the next time will be his last.

“Mr. Counter?” I said.

“Yes, Chooka, what?”

They called me Chooka now because these letters kept coming and they had my name on them, James Henderson. At first it was just “Hens” but then some of the smart bastards started saying I wasn’t a hen but a chook, and so it stuck.

“Can I make a long-distance call? I’ve got this number they said to call to find out if Iris was OK.”

“You mean, you haven’t called yet?”

“I just couldn’t get myself to do it. Might be bad news.”

“Chooka, my boy. You have to learn to face up to bad news. Be a man, young fella!”

“Gees, Mr. Counter. Leave me alone, will you?”

“Use the phone in my office and I’ll deduct the cost from your next pay packet.”

“So, how do I do it?”

“You just dial zero and the operator comes on and you tell her what number you want in Melbourne.”

Mr. Counter led the way into his little office. “By the way, Chooka,” he said, “there’s another letter here from the Education Department. They’re coming every couple of weeks. Are they still trying to get you to go to Teachers College?”

“Yair,” I lied, “but I’m not going.”

*

That night I heard noises coming from the room next to mine. Sugar was back. I knew, then, it was time for me to go. I dragged the old kit bag from under my bed. It was squashed flat, but would do. I tried to clean the dried blood off it, then I put my exercise books inside and a few clothes. In the morning, Abbie knocked on my door as usual but I was already dressed. I’d showered early to avoid running into Sugar.

“Morning, Abbie,” I said with a smile.

“My! Aren’t we bright and early this morning,” she laughed.

“Yair. I’m leaving today.”

“What? Mr. Counter didn’t say anything.”

“He doesn’t know yet.”

“Has something happened with Iris?” she asked, trying not to pry.

“Not exactly. I’m going to find her.”

“So she’s OK then?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, she’s out of hospital?”

“I don’t know, Abbie. I phoned yesterday but couldn’t get any answers. They’d never heard of her at the Royal Melbourne Hospital.”

“So where are you going then?”

“To Melbourne to find her.”

She looked at me, very serious. “I’ve never been there,” she said with a frown, “but I’ve heard it’s a very big place.”

“Yair. But I’ve got to find her.”

“I knowya do luv. And I wish you all the best of luck.”

“I’ll miss your bacon and eggs.”

“Come on then, I’ll cook up the best ones you’ve ever had.”

She gave me a big hug and then stood back, holding my shoulders in her big hands and giving me her huge toothy smile. It was the charge I needed to face the world, least of all Mr. Counter.

*

“You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I have to do it, Mr. Counter.”

“But you could have warned me.”

“I only decided last night when I heard Sugar was back.”

“But you don’t know where she is. She could even be back home here.”

“I’d have heard if she was back here. Tank would have told me.”

“Are you sure you want to take all your money with you?”

“Yair. I want it all. Just in case.”

“Well, it’s your money. Come into the office and I’ll make out a check.”

“Mr. Counter, it has to be cash.”

“But you might get robbed.”

“What bank will cash a check from a homeless bloke like me?”

“You’re not homeless. You’ve got a home here, you know that.”

“I’m talking about Melbourne.”

“Well, all right. But there’s one condition.”

“Yair, what’s that?”

“That you go and look up your mum.”

“No way.”

“Then I’m not giving it to you.”

“I’ll do without it. I’ve got other money anyway.”

“Bull shit.”

“I mean it, Mr. Counter.”

Mr. Counter looked away. He was upset I could see it. Gees. After all he’s done for me, I felt like an asshole. He looked past me to the door and I turned to see who was there. It was Mrs. Counter.

“You’re an ungrateful little bugger, aren’t you?” she said, her hands on her hips like always, and boobs kind of pointing at me like she was about to stab me with them.

“I want to do this on my own,” I said.

“So what’s going to see your mum got to do with that?” she says. “Your mum was good to you. It was your dad that made her life so miserable that she left. You know that, or if you don’t you’ve had your head in the sand all along.”

My ears were red already and me fist was clenched. I gritted my teeth trying to keep it all in. I looked at Mrs. Counter, then to Mr. Counter.

“Yair, well. You had a little bit to do with that, didn’t you, Mr. Counter?” I bit my lip as soon as I said it. Mrs. Counter turned and left without a word.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, son,” says Mr. Counter,. “Here’s your money.” He hands me an envelope fat with cash. “All your money’s there and there’s an extra tenner for good luck and a note that has your mum’s address in Yarraville.”

“Gees, Mr. Counter. I didn’t mean to…”

“There’s lots you didn’t mean to do,” says Mr. Counter, his mouth pulled tight like he’d just sucked a lemon. “I keep hoping that one day you’ll come to your senses. Your father was a good bloke till the grog got him. And you can’t blame your mum for any of that.”

“I’m sorry Mr. Counter, I know you’ve been good to me and one day I’ll make it up to you.”

“There’s nothing to make up. All I’ve done was for your dad, my best mate.”

“I will, I promise.”

“It’s best not to make promises, ever. It’s inevitable they’ll be broken.”

“Not for me.”

“Yes, you.” He held out his hand and I took it. His grip was tight and I know mine was limp. Truth is I hadn’t shaken hands with someone older than me hardly ever before. I opened my kit bag and dropped the money in it. “How are you getting to Melbourne?” he asks.

“I’m taking the train.”

“I’ll drive you to the North Shore Station, then.”

“Nah, don’t bother. I got plenty of time. I’ll walk.”

“And those letters that keep coming from the Education Department. Will I throw them out?”

“Shit no! Just keep them and one day I’ll come back and pick them up.”

“And when will that be?”

“Who knows? But please don’t destroy them.”

“I might mail them to your mum, then,” he says with a glint in his eye.

*

I never went to the North Shore station. I took the bus into Geelong and went to the Bank of New South Wales where Mr. Counter had opened up my bank account a while ago when he was keeping my money from me. I had six checks to deposit. Every two weeks the Education Department sent me a check for fourteen pounds and eleven pence. I don’t know why they’re doing it. There must have been some kind of mix-up and they think I’m going to Geelong Teachers College and nobody’s told them I didn’t show up. Either that or they must want me really badly, and that’s not likely, is it, given what I wrote on my Latin exam, although I did pass all my other subjects. Yair, that was a turn-up. Me and me mates got drunk that night when we waited at the Geelong Addy office for the results.

The Geelong Station was a bit scary. It had those imposing brick walls and arches, and wide embellished eaves hanging out over the platform, very Victorian, as they say, and hell, Queen Victoria was scary enough, wasn’t she? And there were people running around all over the place, all busy going wherever they were going. I admit that all those people, although they were taking no notice of me, made me feel like I was no-one, like I was all alone and nobody cared about me. I thought I was used to crowds, given that the old pub at peak hour was so crowded you couldn’t move without rubbing against someone. But here, it was different. There were many more people but they couldn’t give a shit about you because they were hell bent on going someplace, who knows where. I nearly turned around and caught the bus back to the old pub. My old room didn’t seem so bad now. And everyone knew me at the pub. I pulled out the envelope from the professor. There was a garbage can on the station platform and I went to throw it in. And I would have too, except that I bumped into this gorgeous woman dressed in a mini-skirt.

“Gees, sorry!” I say, pocketing my envelope. My ears are already red, but I’m not angry at all.

“Oh! No worries,” she says, and reaches in front of me to toss in an apple core.

I’m standing there, speechless. She’s carrying this leather satchel, a deep brown and all polished up. Her nails are lightly painted and she’s wearing a light shade of pink lipstick that matches her nails. I never saw any girl like this before. When she said “worries” her pale pink lips came together, ready for kissing. Her eyes were unbelievably dark, painted with eye shadow and her lashes, they were so long. And her deep ebony hair, mounds of it, long and fashioned to just touch her shoulders, shifting gracefully as she turned her head and caught the light breeze of an approaching train. Only trouble is, she’s a lot older than me. Must be at least thirty or even a bit more.

The train pulls in and I’m still standing there, rooted to the spot.

“Are you going to Melbourne?” she asks.

I make a small, pathetic little step towards the train. My mouth is frozen shut.

