SHORT STORIES

1: Because of the Doorbell

2: Uncle Arthur

3. ADDering On with ADD

Because of The Doorbell

My life changed because of a doorbell. Well, our life changed because it affected the whole family.

I am the manager of a legal practice in Melbourne. I’m not a solicitor, I’m a successful law clerk, which means that Monday to Friday I go into the City of Melbourne. I get to the Office by 8.30 am and don’t usually leave until 6 pm. The traffic is so bad that the trip from Camberwell to the City and the evening return by car is a nightmare. I settled for a motorbike early in my career, and the advantage is that I can squeeze into the Office complex carpark and not pay a parking fee.

My wife, Helen, works ten-to-three book-keeping at a local pharmacy, so the management of the children falls on her hands through the week. I take over lots of jobs at the weekend and we live more or less in harmony. There are three children, Ellen, who is twelve, Zac looming on eleven, and Melissa, who is nine.

Ellen is learning the violin. If you have a child learning the violin you need no further comment. Zac is ADHD, which he got from me, and the hyperactive needs emphasis. It isn’t just that he is constantly moving, his brain is very rapid and never stops either. Melissa is quieter and finds it  difficult to control addiction to electronic media.

I had better tell you about the doorbell. As I tend to get home verging on seven pm., and Helen likes us all to eat together and the children need to be fed on time, Helen complained that she never knew exactly when I would arrive, and then the meal was delayed with my arrival home and the last minute preparations for dinner,  and this made the meal late.

My charming son Zac came up with a solution. He had seen an advertisement for a wireless doorbell with a long range. Why didn’t I have the button on the motorcycle and Mum have the bell in the kitchen, and I could press the button as I turned into the street? This was promptly voted into law by the family. Zac knew where to obtain the device with an internet order, of course. I ended up with a doorbell button on the fuel-tank.

It worked.

Domestic peace was restored.

That was just the beginning of the story.

One Thursday afternoon I had a text from Helen asking me to buy a two litre of milk on the way home. By one of those peculiar circumstances when you have children, all the milk had mysteriously vanished from the fridge, and more was required.

On the way home I stopped at the supermarket and purchased the milk. I carried it out to the motorbike, put it in the panier, and mounted the bike. It was a comfortable Honda CB and there was the doorbell. The key wouldn’t fit. I leaned down and tried again. It would not go into the slot. Then a menacing voice said, “What are you doing with my bike?”

My eyes slid over the dash of the bike, and I realised that it wasn’t mine. I looked up into the very unhappy face of a man about my age.

I spluttered an apology, “I’m sorry, I thought it was my bike. A Honda, and the doorbell, same as mine.”

Total disbelief. “Oh, yeah?”

I looked around and saw my bike three bays away. “Look, there’s my bike, same as yours. Even a doorbell. Come and see.”

We went to my bike. He looked at it silence. We contemplated the only two Hondas in the universe that had a doorbell on the fuel tank.

He said, “I think we need a beer.”

There wasn’t a bar, so we settled for coffee. He took a deep breath. “I’m Chris Harris. Why the doorbell?”

“I’m Peter Thornton. It tells my wife to put the dinner on for us and the kids. You?”

“It tells one of my kids to come and open the gate. We’ve got a dog. Mad idea by my son Zorb.”

I was a bit stunned. “Mine was a mad idea by my son, Zac. Ten-year-old.”

He took another deep breath, “Zorb is ten”

We cautiously compared families. He had a wife, May, a daughter Jenny who was thirteen. He had a younger son, Paul, who was eight. He was a compliance manager for a real-estate firm. His wife, May, didn’t work.

I told him that I had a wife, Helen, a daughter, Ellen, Zac who was ten, and a younger daughter aged six called Naomi.

Having overcome our initial difficulty, we seemed to get along fairly well. I suggested a family bar-b-cue at my place for the next Saturday at noon for the two families to meet. It was arranged.

There were some phone calls backwards and forwards about what we could eat and drink.

We met at noon on Saturday.

It all went smoothly. May and Helen found a mutual interest in plants and gardening. The children chattered. Well, except for Zac and Zorb. They bonded at first sight and vanished. I had to prise them away from the computer and out into the garden. They both had a passion about space exploration. It had taken them seconds to bond, share interest and hit Google. They reluctantly abandoned the computer, and then were totally involved in the families.

