upright Arnott’s Arrowroot one, washed out. He borrows the brace-and-bit from the bus driver’s brother-in-law. And tin cutters so that he can tear a hole in the bottom of the biscuit tin. He tears his hand. He bores the hole in the platform, or floor of our house, bleeding and sweating all the time.
‘There,’ he says, ‘we’ve got a dunny now,’ and wants me to sit on the biscuit tin and let him hear I am peeing in our dunny.
Once Mrs Bulpit passes underneath and calls up, ‘You kids up there, what are you doing I’d like to know?’ Her head tilted back, and her mouth, her plastic teeth open, like as if she is laughing when she isn’t.
‘House-keeping’ Gil answers back, kind of not laughing too.
She closes her mouth. ‘I wouldn’t expect to be cheeked by better class children.’
‘But it isn’t cheek—it’s true !’ Has his voice begun to break, or is it just the schoolboy’s cockerel laughter?
You are sitting on the Arnott’s dunny where to please Gil you have learnt to pee. Now you have begun, you can’t stop on any account.
‘And this—raining down. I hope it’s nothing rude—I can’t stand rudery—not in my state of health.’
‘It’s nothing, Mrs Bulpit. Only a possum.’ You jam your thighs together.
‘A possum by daylight? Not likely.’
He pulls you down beside him on the platform, and you lie side by side like the snipers in the mountains in the presence of the enemy.
‘I don’t believe anything anyone tells me, not since I last saw Doctor.’
Through the knothole you can see her trying to trace a deceit. She closes her teeth. She clears her throat, and walks away. Staggering slightly, to her real house.
He puts his hand where the pee is still wet, that he has called up, then pulls his same hand away, it could have been scalded.
I would like to tell him something. I would like to write, or better, speak, the poem G. has put into me. I I I show Gilbert Horsfall that I am me me me. Not a mewing cat. He might stroke me if I were, which I would not want, or do I?
I shall not write this poem. Memory is safer than invisible ink, that all the school knows about, playing at spies, exchanging coded messages.
Lily Feizenbaum comes up in break, looking more than usually mysterious. She shoves a folded paper in the pocket of your cardy. Unfolded, the paper is perfectly blank.
‘What has she given you?’ Viva is always on the watch.
‘A sheet of paper.’
‘Betcher that’s the old invisible ink. You hold it up to heat and it brings the writing out. See? Silly nonsense. I wouldn’t want to know what Feizenbaums have to write you. So you needn’t tell me.’
Your pocket could hardly wait. You heat the stove. Essie was out, Gilbert mucking around outside, on one of the days when he gets sick of you. You hold Lily’s blank paper to the flame (what if you burned it and never got to know?).
The message grew, a yellow brown spidery.
Momma says you are welcome any Shabbat night at our table. Lily F.
‘Hi there,’ Gil’s voice, ‘where’ve you got to.’
Hold the paper quickly to the flame.
‘What’s that?’
The paper melted into tinkling ash. ‘Some notes I don’t need any more.’
‘Not cribbing?’
Better not to answer.
‘Come on out and do something!’
Climb up behind him, into our tree, our house. He falls down grinding his neck into the heap of old hessian snippets we use as pillows. ‘Christ, it’s boring ! We gotter think of something to do…’
I stand looking out through the doorway of the house above the hanging garden. We will always mean I . He does not want me. What if I speak the invisible poem I feel inside me. Will it give me back the power I thought I had on coming here? The poem that cannot be put into words.
* * *
Inside these musty, suffocating walls, this lumpy heap of pricking hessian. Bruce Lockhart knew a bloke who caught the crabs. They shaved him around the cock, armpits too, and painted him blue. Anything
‘There,’ he says, ‘we’ve got a dunny now,’ and wants me to sit on the biscuit tin and let him hear I am peeing in our dunny.
Once Mrs Bulpit passes underneath and calls up, ‘You kids up there, what are you doing I’d like to know?’ Her head tilted back, and her mouth, her plastic teeth open, like as if she is laughing when she isn’t.
‘House-keeping’ Gil answers back, kind of not laughing too.
She closes her mouth. ‘I wouldn’t expect to be cheeked by better class children.’
‘But it isn’t cheek—it’s true !’ Has his voice begun to break, or is it just the schoolboy’s cockerel laughter?
You are sitting on the Arnott’s dunny where to please Gil you have learnt to pee. Now you have begun, you can’t stop on any account.
‘And this—raining down. I hope it’s nothing rude—I can’t stand rudery—not in my state of health.’
‘It’s nothing, Mrs Bulpit. Only a possum.’ You jam your thighs together.
‘A possum by daylight? Not likely.’
He pulls you down beside him on the platform, and you lie side by side like the snipers in the mountains in the presence of the enemy.
‘I don’t believe anything anyone tells me, not since I last saw Doctor.’
Through the knothole you can see her trying to trace a deceit. She closes her teeth. She clears her throat, and walks away. Staggering slightly, to her real house.
He puts his hand where the pee is still wet, that he has called up, then pulls his same hand away, it could have been scalded.
I would like to tell him something. I would like to write, or better, speak, the poem G. has put into me. I I I show Gilbert Horsfall that I am me me me. Not a mewing cat. He might stroke me if I were, which I would not want, or do I?
I shall not write this poem. Memory is safer than invisible ink, that all the school knows about, playing at spies, exchanging coded messages.
Lily Feizenbaum comes up in break, looking more than usually mysterious. She shoves a folded paper in the pocket of your cardy. Unfolded, the paper is perfectly blank.
‘What has she given you?’ Viva is always on the watch.
‘A sheet of paper.’
‘Betcher that’s the old invisible ink. You hold it up to heat and it brings the writing out. See? Silly nonsense. I wouldn’t want to know what Feizenbaums have to write you. So you needn’t tell me.’
Your pocket could hardly wait. You heat the stove. Essie was out, Gilbert mucking around outside, on one of the days when he gets sick of you. You hold Lily’s blank paper to the flame (what if you burned it and never got to know?).
The message grew, a yellow brown spidery.
Momma says you are welcome any Shabbat night at our table. Lily F.
‘Hi there,’ Gil’s voice, ‘where’ve you got to.’
Hold the paper quickly to the flame.
‘What’s that?’
The paper melted into tinkling ash. ‘Some notes I don’t need any more.’
‘Not cribbing?’
Better not to answer.
‘Come on out and do something!’
Climb up behind him, into our tree, our house. He falls down grinding his neck into the heap of old hessian snippets we use as pillows. ‘Christ, it’s boring ! We gotter think of something to do…’
I stand looking out through the doorway of the house above the hanging garden. We will always mean I . He does not want me. What if I speak the invisible poem I feel inside me. Will it give me back the power I thought I had on coming here? The poem that cannot be put into words.
* * *
Inside these musty, suffocating walls, this lumpy heap of pricking hessian. Bruce Lockhart knew a bloke who caught the crabs. They shaved him around the cock, armpits too, and painted him blue. Anything
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