“Come on!” she says, and holds the carriage door open for me. I’m thinking, what the hell. I’m supposed to be holding the door open for her, aren’t I?

We climb into the carriage. It’s an old steam train. Can’t believe they’re still running them. I sit there, got my old kit bag on the floor between my legs. Another bloke gets in, he’s a few years older than me, I’m guessing. He gives her the up and down too. He’s wearing these old looking jeans, and t-shirt. Me, I’m wearing my usual—my old school pants and shirt. I left behind all the new shirts and Fletchers that Mrs. Counter bought me. I wanted a new start.

*

“I’m Katherine Hardy,” she says, and holds out her hand. The bloke next to me grabs it. I’m rummaging around in my kit bag looking for one of me exercise books that I can pretend to read.

“G’day,” he says with a big grin, “I’m Paul Grimes, pleased to meet you Kate—is that right? You look like a Kate.”

She lightly licks her lips. “Not sure what a Kate looks like, but anyway, you got it right,” she says with an amazing smile that just transforms her whole face. “I expect you’re on your way to Uni?”

“Yes. I travel up most days. Mum and Dad wanted me to live in a College, but I like Geelong better and most of my friends are here. What about you? You look like you’re a tutor or something at the Uni.”

“You got that right too. You must have ESP!”

“What department are you in?” he asks, but she has already turned to me. I’m flipping the pages of my exercise book. She holds out her hand to me.

“I’m Kate, and you are?”

“Jimmy.” I take her hand and squeeze it much too hard and she winces. I was trying to make up for my limp handshake.

“And are you going to uni too?”

“Yair. Going to meet with some Professor of Classics about my Matric Latin exam.”

“Oh, so you’re not a student there yet?”

“He wants me to be, but I haven’t made up my mind.”

I turn back to leafing through my exercise book. I’m comparing her to Iris. They’re on opposite poles, they are. Iris, small, skinny, lithe, mischievous. This Kate, she’s firm solid but not fat, and I’m guessing a little taller than me. The mini skirt she’s wearing shows off legs with curves like the Great Ocean Road. In spite of myself I admit that she’s incredible, and I’m on fire. I feel my cheeks redden, and I’m for the first time imagining doing someone other than Iris.

The uni student pokes out his hand at me. “I’m Paul,” he says, “if you like I’ll show you around the uni when we get in.”

I don’t like this bloke. He reminds me of the toffs in the saloon bar where they pay more for their beer just to show off how good they are.

“I’m Jimmy, but me mates call me Chooka,” I say, not looking straight at him as I squeeze his hand softly. He and Kate give each other a look. They think my nickname is a joke.

“So what high school did you go to?” he asks.

“Geelong High,” I say, “what about you?”

“Geelong Grammar,” he says, and immediately he appears to me to have grown six inches with an overbearing look. I should have known. His blonde hair was combed most carefully, a perfect right side part, and flattened down with oil. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now I could smell the hair oil and whatever else it was he’d put on himself.

“Oh yair? You’re the first grammar school bloke I’ve met. What was it like out there?” Blokes in the pub had talked about it, stuck in the middle of nowhere on the edge of Corio Bay, half way to Melbourne. Mr. Counter used to go rabbiting and mushroom picking out there.

Kate’s eyes flash and her long lashes send me a signal. Or at least that’s what I hoped. Dad, I thought I didn’t need you anymore, but I’d really like to know if you ever knew a woman like this one?

“Well now, Jimmy,” she says with a grin and a glance across to Paul, “or should I call you Chooka?”

“Nah. Jimmy’s OK,” I say, not sure whether they’re making fun of me or not, and I’ve got my head buried in my exercise book, “but I like James the best.

“Then James, I’m very pleased to meet you and maybe if you decide to go to uni you can stop by and see me. I may be able to help you settle in.”

Paul shifts in his seat. “Oh, what do you tutor in?” he asks.

Without looking at him, and looking right into my eyes, she says, “psychopathology.”

“Oh! Interesting,” says Paul, “I’m doing an LLB.”

“What’s that?” I ask, then feel stupid yet again.

“It’s law.”

“What year are you in?” asks Kate.

“This is my third year, so I’ve done most of my subjects. Even did Latin,” he says with a grin, turning to me.

“You have to do Latin to do law?”

“Everyone who does arts has to do a language, don’t you know?”

I can feel Kate looking at me, so I finally raise my head from my exercise book.

“So where’s your office, then,” I blurt out.

“It’s in the old arts building. Probably right by your professor’s office. What’s his name?”

I rummage through my kit bag for the envelope. “Wait a minute. Can’t remember. He’s chair of the classics and antiquity department, I think.”

“Oh, that’s Claude. Claude Pulcher. You’ll like him, and I can tell he’ll like you too.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely. But please do drop in and see me once you’ve met up with Claude. My office is in the same building on the opposite side. It’s only temporary. Next year they’re opening the new psychology building on the other side of the uni and all the psych tutors are moving there.”

“Gee thanks.”

I go back to leafing through my exercise book. But I see out of the corner of my eye Paul leafing through a big fat book he’s carrying. The spine says, Cases and Materials in Criminal Law and Procedure and the author’s someone called Chappell. I know he’s also eyeing me off. I feel under scrutiny like never before. Like traveling with your mother.

*

I found Geelong Station scary enough, but Flinders Street station was so overwhelming I wanted to run away and hide somewhere. To make things worse, Paul was trying to help me. “Watch your bag” he says, and I clutch it like I’d never done before. “Watch out for pick-pockets!” And I’m trying to keep hold of my bag, thinking of the big wad of money I’ve got in my bag. I’m a bit vague on how we got to Uni. I think it was a tram up Swanston Street. Kate had gone off shopping on her way to uni, so left us at the station, I think Flinders street. Paul, very nice, showed me the way, even insisted on paying for my tram ride.

I don’t know quite what I was expecting the uni to look like. Getting there had already rattled me. Paul took me to the Law building which was scary enough, but then he pointed out the old arts building with its big imposing tower. And all that yellow sand stone, I didn’t like it at all.

“Are you going back to Geelong today?” Paul asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh, so where are you staying?”

“Er, I’ve got relatives in Yarraville.”

“Oh, that’s not too bad. We pretty much passed it on the train this morning.”

We had stopped under the arches, called “The Cloisters” he said. They reminded me of the Geelong Station. “This is the Law School where I spend most of my time.” He pointed across the green grass of the quadrangle. “You see that clock tower? That’s the Old Arts building where you’ll find your professor.”

After a few mistakes, I found my way into the Old arts building and walked round and round the passageways trying to find Professor Pulcher’s office. I opened one door and was horrified to find myself looking into a huge lecture theatre crammed full of students and a lecturer way down the bottom. There was nothing to like about this place. Nothing! I stepped back and ran down the stairs, reaching the bottom, then turning right looking for an exit, and there right in front of me was a door —all the doors were always closed—that said Department of Classics and Antiquity, so of course, that was where I had to go.

But I didn’t. There’s no way I’d stay here. What kind of people work and study in a place like this? All stuffed shirts and shit-heads prancing around like they were royalty. They’d even made the doors hard to pull or push open, it was like they didn’t want you there. Not like the pub where everyone was welcome. I lunged at the door and nearly knocked someone over as I rushed out and immediately glimpsed a splash of green grass. It was the only thing in the whole university so far that attracted me. And there I went, and I lay down on the cool grass, on my belly, my arm over my kit bag, the other cradling my face. And my Dad spoke to me, “what kind of people lived and worked in the old Pub?”

“Shut up, you old bastard!” I said.

*

I must have fallen asleep because next thing I felt was this foot pushing down on my bum. I rolled over and opened my eyes, my arm held up trying to keep the bright sky at arm’s length. But I immediately knew who it was. Those legs I had studied all the way from Geelong.

“I thought it was you,” she said, “I’d recognize that kit bag anywhere. There must be something very important in it, you’re clinging to it for dear life.”

“It’s got all my life in it,” I said, trying to smile.

“So did you call on your professor Pulcher?” asked Kate.

“No. I couldn’t find his office,” I said lamely.