But they were the object of our parental attention. Four adults gazed at Zac and Zorb. They were similar in build and height. They had different hair, Zac was very dark, almost black, and Zorb a lighter fawn. It was their eyes and facial expression, their movement and intensity that seemed identical. More, the way they looked at each other and communicated. It was uncanny. All four of us knew that.

Family bonding took place. The four of us parents knew that we had a common entity called Zac and Zorb.

Fortunately, Chris and I found a common interest in wood and carpentry. The evening was a success.

Zac and Zorb moved between our two houses as one. They slept over. So much so that they used whatever clothes were available wherever they woke up. Helen and May decided to accept this, so whatever shirts, tops underwear and socks landed in the laundry went into that boy’s wardrobe. It seemed to balance out.

Zac and Zorb did some careful; planning as they moved into High School, so that they ended up in the same classes doing the same subjects. Of course, they managed to sit side by side. This caused some discomfort with teachers, with a suggestion of unreasonable cooperation, and they were separated. As this made no difference to their work, it was reviewed. They looked at one another a lot without signalling and achieved similar results. Their Maths teacher said, “It’s like they’re bloody psychic.” They were allowed to sit together again.

Mind you, they did develop other means of communication. They disappeared one day at our place until I became annoyed and went about shouting for them. They emerged topless from a cupboard in the spare room.

”Dad, we wondered what it would be like in a spacecraft and there was no light and sound didn’t carry.”

“Yes,” sad Zorb, “so we shut ourselves in the dark to see if we could understand maths if we drew it on each other’s chests. It was pretty good. We got most of it.”

But they did develop a personal communication which was clever. They touched each other’s hands, tapping and stroking with a finger. When they started, I suggested that they used Morse Code, but Zac looked at me as if I was dumb. “Other people could understand that!”

Helen became worried because they carried out conversations with their hands under the table at meals. Zac and Zorb solemnly swore that they weren’t saying anything they shouldn’t. They were making up a long imaginative adventure about life in space. I suppose Star Wars had to start somewhere. But, on the other hand, they chatted by hands sometimes and grinned at each other.

It dawned on myself and Peter that they could use this under the desk at school. We decided not to be aware, because they were very competitive.

It wasn’t that they wanted to one-up one another. They decided that this was a way of sharpening their brains and bodies. So, it wasn’t only schoolwork. They pushed each other to ride the fastest, swim the furthest, shout the loudest. Peter and I spent some time educating them about risks. We started doing this after rescuing them from a rock face at Wilson’s Promontory.

We were scared that they were so focused on each other that they would lose relationships with others, and even talked to the school about it. The reality was good. 

They often functioned as one, but they were into everything with others. Sport, the debating team (a fearsome pair, it seemed), music and classroom interaction.

Puberty emerged, and Peter and the boys grew through it with no obvious ill effects. Having already experienced other peoples’ teenagers we viewed the future years with some uncertainty, but with without undue alarm. The boys developed well, if a little differently from some others of whom we were aware.

We were not totally focused on the children, of course. At work I had flicked through some client records checking the estate of an elderly client who had died, when I noticed and unusual bank deduction from the account of a spendthrift client. I didn’t like it and opened a few other accounts which normally had little activity. There were more withdrawals. Now, these accounts could only be accessed by the CFO, which was me, or a Partner.

Amongst my acquaintances was a young guy, Mark Fisher, who was a forensic accountant. I brought him into the Office as my consultant on expansion - there had been a light discussion I had fermented about opening a branch in Camberwell, and gave him access to the accounts and estate notices.

It took him two days and he wasn’t happy at the end of it. “You’re short of $1,400,000 and the finger clearly points to Roland Foster.” Roland was the most junior Partner and a nephew of another Partner.

I called a Partners’ Meeting and set out the facts, and that they pointed to Roland Foster. I said that if all the money was returned that would end my interest in the matter, but Roland forestalled further discussion by jumping up and running from the room. I glanced around the partners and got the nod. I called the police.

This event caused considerable disruption and subsequent reorganisation so that I achieved my desire to open in Camberwell, with me doing the opening, and a new person as manager in the City. This meant that I could drive to work by car on days I didn’t want to walk, and free up time to complete another ambition, which was to upgrade my academic qualifications and become a solicitor myself. My experience was extensive, and the study would be a gift. Then I would need to manipulate the system, but I was already employed to do that.

Peter had been active in Real Estate selling, so we were both advancing as we grew a little older.

The families developed, too.

Peter and I came to an agreement as to the way we managed Zac and Zorb. One or both of us would go with them when they wanted to visit somewhere, and we could afford it. Well, all the children went to the Zoo and Healesville Sanctuary, the Aquarium and the Museum. Zac and Zorb needed extended time anywhere there was anything about space and stars and its maths and physics. A computer of considerable clarity was required to watch rocket launches and videos, Peter and I learned a great deal. I was astonished how strongly the boys focused on this. I had expected young teens to keep shifting from one thing to another.

Ellen changed. She gave up the violin to focus on singing. This required singing lessons which started about the same time as Melissa emerged slightly from media land and started basketball. Jenny was already into basketball and the school orchestra where she plays a flute. Paul needed coaching in maths and English, A complex taxi service developed.

We grew and evolved. We were happy families and lived lives very similar to those around us. Then it changed dramatically.

I was at work buried in a brief from a country solicitor who had abandoned punctuation at an early age. The one place you can’t ignore punctuation is the Law. The phone rang and a distressed Helen told me, “Zorb is very sick, dying. He has a thing called acute alveolar RMS. I think that’s Rhabdomyosarcoma. Extreme. Maybe months, more likely weeks. Beyond treatment. Zac came back from school with the news. He is really upset. I’ve spoken to May, and it’s true.”

I told her I would come home. I told my secretary to look up the disease on the internet and show me the results. She was to fill in for me and  call me on the phone with the slightest problem. She showed me the research results. I felt sick.

Zorb was already in the Royal Children’s Hospital in Parkville. I picked up Zac and went in.

The hospital room was a really pleasant place. There were a lot of people. All of Zorb’s family and most of ours. Zorb was already looking rather bedraggled propped up on a pile of pillows with tubes and electronic monitors at the  side of the bed.

I said to Peter, “I’m sorry.”

He was looking miserable, “There’s nothing to be done. It’s already too advanced to treat. Right through his body. They said the aggression is unusual, but that doesn’t help. Uncommon like this in a fourteen-year-old. We just have to cope.”

Zac, meanwhile, had climbed onto the bed, lay alongside Zorb, and put his arm around him. They started whispering and hand tapping. A nurse came in, and I thought she would tell Zac to get off the bed. Instead, she took his shoes of and put them on the floor, moved a few tubes about, and whispered in Zac’s ear.

Later I asked him, “What did the nurse whisper to you?”

He grinned. She said, “Thank you, Doctor.”

I decided this was the right place for Zorb.

We quickly noticed that when Zac and Zorb were talking they gave no attention to anyone else, and that included May, so we set up a schedule. Zac could hold Zorb, but Zorb had to make time for Zorb to relate to his mother and father and others. Zac and Zorb could have a time when they just communicated with each other. I hoped other people didn’t notice that Zorb was more alive when he and Zac were chatting.

They also spent time on the phone after we arrived home at night. I wouldn’t normally have approved but it wasn’t going to last for long, Zorb visibly shrunk each time we went in.

I was afraid that all this would leave me with a tearful little boy, but Zac grew in maturity and size. In some ways it was very sad looking at the pair lying on the hospital bed. One very strong fourteen-year-old beside a fading shadow, 

One day Zac borrowed my big iPad because he wanted to show Zorb a video and it needed a big picture. They lay together and looked at this video with fascination. Afterwards I asked Zac what they had watched. He said, “It was the latest pictures they cleaned up from the Hubble telescope. They’re amazingly detailed images of deep space. Extraordinary galaxies and stars.” He looked at me. “That’s where he’s going. To the Stars. Not the stars I know. To what’s behind them, maybe fifth dimension, where people go when they die.”

I said, “Good.” I wasn’t a theologian. Whatever worked for them.

The room was loaded with cards. I guessed hundreds from the school and families.

Inevitably, the end came. We had visited the hospital and come home. After Dinner there was a phone call. Could we come back.

Zorb had shrunk even more, and his breathing was obviously laboured. Zac climbed up beside him and cradled his head. May held his free hand. Peter stood behind May and reached over to cradle Zac’s arm and Zorb.

Zac whispered to Zorb without halt, and we could see Zorb aware and acknowledging. But that faded, and he quietly died. His eyes were already closed, but Zac passed his hand over Zorb’s face and straightened his jaw. Then he kissed him on the cheek, for the first time, and the last time.