Kate squatted down beside me. She laughed and tossed back her head, her deep ebony hair flowing round her shoulders. “Well, it’s a bit late now to find him anyway. Are you staying here, then? It’ll get a bit cold here after the sun goes down and that won’t be long.”

“I should get going. I’m supposed to go to my auntie’s house in Yarraville,” I lied.

“You’ll have to go back to Flinders Street station.”

“Yair, that’s what Paul said.” I sat up, grabbing my kit bag. My eyes were on her legs. “But I have to visit a friend of mine who’s in the Royal Melbourne Hospital. Don’t suppose you know where that is?”

“You see that tall building over there?” She points across the lawn in the direction of what I now know was the new Baillieu library. “That’s it. Just five minutes’ walk.”

I was kind of caught off guard. I hadn’t really decided whether I wanted to go there or not, because, well, it was Iris and I was scared to find out what happened. I didn’t know what to do because I couldn’t go back to the pub, now I’d come this far and I didn’t want to go to Yarraville, did I, Dad? I pulled my legs up and leaned forward, my head between my knees.

“James,” said Kate, as she gently placed her fingers under my chin to which my head all on its own, responded, and I found myself staring at those voluptuous pink lips pursed together making a faint smile. “You are a very handsome boy, you know.”

I blinked several times. No-one, including Iris had ever said anything like that to me. My mouth moved, but I was unable to speak. Had anyone else called me a boy, I would have clobbered them. But with Kate it was so very different. The sun had gone down behind the hospital and a long shadow crept over the lawn. My whole body shivered. She grasped my hand that was still holding the handle of my kit bag.

“I think you’d better come home with me,’ she said, “you don’t have anywhere to go, do you?”

“I’m not going back to Geelong,” I said.

“Nor am I. I only go down there to visit my parents every now and again. I have a little place in Parkville.”

“Where’s that?”

“Actually, it’s not far from the Royal Melbourne Hospital.” Kate stood up, grabbing my hand, pulling me up. She was surprisingly strong and I easily complied.

*

The Royal Melbourne Hospital was about as scary as the uni. It was like they didn’t want you there too and the doctors and secretaries or whatever they were, maybe nurses or something, treated you like they was doing you a big favour matrons strutted around like cockatoos on heat.

It had taken me a couple of weeks to get up the courage to go there. In the end, it was Kate who made me do it, but that was after we had got to know each other. She could see I was out of control. From the lawn in front of the Cloisters she guided me to her little flat tucked away in a big block of flats on Royal Parade. Right from that very first night she started in on me. As soon as we got inside her flat, she had me on her bed, all my clothes ripped off, and going at it. She kept telling me what a wonderful boy I was. And I loved her for it. We’d take a break at the local pub for a few beers, come home and she’d cook spaghetti, something I’d never heard of, let alone eaten. And pretty soon she had me cooking it. Then it was to bed again, until morning, and I’d get up and cook eggs on toast, make a pot of tea, and she’d kiss me good-bye and I’d go back to bed, then I’d shower, go out for a counter lunch at the local pub and do the shopping for dinner. Within days, she had trained me. And I was happy, waiting for her to come home from work, and we’d start all over again. Dad, if you’re in Heaven, I hope it’s like this!

After a couple of weeks, though, when I’d go back to bed after she left, I started thinking of Iris again. I even walked down to the hospital after my counter lunch, but I wasn’t game enough to go in the door. It was so big, and there was glass everywhere, and people, really important looking people rushing in and out. So that night, after we’d been at it as usual, and I’m lying back dragging on my Craven A, she’s running her fingers over my belly, and says, “have you been to the hospital?”

“You mean the Royal Melbourne?”

“Yair. I went down there today.”

“To look for your friend?”

I never told her who it was.

“Sort of. I got down there, but I didn’t go in.”

“I go there occasionally. Dr. Franks sometimes has lectures there and I have to be there to help get the students into the right room.”

“He’s probably not there anymore, anyway. I should have gone sooner, I know.”

“What happened, may I ask?”

“He was beaten up pretty badly in a bar brawl. This bloke in the bar thought he was a homo and socked him one right on the jaw, then the rest of the bar just pummelled the poor bastard senseless.”

“You’re best friends with a poofda?” she says, incredulous.

“Yair, why not?” I say, and for the first time I feel like I’m speaking up for myself like we were equals.

“I’m very proud of you,” she says, and she starts in on me, her hand moving down my belly.

“So where should I go to find out if he’s been there?”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“Nah, it’s something I have to do by myself. I just need to get in the door and find the right person to ask.”

“You just go right in the main doors and follow the signs to Reception. Go there and give them the name of your friend and tell them when you think he was admitted.”

Her hand has found the right place, and I’m ready to go. But would you believe it? I’m thinking of Iris, Iris all the way.

*

This old lady, her face all wrinkled and powder plastered all over her, a thin line of bright red lipstick smudged a bit at the corners, her silver hair puffed all up like fairy floss, is looking at me from behind her big desk. She’s smiling really nice at me and I give her my best smile back.

“Iris is her name, and she was brought here from Geelong hospital about three weeks ago,” I say. “She’s my sister and I’m worried about her. Is she OK?”

“What’s her last name, dear?”

“Devlin. Iris Devlin.”

“That’s quite some time ago. I don’t think she would still be here.”

“I just want to know if she’s all right. She was nearly dying when they sent her here.”

“That’s Devlin, D-E-V-L-I-N?” she asks.

“Yair. That’s right. She’d lost a lot of blood.”

She starts flipping through a huge book that’s got lists and lists of names.

“Was it exactly three weeks ago? It would help me if I had an actual date, love,” she says looking at me with a glint in her eye.

“I’m not sure, but I think it might have been exactly three weeks, or maybe one day less, because she came here late in the night so she might have got here after midnight.”

“Well, I don’t think she’s in this hospital. There’s no one of that name registered. So that means she either was discharged or…”

The nice old thing, she looks up at me, her mouth hanging open.

“Or what?” I ask.

“Just a minute. She might have been sent back to the Geelong hospital.”

“You know she was actually brought here then?” I phoned up weeks ago and they said she never came here. But I know she did.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yair. I watched the ambulance leave the hospital and they said she was going to Royal Melbourne, and they wouldn’t let me ride in the ambulance.”

“You know, Mr. Devlin, sometimes when it’s a matter of life or death, the ambulance gets diverted to another hospital. Have you tried Prince Alfred?”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s over in St. Kilda. You could go there. But makes sure you phone first.”

*

Living in Heaven with Kate, I’d lost track of time. I wasn’t sure what day it was, but I soon found out it was Friday. I’d gone straight from the hospital to the grocery shop and bought up spaghetti and stuff to make a big pot of Bolognese for Kate when she got home. I had decided to tell her all about Iris. I had also decided that Iris had probably kicked it, and the very nice old lady at the hospital didn’t want to tell me. But Kate didn’t show up at her usual time and the spaghetti sat there, getting cold. I opened a beer and quaffed it down. I lit up a smoke and fingered the Craven ‘A’ packet, took a deep drag. I opened another beer, then found myself rummaging through Kate’s cupboards looking for booze, stronger booze. And I had another beer.

I know what you’re thinking. He’s fallen off the wagon. That’s not quite right. The fact is, I’d been having a few beers with Kate ever since that first unbelievable night. I never got drunk (not drunk like at the old pub) at all when I was with her, and I never felt like I couldn’t stop. So now, I’m at the crossroads. I was just about to open another beer when the door flew open and in walked Kate followed closely by Paul Grimes.

“G’day, Chooka!” says Grimes, and he puts his hand out. I shake it, but I’m annoyed. Kate never called me Chooka, and I don’t like this bastard calling me that. It’s my pub name.

“G’day yourself,” I say, slapping his hand away.

“Now Sweetie,” says Kate, and she comes up and lightly pecks me on my cheek that’s bright red already. She sees all the cup¬boards open. “Don’t tell me. You’ve been searching for the hard stuff.”

I pull her roughly to me and plant a big kiss on her marvellous voluptuous lips. “You’re a better substitute,” I say, one eye on Grimes. He’s standing back, trying not to look.

“So what’s going on?” I ask.