My gut felt as if a post-hole digger been pushed in and rotated. Of course, I was crying. Everyone in the room was crying, except Zac. He came over and hugged me and Helen, and everyone joined in to a mass multi-family hug. We stay that way for quite a while, and then broke up as we said goodbye to Zorb.

Out in the passage I asked Zac, “Are you OK? That was pretty distressing.”

He nodded. “I’m good. Zorb and I talked about it. He’s gone to the Stars. I carry on here.”

I didn’t stop worrying about Zac for years.

Life settled down. Zac slept over at the Harris’s sometimes. I was concerned that his presence would remind them of their loss, but it seemed as if he continued Zorb in their lives. Our families remained united.

Zac said that he and Zorb had discussed the funeral, and could he arrange it? He had to explain it to Peter and May, with I and Helen involved.

Zorb had wanted a funeral at the school, with only the children taking part. He wanted a coffin shaped like a spaceship and decorated by his class.

Peter and May agreed. I was deputised to negotiate the affair with the Principal. Next morning, I and Zac met with the Principal and explained what we wanted. I anticipated some difficulty, but he backed the event with enthusiasm. I had expected that he would want to run the service, but he only insisted that one adult, the Year Leader (euphemism for the Home Teacher) would have a say. The Principal then said that of course the school choir and the orchestra were available, and the media department. Did we need anything else?

I had been having mental gymnastics about a coffin shaped like a spaceship which had to be cremated and so specially made. We wanted to do it in my garage but hadn’t yet worked out how.

The Principal said that the Craft Teacher was also a carpenter, who would come to my place after school.

Zac got busy on the phone organising the funeral, with the help of a local funeral director that Peter knew. After school I got ready to meet the carpenter. A girl in her mid-twenties arrived and smiled at me. “I know, but I’m a qualified carpenter and graduate teacher, and perform miracles. I’m Jessica.” We got along fine.

I described what we wanted, and she drew a sketch that looked good, and then wrote a list of materials she needed as she consulted the funeral director’s instructions. I was to go to Bunnings and talk to the wood supervisor. “Say it’s for me at the school.”

I found the supervisor and gave him the list. “What’s she up to now, then? This is odd.”

I told him.

He said, “Jesus.” and shouted. “Carl, get yourself over here. I’ve got a job for you.”

A vastly overweight, beaded. and overalled figure emerged from the back and heard the story. He eyed me and said, “It’d be easier if we cut and finished the main box here, wouldn’t it.” And then some throat clearing. “I’ll deliver it. Where do you live?” I was unutterably grateful.

We then went to a craft shop to buy some goo that was mostly papier mache for the nose cone. The school would supply the paint. Jessica would supervise the rest of the work.

I asked Zac, “What else do we need?”

He replied, “It’s organised except for whatever photos and video you have of me and Zorb. I’ve asked Uncle Peter, too. We’re making a video for the service.”

There is hellish little you can do for another family in these circumstances but be around. The worst mess was little Paul. Mostly May had cope with that.

Zac told me that they were not going to process the coffin into the Assembly Hall because it would be awkward to get it onto the stage, and we would start with closed curtains.

When we reached the Assembly Hall for the funeral, the Hall was packed. Most of the Staff and maybe four hundred students and quite a few parents, plus an assortment of relatives. There were more students outside waiting to hear it over the loudspeakers.

We sat in chairs close to the front, and I felt it was uncannily like waiting for a play to start.

Then the curtains parted. At the centre was the coffin spaceship. It has originally been white, but was now totally covered with a rainbow of florescent symbols and messages. I detected Jessica’s guiding hand, because the colours flowed and created a design of beauty.

The coffin was mounted on a metal frame to simulate a launching pad. There was a black box in the middle of it, and I had an awful premonition of its purpose. I hoped the kids knew what they were doing.

Zac was slightly to the side behind a lecturn. He looked comfortably in charge, even if a little drawn. Then on one side was the school choir, and on the other the school orchestra.

Well, during the service Jenny sang, and the choir sang. All the children said a few words. A boy and a girl from Zorb’s class spoke.

The Year Leader turned out to be a middle aged, balding man who talked about Zorb’s achievements in school with a degree of pride and terrible sadness. He then read David Townsend’s poem from ‘The Secret Pirate’ 

Sometimes love is for a moment

Sometimes love is for a moment,

Sometimes love is all your life,

Sometimes life is just a moment

Made eternity by love.

My son’s life was but a moment.

But he lives forever now.