“I have to go visit my parents in Geelong. My mum is sick. Paul happened to drive up today, so I’m hitching a lift with him. We thought you might like to come along and visit your mates at the old pub. Just for the weekend.”

I push away. Buggered if I knew what to do. I thought I had left it all behind now that I’d found Kate, and she’s trying to get me to go back to it all. I’m not game.

“Nah. Don’t think so. Nice of you blokes to ask me. But I’ve had enough of the old pub.”

“Why’s that?” asks Paul.

“It’s a long story,” says Kate.

“Hey, you can stay with me and my parents,” says Grimes.

“Gees, that’s nice of you. But I think I might drop in and visit my auntie. I haven’t seen her in several years.”

“Really?” says Kate, “are you sure you want to do that?” She’s acting like a psychologist or something.

“No, I’m not. But it was a good thought, wasn’t it?” I tried to joke.

“Where does she live?” asks Kate.

“I told you. Yarraville.”

“I can drop you off, then,” says Grimes, “no worries. It’s right on the way.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I need to think about it.”

“I’m sorry we have to leave you,” says Kate as she playfully runs her fingers through my hair. “Maybe you should have a hair¬cut and shave while I’m gone,” she jokes.

“Ha! Ha!”

“Well,” says Grimes, “we should be going, it’s Friday after¬noon and the traffic’s going to be heavy.”

“Yair, that’s OK. You blokes get going. I’ll be all right.”

When they get to the door, Kate turns and comes back to me. She gives me a light kiss, then presses a piece of paper into my hand. “I got that professor Pulcher’s phone number for you. It’s his direct line. Phone him. It’s not too late.”

She runs to the door and calls out over her shoulder, “be a good boy, now! And it would be a good idea if you had a haircut and shave before you go to meet Doctor Pulcher.”

“Yes, mum,” I say.

“And buy some new pants and shirt. You look like a tramp.”

*

Gees, Iris, what can I tell you? I don’t know where you are, but I’ll find you one day. And when I do, we’ll have such a great time, because I’ve learnt everything from Kate. Oh, sorry, I shouldn’t have told you about her, should I? It’s just something that happened. I didn’t have anywhere to go. Anyway, she’s too old for me. She could be my mother, for Christ sake. And lately she’s been acting like she was.

It’s Monday morning and I’ve been lying in bed all weekend, just smoking my Craven ‘A’s and feeling sorry for myself. I thought Kate would be back Sunday, but she didn’t show up. She’s probably fucking that stuck-up asshole Grimes. I felt under the bed, a funny feeling, like I was looking for a bottle of plonk, but I wasn’t. I told myself after Kate left that I wasn’t going to fall off the wagon, and I haven’t. I didn’t go outside the flat once all weekend. I’m feeling around for my old kit bag and some money. I’m going out for a haircut and a shave. I have to get cleaned up for Dr. Pulcher. Kate’s right about that. It’s an oppor¬tunity I can’t pass up, can I, Iris? You’d understand, wouldn’t you? No, I suppose not. I don’t think that you even finished Form 2 at high school. And I don’t remember you ever being at Geelong High. Where else could you have gone? Maybe to the Flinders Girls School? Gees, Iris, I don’t know anything about you.

You know what? I’ve hardly touched any of my money all this time. Lived off Kate. She pretty much pays for everything. Amazing, don’t you think? But who knows how long she’ll keep me here. Her going off with Grimes, and all that mother talk. I think she’s getting ready to kick me out. I’ll have to start thinking up things to do with her. But I can’t think of anything she wouldn’t have already. I tell you, she knows everything. And seems like she’s done everything. Maybe Grimes knows stuff I don’t know, stuff he learnt in Grammar school. Yes, I know what you’re think¬ing Iris, my love. Your guess is as good as mine.

Don’t worry Iris. I’ll come and get you at Alfred Hospital soon as I can. I got to go and see this professor. It’s my only chance. Besides, Kate will cross her legs on me if she gets home and I haven’t phoned the bloke. Gees, Iris. Sorry. I keep forgetting. But I tell you, Iris. You’re the only one for me, I know.

And you, Dad, for Christ sake, shut up.

*

I’m in this flat on Beaconsfield Parade, right down from a big old pub. I’m dying to go there, but I’m not game. Professor Pulcher’s letting me stay here for a while until I find my own place. He’s a really good bloke, and I think he’s going to get me a scholarship. Kate didn’t want me to leave her, believe it or not. It took a couple of weeks for her to let me go and she kept saying nasty things about Dr. Pulcher, none of it true, as far as I could see.

The very first day I met him, he came right out of his office and welcomed me, even though the secretary woman or whoever she was, had told me he wasn’t available. Only thing was, I pegged him right away as a pommie. He had this funny English accent and a high-pitched voice, a bit like Mickey Mouse, and he had one of those speech defects, I think you call it a lisp. And he was wearing this dark grey suit pulled tight and buttoned with just one button, and a tartan vest underneath. And he had this thing—I found out later from Kate, it was called a cravat—bunched around his neck. Gees, Iris, imagine him showing up at the old pub! They’d tear him to pieces.

He ushered me into his office and sat me down on a low chair with curvaceous legs and a very soft, embroidered, fanciest chair I’d ever seen. He went to a cupboard wedged in the middle of a wall of books and took out a bottle of something and two tiny glasses. I never saw any so small, and I worked in a pub, for Christ sake. He brought them over to a matching curvaceous coffee table and sat down on the chair beside me.

“Sherry?” he asked, his lisping lips fluttering like the waves at Eastern Beach.

“Thank you,” I replied, “is it sweet or dry?” I knew all about sherry because we had a customer in the Snake Pit who drank nothing but dry sherry. Mr. Counter told me it was very high in alcohol content.

“It’s sweet. I hope that’s all right? It’s all I have at the moment. I asked Ruth to get some in, but she hasn’t had a chance. We’ve been very busy preparing for the incoming class.”

“Thank you. That’s good,” I said.

Dr. Pulcher sat back, raised his glass and said, “cheers” and I followed and took the tiniest of sips. Dad was into this in his last days. I’d rather not drink it. But little sips were what you were supposed to take, anyway. “Welcome James,” he said, “I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Gees, Professor Pulcher, thanks for inviting me and for your letter. I was all set to go to Teachers College.”

“Well, I’m glad you thought it over. I don’t mind telling you that I was most amused by your forthright translation of Ovid.”

“Gees, thanks Dr. Pulcher. I was getting pretty tired and I kind of lost my temper with him.”

“That’s perfectly fine. It shows you were personally engaged with that marvellous poet. It wasn’t just an examination exercise for you. It was personal. You put yourself right into the works. I could see it in other parts of your translation too. You are a courageous young man. You took a great risk doing what you did on your exam. My congratulations and I hope we can move forward and make a great classics scholar of you.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I didn’t have any idea what a great classics scholar does. If he meant that I would spend the rest of my life sitting at a desk translating Ovid, fucking hell! Iris! Can you imagine that? Shit! What a boring life! “Gees, Dr. Pulcher, I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing, James, say nothing. Oh, it’s OK calling you James, I take it?”

“Oh, well some people call me, I mean, yes, everyone calls me James. I like that better than Jimmy. There’s too many Jimmies, aren’t there?”

“Indeed, there are, but only one James Henderson,” he smiled a big, big smile, his lips stretching from ear to ear. Iris, he looked so funny I nearly burst out laughing. But I managed to keep my mouth shut and so there was an awkward silence, or at least it seemed so.

“So now, to business,” he said as he returned to his desk, carefully straightening his wavy hair in the full-length mirror across the room that was behind my shoulder. He was very proud of his hair, dark brown, thick and wavy, starting well down his forehead, combed back with a part dead centre of his scalp, streaks of grey here and there. He rummaged around his desk and finally called out to his secretary through the open door.

“Ruth! Do you have that admission form please? Ruth?”

There was a rustling noise from outside and a muffled “just a minute” and I was feeling like I should do something, so I started to get up but Dr. Pulcher put his hand on my shoulder and said, “stay there James, Ruth will bring the form any minute.” Right then, I opened my mouth and I knew I was going to say something stupid, but my mouth wouldn’t stop.

“Dr. Pulcher, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Of course not. Fire away.”

“You’re a doctor, right?”

“That’s what they call me.”

“So why don’t you work in a hospital or something?”

“Well, I’m a different kind of doctor,” he says, his mouth flinch¬ing, I know he was holding back a laugh, “in academics, the best students go on to a post graduate degree past their B.A. and get their doctorate, called a Ph.D.”

“P-H what?”

“It stands for Doctor of Philosophy.”

“Yair?”

“Yes, only mine is in classics. Other people can get them in science, education, economics and so on.”

“Gees, Doctor Pulcher, I feel stupid. I should have known that. I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. Once you get enrolled here, you’ll quickly learn the ropes. I can see you’re not stupid at all. You’re a very bright young man.” He put his hand on my shoulder again, and this time squeezed it very gently.

“Thanks Doctor Pulcher. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say nothing. Just promise me that you will put all your time and work into your studies.”

“I will, I promise.”

Ruth showed up at last with a very long form. She handed it to me and I looked at it dumbfounded. I could fill in maybe a couple of questions—my first and last name, although I wasn’t sure what a Christian name was. Dr. Pulcher leaned down and took the form. “You know what?” he said, “I think it would be best if I filled in some of it with you, especially the subjects you will do for your first year—there’s not a lot of choice anyway—and then Ruth can help you fill in the administrative questions, especially those that help to decide whether you qualify for a scholarship.”

“What do I have to do for that?” I asked.

“Basically nothing. Just give Ruth some family details and how much money you have.”

“That’s easy,” I said, “none on both counts.”

“What do you mean?” He gives Ruth a look.

“Well I don’t have any money, or at least none to speak of. I was working in a pub till a few weeks ago and that doesn’t pay much. My mum took off somewhere and I don’t know where she is and my father died last year. So I’m on my own.”

“OK. That’s good news, I mean, not good of course for you, but it will make it easier to justify a late scholarship for you.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Pulcher.”

“Ruth, besides Latin 1 and English 1, he’ll have to sign up for a history or economics class and a science, perhaps psychology. I think they have to do four subjects the first year, is that right?”

“Yes, Dr. Pulcher. Don’t worry, I’ll help him get everything set up and I’ll walk him over to the registrar. There is one thing, though,” she turns to me, “if you’re on your own, do you have a place to stay?”

My ears went red and she looked at me as though she was trying to tell me something but didn’t want to say it. “I’m staying with a friend for a few weeks, but I have to move out soon.” Ruth looks over to Professor Pulcher.

“Ruth, could he get into one of the colleges on campus?”

“There’s no way. You know how it goes. They’re filled up long before the year starts with kids from the private schools.”

“Of course, you’re right. You know what?” he says, “I have a small flat in St. Kilda, or South Melbourne it is really. You’re welcome to stay there until you find a place of your own.”

“Gee, Dr. Pulcher, you’re so kind. I don’t know how to thank you enough.”

“Well it’s just a small place. And I’m afraid not especially handy to the university. You’re welcome to stay as long as it takes you to get settled into the university. I’ll drop by from time to time to make sure everything is OK.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Pulcher. Will I be in your Latin class?”

“No, I lecture only to advanced students. But who knows, you may be an advanced student very soon. I will make sure you get a really good tutor and I will also work with you from time to time. I try to keep up with all the students in our department.”

“You must be really busy, Dr. Pulcher. Thanks again.”

“Come into my office,” says Ruth, “and we’ll fill in the form and get you registered so you will be able to attend classes. They’ve been going now for a couple of weeks already.”

“Excellent,” says Dr. Pulcher, “and when that’s done, come back to me and I’ll arrange for you to move into the flat.”

Ruth reminded me a bit of Mrs. Counter. She was a pretty scary lady, taller than me, and top-heavy just like Mrs. Counter. We filled in the form, or at least she did, and she got me enrolled in four classes, so now I was all of a sudden, a uni student. Gees, Dad. You must be rolling around laughing your head off.

*

Fact is, I had a lot of mates at high school and could have gone on with most of them to Teachers College. But here I am, sitting alone in a little flat owned by this big-time professor. Maybe I should phone up my old mates and they could come up to Melbourne for the weekend or something. I mean, what am I supposed to do all on my own, especially as now I’ve left Kate, and Grimes doesn’t seem to want to know me. I told him he could stay with me any time he wanted to. The flat is small, but it’s close to all the action (or so they say) in St. Kilda. I haven’t even walked down there yet. In fact, I haven’t left the flat except to go to the little milk bar on the corner and get something to eat. And I haven’t even been back to the uni and I have to buy the books that are on the lists Ruth got for me for each subject. It’s too much. And I have to go to the classes and find the lecture halls and there’s these tutors I’m supposed to meet and go to their little rooms and act like I’m all smart and clever.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s Grimes.

“G’day, Chooka. Don’t s’pose you have room for the night?”

“Shit, Grimesy, I never thought you’d show up. Come right in.”

“Thanks. All right if I stay for a few nights? I know I won’t be as entertaining as Kate,” he says with a big grin, “but I’ll try hard,” he joked.

“Yair, I bet you could.” And we laugh together.

“I have an early crim tute in the morning.”

“Crim? What?”

“Criminal law tutorial.”

“I s’pose I have a tute tomorrow too. I haven’t got around to finding out where and when they are.”

Grimes starts to unpack his bag. “You know,” he says, “you should make sure you go to the tutes. Pulcher will be looking to see whether you show up. And he could do you in easily. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

“He seems like a good bloke,” I say, “and he’s been great to me. Got me a scholarship and everything.”

“He did that?” asked Grimes incredulously.

“Yair. He did. And he’s letting me have this flat until I get somewhere of my own.”

“Why didn’t they put you in a college?”

“They said there wasn’t room. The private school kids get first dibs.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot that. I could have got in last year. Sorry they wouldn’t let you in. It’s not right.

“No worries. I’m much happier being on my own. I don’t think I’d fit in too well in one of those colleges, whatever they are.”

“You’re probably right.”

“So why didn’t you go into a college, then?”

“I just liked all my old mates in Geelong. I played footy with them every week, and we went to the pub together. I’d miss all that if I was in a college. And besides in a college you can’t pick your friends. You’re stuck with whoever happens to be there.”

“My thoughts exactly.” I was beginning to think that Grimesy wasn’t a bad bloke after all.

“What have you got lined up for me tonight?” he asks with a grin.

“Let’s go down to the pub,” I say, “and I’ll shout, but you have to promise me you’ll take me shopping to the uni bookstore tomorrow. I couldn’t even find the place today.”

“Deal!”

*

Caesar’s The Gallic Wars Book 1 was the topic of the tutorial. Thanks to Grimesy, I’d bought my books and he’d shown me where the tute was going to be. He’s a good bloke. Not like the others.

I pulled open the door and nearly collapsed in fear and trem¬bling. There were just eight or nine students sitting around in a horseshoe on old wooden chairs and the tutor at the end sitting in the gap. I took a dislike to him before I even sat down on the one chair that was left. They all looked at me as though I was late, and I wasn’t. I thought I was early, but I suppose not.

“Salve!” he says.

And I say, “G’day.”

“Et tu es?”

“What?” The bastard was trying to make me look a fool, that’s what. I plopped down on the chair and the other students started to snigger. Bastards all of them too.

“Et tu es?”

“Ego Brutus, ille est qui.” I answered with a sneer.

“Very funny. You must be Mr. Henderson?”

“Ego sum, quis podex,” I muttered, and couldn’t help a big grin. A couple of the other students gaped at me. I looked the tutor in the eye and I could see he didn’t know what to say. These stuck-up bastards, they think they’re so fuckn good. And who would wear a corduroy jacket with the leather sewn into the elbows, but a poofda of the highest order.

“Thank you, Mr. Henderson. We do not use vulgarities in this tutorial. If you want to indulge, Dr. Pulcher holds a small seminar on latina vulgaris every month in his home.”

He shifts in his chair and crosses his legs. They’re long and spindly. He’s wearing Fletchers for sure, with big cuffs at the bottom. And I bet they’re worn shiny in the ass. He’s even paler than Grimesy, his hair a sandy white but clipped to a crew cut that definitely doesn’t match his corduroy jacket. He doesn’t look much older than me. He makes a small cough.

“Now that we are all here. Let me introduce myself. I am Gregory Lepidus, your tutor for this year in Latin 1. We meet in this room every week at this time. I know some of you have only now just been enrolled, so you have missed three weeks. See me at the end of the tute and I will help you catch up. Now, I hope you all studied the first book of Caesar’s great classic. Let us begin with the very first, and perhaps the most famous, sentence. We will go around clockwise, starting on my left. First read the Latin, then translate the sentence.”

I look around and they’re all hunched up poring over their little books. Me, I don’t have to because I’ve learnt the translation off by heart, although I didn’t have to do much because I learnt some of this in high school. It’s too easy.

“Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres…”

The tutor interrupts. “Before you go on, translate just those seven words.”

“Gaul is divided into three parts,” says this student obediently. She’s a little thing with curly blonde hair. I imagine it cropped like Iris’s.

“Indeed!” he says, “what do those words tell us about Caesar?”

Nobody answers, so he decides to pick on someone. It’s the bloke next to me. He’s sweating like buggery, I can smell it.

Just then, the door opens behind me and I twist around and see that it’s Dr. Pulcher.

“Don’t mind me,” he says, “I’m just visiting.”

The bloke next to me just about faints.

“Well?” says the tutor. He’s a bit red in the face himself.

“Excuse me,” I say, “but what the hell are we supposed to say about seven words? If we want to know about Caesar, what about the time he was Nicomedes’ bum boy? Didn’t futuatque cum ad summum Caesar ?” The tutor was struck dumb and the other students just stared at me like I was crazy. Dr. Pulcher sat stock still, his rippling lips fighting a smile. The tutor wasn’t too pleased. And he poured out a whole lot of Latin, none of which I could understand. My spoken Latin was confined to swearing, but I think that this was what he was saying:

“Mr. Henderson, that is the most disgusting thing ever said in any tutorial I have supervised. For your information, it is only speculation that Caesar had any sexual relationship with Nico¬medes, though it is true that he slept with many women, some of them the wives of his friends and colleagues. But all of that is irrelevant to today’s text. We are here concerned with the brill¬iance and clarity of Caesar’s writing, of which these seven words are a prime example. I would appreciate it, Mr. Henderson, if you would confine your interventions to the topic under discussion, not to fanciful digressions to your own obsessions.”

“Futete!” I muttered. And I got up to leave. I never saw a bloke so red in the face. I thought his round cheeks were going to burst.

“One moment, now” called Dr. Pulcher.

I stopped, half standing, half sitting. To be honest, I didn’t know what I was doing. If I’d been in the pub, I would have grabbed the shit-head tutor and bashed his head in. The tutor squirmed in his seat. The others were agog, staring down at their books, trying not to laugh.

“Mr. Henderson, thank you for your interesting digression and providing us with practice in using Latin profanities. Mr. Lepidus is following the lesson plans agreed upon by our classics com¬mittee. If you are interested in Caesar’s fascinating sex life, that’s fine. And in my small seminar on Latina vulgaris, we do look closely at that and the many other sexual activities—perhaps depravities, more accurately,” a smile broke through his fluttering lips, “indulged in by our Roman and Greek ancestors. But now is not the time. Do please sit down. Mr. Lepidus is a foremost authority on Julius Caesar. You can learn a lot from him.”

I wanted to get out of there. All the other students were gawking at me. I’d fucked up, that’s what. And I couldn’t believe I did it all in front of Dr. Pulcher. I stood, frozen in motion. The tutor decided to move on.

“Let’s continue with the translation,” he said, and nodded to the student to complete the first sentence. She droned on. Obviously, she had studied the stuff all night.

“…quarum unam incolunt Belgae, aliam Aquitani, tertiam qui ipsorum lingua Celtae…”

Dr. Pulcher quietly left the room, but I’m sure he winked at me ever so slightly as he passed. I sat back in my chair and started fingering the first page and counting up the sentences to figure out what one I’d have to do. I think I was sweating more than the bloke next to me. But I wasn’t wearing hair oil. It made my hair go flat, and I liked my waves too much.

*

Flo started going to the pub with Tank. They even went with Little Linda and put up with her little savage brat running around. And Flo kept up her chain smoking, and only drank lemon squash, no booze. It was enough for her to get some sugar, that’s what they said in the Snake Pit. I know all this because I asked my mate Grimesy to drop in at the pub on his way back to Geelong one weekend. He had started to stay with me for most of the weekdays now, and then go home weekends. I hadn’t told Dr. Pulcher who dropped by and saw some of Grimesy’s stuff.

“You have a visitor?” he asked.

“Just a friend from Geelong who drives up most days.”

“Oh, were you friends before uni?”

“No. We met on the train. He’s helped me find my way round the uni a lot.”

“What is he studying?”

“He’s third year law, I think.”

“Well, that’s nice. You understand that you can’t have a perm¬anent other person staying with you here. The local ordinance doesn’t allow it.”

“Oh, yes. Dr. Pulcher. And I promise I’ll find somewhere of my own pretty soon. I just haven’t had time trying to catch up with all the classes I missed.”

“Of course, James, no problem. You can stay here for as long as it takes you.”

“Gee, thanks Dr. Pulcher. And, I, I’m sorry I blurted out those things in Mr. Lepidus’s tute. It was my first tute ever. I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“I’m sure he understands, I know I do.” He came over to me and gave me a kind of hug. “Is there anything you need? Is every¬thing going OK?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m catching up with my work and I hope I can come to your special seminar next week, if that’s OK.”

“Of course. You can get my address from Ruth. As a matter of fact, though, I was thinking that I could maybe hold it here, as it’s more convenient for students. My place is way out past Eltham.”

“Gees, I dunno where that is.”

“Well, no worries. I’ll see you next week, then.”

*

I met Grimesy as planned in the student union cafeteria. The coffee had a taste all of its own, which I didn’t mind, except that it didn’t taste like any coffee I ever had. But it was cheap, even cheaper than tea. I was trying to finish off a lab report for psych one when I found Grimesy at my elbow.

“Late with your lab report, huh?” he says with a grin.

“Yair, fuckn thing. I dunno what I’m doing. The lecturer, he’s a fuckn Nazi, that’s what he is.”

“Oh, you’ve got Knappenberger?”

“Yair.”

I reach under the table and pull up my kitbag. “So, did you get them?” I asked.

“Yes. Your Mr. Counter had lots of questions, though. He didn’t want to give them up, but I finally convinced him I was on the up and up. I told him that I stayed with you occasionally and he seemed to like that, although there was this bald-headed bloke who was listening in, he had this smirk on his face that I didn’t like.”

“Did he have a walking stick?”

“Yes. Greasy bastard if ever there was one.”

“Yair. That’s Sugar. He has fits. I beat him up once.”

“You did? What for?”

“Let’s just say that he got on my nerves.”

“O.K. so here’s the letters.”

“Great. Let’s go to the pub and I’ll buy you a beer and lunch as well.”

“I’ve got a criminal procedure tute. Gotta go.”

“OK. Thanks again. See you tonight?”

“Maybe. Depends if Kate invites me in—you know what I mean.”

“Sure. But remember, I’m on tomorrow.”

“Fair enough. Aren’t you going to ask me about Iris?”

My heart sank. How could I have forgotten? It was the main reason I asked him to drop in at the pub.

“Shit! Don’t know what’s wrong with me. Did you find out anything?”

“Mr. Counter said he had no news. He was real surprised, because he said he expected you to have found her by now and that’s why you went to Melbourne. Is that right?”

“Mostly.”

“He took me into the Snake Pit—a horrible place—and he talked with a big bloke, scary as hell, who was her father, I think.

“Yair, Tank, the bastard.”

“And he was with this woman, Flo, I think it was, who just sat there staring into space, puffing on a cigarette. Said absolutely nothing.”

“That’s Flo.”

“Was she her mother?”

“That’s her. And why are you saying ‘was,’ like Iris was dead?”

“Shit, Chooka, I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“Yair I know. I’m beginning to think she is.”

“When are you going to check out the Alfred Hospital?”

“As soon as I’m caught up with all this work. I didn’t know being a uni student was so much hard work. Tending bar was much easier.”

“No doubt. I’ll see you around.”

I tucked the letters in my kitbag and scribbled in the discussion part of the lab report.

*

By the time I made it to Kate’s flat, I was out of breath. I ran full steam from Knappenberger’s office that was way over the other side of the uni. The fuckn Nazi bastard. He sent me this letter that ordered me to show up in his office to discuss my lab report. I showed up, kitbag in hand because I was on my way to Kate’s. He’s this pudgy old bloke with pasty, dirty white skin, looking like he’s on the verge of a heart attack. He’s got these tiny little glasses sitting at the end of his nose, and he’s slumped back in his big chair, smoking a pipe, sucking on it, then chewing it. What the hell!

“Mr. Henderson?” he says, through his teeth.

I’m standing kind of at attention in front of his desk. Reminded me of high school when that pommie bastard called me up ready to give me the cuts.

“Yair,” I say, my ears all red.

“Sit down.”

I sit down. We’re face to face. He picks up my lab report, which I recognize from the coffee stains on the cover. He throws it across his desk and I catch it as it falls off the edge. He’s got more to say.

“This is drivel. It is the worst lab report I have ever had the misfortune to read.” He’s got a thick German accent that I can barely understand.

“You didn’t like it?” I say, mischievously.

“You think you are funny. It is not funny. It is disgusting. What high school did you attend?”

“Geelong High.”

“You should not be here.”

“I could try to rewrite it…”

“It iss not fixable. It iss beyond anything. I do not know how you got into this university. You do not belong here. Now get out off my office!”

It was all I could do not to lunge across his fuckn desk and ram those pip-squeak glasses down his fuckn throat. But I didn’t. Kate would be proud of me. She’d shown me how to get control of myself, to make my body do what I (and she) wanted. I rose slowly from my chair and I gently placed my lab report on his desk. Then I snapped to attention and gave him a “Seig Heil” and left, slamming the door behind me.

Except that I left my kitbag behind. I went to open the door but thought that maybe I should knock first. Hearing no answer, I carefully turned the handle and slipped inside. He was still sitting there, slumped in his chair looking like he’d kicked it. I tip toed to the desk and grabbed my kitbag. He just stared at me, the pipe hanging from his teeth. Maybe he really is dead, I thought. Now that would be a good one.

*

I had to wait for Kate to show up, and I forgot to bring some beer, I’d come here in such a rush. So I sat at her kitchen table doing the translation for my next Latin tute. It was almost dark by the time she got in.

I met her at the door and planted full kisses on those wonderful lips. But she held her head back and pushed me away.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my body raging for more.

“I just had a big argument over you,” she said.

“Me? Not with Grimesy?”

“Oh no, he’s great, you know that.”

I took her hand by the fingers, long and adventurous, and led her into the bedroom. She complied, hanging back just a little to make me pull harder. We fell on to the bed, and I got started.

“So, who?” I said, with difficulty.

“That prick Lepidus, your Latin tutor.”

“Oh, shit! You didn’t?”

“I did.”

“That corduroy cunt. I give him hell in the tutes.”

“I know and that’s what we were arguing about.”

“So, who cares? He’s just a stupid pommie bastard.”

“I think he’s jealous,” she says with a grin.

“Jealous? Of me with you? But how would he know you and me are doing each other?” By now I’ve got most of her clothes off, and I’ve shed mine long ago.”

“It’s not me,” she says, rolling away, exposing my body fully on heat, “it’s Dr. Pulcher!” She tosses her head back and laughs, her mouth so wide open I want to fill it to the brim.

“No shit! That’s really funny.”

But now I’m on top of her and we’re rolling around, she on top of me. No more talking. No more laughing. Just the two of us, completely bound together.

*

We lay on our backs drawing on our smokes. Kate was a bit annoyed I hadn’t brought any beer. She always liked to suck down a beer after we exhausted ourselves. But I had a good excuse. I told her about my meeting with Knappenberger and she laughed.

“They’ll be knocking on my door to arrest you,” she said.

“What for?”

“Well if he’s really dead, it’ll be manslaughter or maybe even murder,” she joked.

“He’s not dead. That’s the way he looks all the time, the fucking creep.”

“Tut! Tut! Mind that language. You know what I told you. You swear too much.”

“Too fuckn bad.”

“No, really. I mean it. People get upset, especially if they don’t know you.”

“They should be broad minded like all the people I know back home.”

“You mean the old pub.”

“Yair.”

“But there’s a time and place for everything,” she says, taking a big drag on her smoke, then blowing it out over my bare belly, blowing hard enough to tickle my mound of hair down there, my prick feeling like it’s about to jump out of the jungle.

“You’re right.” And I’m on to her.

But she holds back. “You know, she says, “I promised Grimesy last night that I’d talk to you.”

“About what?”

“Iris. He told me all about it. You have to get past it. You have to find out what happened to her.”

“He shouldn’t have told you.”

“Hey, the three of us, we’re all great lovers, aren’t we? Isn’t that what we agreed? There’s no secrets.”

“He hasn’t told me what you’re like in bed with him,” I say, a devilish grin, and my fingers creeping to places she taught me.

“Well, that’s a bit different. Besides, we don’t have to talk about that. We find that out when we’re in bed with each other. So what about it?”

“What?”

“Iris. Promise me you’ll go to the Alfred tomorrow.”

“I’ll promise only after we’re done. You have to make it worth my while.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“Yair, I know. And so are you.”

*

You wouldn’t believe it. I phoned up the Alfred Hospital and asked them if Iris was there and they said someone called Iris had been there, but they weren’t sure what happened to her. They remembered her because her card didn’t have her last name on it, so they’d made one up. They called her Iris Grey. I knew right away that it had to be her. It was the colour of her eyes, and those of Swampy’s sheep.

They told me it was an easy walk to The Alfred. I just needed to walk across Albert Park from my flat. So I grabbed my kitbag and walked out to Beaconsfield Parade—just in time to see Dr. Pulcher pull up in his red mini minor.

“James,” he said, “looks like you are on your way out.”

“Yes, Dr. Pulcher. I’m on my way to the Alfred hospital to see my sister.”

“Oh. I hope it’s not too serious.”

“No. Just a little accident she had. Do you want to come in?”

“Well, I wanted to arrange a time for my Latina Vulgaris seminar.”

“OK. That should be fun,” I said, “come inside and I’ll get you a beer or something. Don’t have any sherry, I’m sorry.”

To tell you the truth, he didn’t look like Dr. Pulcher. I was used to him being all buttoned up with his suit and vest, open collar and cravat. Instead, he was in very short shorts like the footballers wear, and they were really tight, and a thin sleeveless t-shirt that was as tight as skin. It was a cool day. He must have been cold.

“Yes,” he said, seeing I was eyeing him off, “the jolly forecast said a hot day, but as usual in Melbourne you never know what it’s going to be like.”

I turned and we went into the flat. I did have some whiskey, or at least, Grimesy did. He was partial to the stuff.

“Would you like a glass of scotch?”

“That would be excellent. And Johnny Walker too, I see.”

“Well, a mate of mine brought it. I only drink beer myself,” I lied. “I don’t have any ice, I’m sorry.”

“No problem James. I prefer it that way.”

I handed him the scotch and I opened a bottle of beer for myself. We clinked glasses and we stood there in the middle of the room looking at each other. His lips were fluttering again. Things were a bit awkward. He downed the scotch in one gulp, and I’d made him a big one too, then he grabbed my arm, the one without the beer of course, and gently pulled me towards him.

“You know, James,” he said, “when I read your exam that time, on Ovid, I knew we would be kindred spirits. It was the kind of translation I’d often thought of writing but wasn’t game.”

“Gees, thanks Dr. Pulcher.” I took a nervous sip of my beer, “but I think you already told me that a couple of times.”

“Well, that’s because I really mean it. And your comments in Lepidus’s class were hilarious.” He slid his hand from my arm to the side of my belly and started rubbing it.

“Gees, I think I really upset him. I shouldn’t have done it, but I can’t help myself.”

“I can see that,” he said, “yes I can see it.” And now he was stroking me more, his hand moving downwards, following Kate’s path. I moved quickly away to the kitchen and he followed.

“Let’s have another drink.” I poured him another scotch.

“Salut!” he said and downed the scotch. “I’ll have another,” he said.

So I gave him the bottle. He took a big swig and slammed it down on the kitchen counter. I took a swig of my beer, a pretty big swig, because it had at last dawned on me what was going on. Dr. Pulcher came up close, his fluttering lips forming words I didn’t want to hear. He stroked the side of my face, caressed me down below, and to my horror, my body started thinking he was Kate! I’d beaten Sugar up for less than this.

“Dr. Pulcher!” I muttered, “Please!”

“Let’s go to the bedroom,” he said as he grabbed me and licked his rippling lips

“Gees, the bed’s not made,” was all I could say.

*

I showed Grimesy the almost empty bottle of scotch and told him about Pulcher. Because of Kate, there were no secrets be-tween us.

“Shit!” said Grimesy with a big grin, “you’ve turned into a frigging male prostitute!”

“Yair, well. I thought you were a homo when I first met you,” I said.

“Shit, Chooka. How could you think that?”

“It’s obvious. Didn’t the blokes in the bar at the old pub call out ‘poofda’ when you walked in?”

“They did look at me funny. I was scared most of the time.”

“Grammar school boys all look like homos to us,” I said with a grin.

“But no more,” said Grimesy with satisfaction.

“I’m not a homo, fuck you!” I complained.

“Of course, you’re not. You’re just earning a decent living. So, what are you going to do?”

“It was only one time, and fuckn awful. I can’t stand his breath. It smells like old socks. What can I do?”

“You could get out of his flat for a start.”

“Yair, but where will I go? Kate doesn’t want me there all the time—and nor do you, naturally.”

“You’re right, there,” said Grimesy with satisfaction.

“Besides, if I say ‘no’ I’ll never pass Latin and I’ll be done for.”

“Are you going to tell Kate?”

“Shit no! And don’t you tell her either! She’d tell me to fuck off if she knew.”

“Yes, you’re right. Then I’d have her all to myself,” he mused, teasing me.

“Asshole. You know you could never satisfy her. She’d dump you too.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Then you’re going to service your good professor?”

“Trouble is, I’m scared I’ll pummel him to death.”

“But you don’t mind the sex?” says Grimesy, teasing again.

“Smart ass! Don’t be an asshole.”

“You’d really beat him up?”

“I’ve done it before.” I looked at Grimesy hard.

Grimesy frowned. “You don’t seem like that kind of person,” he said, pensively.

*

Thank God for Kate, that’s all I can say. She had a relative, her auntie, I think, at Prince Alfred hospital who agreed to help me out. She was a nurse and a real nice one at that, but pretty old, probably should have been retired. She used to work the emer¬gency room, said Kate, but it got too much for her so now she works on helping out with lost files and other kinds of stuff that go wrong in the huge place with lots of patients and nurses and doctors strutting around the place. It took me a while to find her office, but I eventually found it, tucked away in the basement, right next to the morgue.

“G’day. I’m James,” I said poking my head in the door.

“G’day James,” she said with a big smile. She was one of those people who’s smiling all the time, no matter what. I liked her a lot right away. “I’m Frieda. Kate’s told me all about you.”

“Everything?” I said with a grin.

“Well, not quite, I’m sure,” she laughed. “Now let’s get down to it.”

“So you’ve found her?” I asked.

“I’m afraid not. It just gets more mysterious the more I look into it.”

“But she was here, though, right?”

“Right, it seems she was, under the name of Iris Grey, but you know that already. Now the trail’s run cold. If she were in this building, I’d have found her by now. I’ve searched all the usual places and nothing. I even asked my friend next door who is the admitting officer for the morgue if she remembered anyone of Iris’s description coming in, but she didn’t. And there was nothing in her records either. I phoned the Geelong Hospital and there was no record of Iris’s parents being there the night she was admitted. There were medical procedures for which her parents’ signature would be required. There would be a record of that if either of them were there.”

“But I was there on that night and I talked with them right there.”

“As I said, strange.”

“But her last name is Devlin, right? They had that down, didn’t they?”

“No. Her card was blank on that score. It simply read, ‘Iris’ and that was it. It was the name that the ambulance driver had put down in the log.”

“Didn’t anyone check with the record of births and deaths somewhere?”

“That’s kept in the Victorian Archives on Collins Street. They won’t give out information over the phone and we don’t have staff to run around Melbourne looking for a name.”

“Wouldn’t she have been born at Geelong hospital? It’s the only one in Geelong.”

“I asked them that too. There was no record of her birth at the hospital. They estimated she was between 15 and 17 years old. They looked over all the records covering those years. Nothing.”

“She was born somewhere else then?”

“I’d say so.”

I sat down on an old wooden chair by Frieda’s little desk, hoping in a silly way that if I stayed there long enough Frieda would suddenly find something out. “I don’t know what to do next. I’ve got to find her.” Unbelievably, there were tears in my eyes, tears that I didn’t think I had in me anymore.

“You need to go to the Victorian Archives. That’s the only way you will find out who she really is.”

Iris, you could really help me here, my love, love of my life, I thought to myself. Where the hell are you? And now, a question I’d never thought of before, who the hell are you? I looked away, and dear old Frieda—I felt I’d known her forever—came around and put one hand on my shoulder.

“Here’s a copy of her file,” she said, “at least you have that.” She handed me a one page photocopy, you know, the old white on black copy on real thin paper. “It doesn’t say much, but it does say when she was admitted at least. The mystery is that the discharge date isn’t filled in. It’s as if she just disappeared.”

“Run away!” I said, “that’s what she did! That’s what she always did and I bet she slipped through the window of her ward.!”

“Well, she probably couldn’t have done that because hardly any of them open. If she did run away, then she would have to steal someone’s clothes and simply walk out the front door.”

I sprang up, excited by my discovery. To my amazement, I gently gave Frieda a little kiss on her wrinkly old cheek and said, “thanks luv! You’re the best!”

“Good luck!” she called, touching her cheek.

I bounded out of the Alfred and headed straight for the Victorian Archives on Collins Street. A kind of frenzy came over me. I spent three days searching the registry of births for 1935 through 1945. I missed all my lectures and tutorials. I never went back to the flat. I just found some doorway where I could sleep, wake up, get a cup of tea first thing, and then back to work. By the third day the stuffy officials were getting suspicious. They looked at me like I was mad. And maybe I was. I certainly must have smelled something awful. But I was determined to find out who Iris was, or I should say, is. In the end, at closing time, an important looking bloke came up to me and told me I could not come back any more. He made the mistake of grabbing my hand while I was turning the crank in the microfilm machine. I tensed up, and he immediately got the message and let go. He’s lucky I didn’t clock him one. But thanks to Kate, I held it back. It was then that I finally came to my senses. There was only one possible conclusion: that Iris hadn’t been born! At least not officially.

It was getting dark outside, the sky bearing down, dense, wet Melbourne clouds. I was last out the door and the official loudly locked it after me. I tried to pull my old school blazer around my shoulders to keep out the chill. I’d slept in it the last three nights. I slid down the wall, in the corner of the doorway, squatting, feeling like a beggar. I wasn’t sure I could make the walk across Albert Park to the flat. A light drizzle set in. Cars were honking, splashing through puddles, sending up sheets of water that landed on the old white tiles of the entrance. Gees Iris, I don’t know why I’m doing this. I could just as easily forget all about you. I’m having a good time at uni and I can’t imagine you being there with me. I don’t know how you’d fit in. But I just can’t feel right without you and I know I should have tried harder to be with you after you got sick. But truly, the bastards wouldn’t let me get near you and besides I only found out all about your shit-head mother and father after you were taken into Geelong hospital and then sent away without me. Tank and Flo. What shits they’ve been to you. I’m going to keep talking to you, Iris, and maybe if I talk enough you’ll talk to me too and tell me where you are.