On this side my heart he’s with me,

Half a dreaming, Half a whole.

On the other side I’ll meet him

Grown into more than hope.

Dreams come true in joyful moment:

Shadowed longings burst to life.

Sometimes life is just a moment,

Made eternity by love.

Heart-inflame whate’re you’re given.

Hurt is passing, Love Becomes.

Then there was the video. It was silent. Zac gave the commentary. I learned a lot about Zorb’s early life, and then it got into school with Zac. There was collection of material I was familiar with about their sporting and academic achievements, and their influential place in the lower forms. But there was more to learn. At the school camp, Zorb had peed higher than any boy of his year. Fortunately, there were no photographs shown. The mild student murmur this revelation aroused suggested this was common knowledge in the school. Zac and Zorb were revealed as a ferocious fighting unit that had led a movement that totally suppressed bullying in the school.

More. A loutish senior boy declared that Zac and Zorb were so close they had to be actively gay. He had been chased from the school by a bevy of screaming abusive girls, and had never returned. This pronouncement caused shouts and laughter from a group of girls at the back of the Hall, who had, obviously, been responsible.

Finally, Zac finished with a tribute to Zorb. He said of him: No better friend, more than a brother, an eternal part of me. Then he told the school to get to their feet, and led them in Three Cheers.

As they cheered, the front of the launch machine began to lift the coffin towards the sky, and the curtains closed as everyone clapped.

After a few moments Zac came out to the front of the curtains and waved everyone quiet. He thanked them for being part of the funeral and making it work, then left the stage.

We had arranged to farewell the coffin at the side away from the crowd, but the news had leaked, and a large number of students joined us. Someone had tipped off a TV station and there was a camera crew as well, which filmed as the coffin was put into the hearse. Th hearse drove away with more clapping. 

I saw it on the news later. The editor had liked the multi-coloured coffin as a spaceship. They also showed Zac pushing the coffin into the hearse and then standing back. His face was an extraordinary mixture of sadness tinged with the knowledge that he had done all things well for the both of them.

God, I love that boy. 

The next night I asked Zac, “How are you coping?”
He shrugged and said, “We are OK.”
“No,” I said, “How are you, specifically, coping?”
He responded, “We talked about it. We, specifically, are coping OK.”
Helen said, “He’s very like you, isn’t he.”

I said, “We need to write to all the people who helped and thank them.”
Zac looked at me with surprise. “I’ve already texted them.”
I crawled back into my generation, and lapsed into silence.

 

The following years were busy. I qualified fully as a solicitor and immediately became Managing Partner of both practices. Peter had moved up the scale as an estate agent and was making a good income. Zac announced that he was going to be a medical scientist and cure cancer. The Principal had contacted the University for him and arranged subjects that would prepare him for this.

Paul, to our general amazement, stopped being miserable and pleased May and Helen by developing an interest in gardening to the level of horticultural interest. All the children developed, and we were well pleased. Our increasing income enabled some enjoyable holidays, and life settled. Zac was into everything and in Year Eleven he had matured substantially; He was very social, so It was no great surprise that he told us that he had a girlfriend. I told him to bring her around sometime.

And so, we were introduced to Liz Lamb. He baptismal name was Felicity, but she didn’t like it. The Lamb was wrong, too. I have never met a girl less like a lamb. She was a human cyclone. Everything around her was caught up in a spin of energy. She had already published a book of young teens science fiction which was in libraries all over the country and maybe beyond. She had a subsequent book with her publisher. Some local band had set one of her lyrics to music, and it was gaining ground. Zac’s energy matched all this. She wore her brown hair knotted at the back which seemed to stretch her face into an alive smile. She dressed like all the other girls of her year but somehow looked smarter. She moved gracefully but with heightened energy and I likened her to a ballet dancer, but she was also capable of turning into a blunt tom-boy.

She and Zac hit it off together. She had a vivid imagination and expressed herself forcibly. Her connection with Zac wasn’t like his connection with Zorb. This was loud, public, and in your face. I thought she matched Zac well, if a little beyond my maturing ears.

The Principal and I got to know one another. Paul Lisedale had a legal problem with a school supplier, and I solved it. He then said, with a grin, that there was a penalty for having a child like Zac at the school. “I’d like you on the School Council.” I agreed and joined the Council. The Council looked at me, and I looked at the Council, and I was Chairman within six months.

My first job wasn’t popular with the students. I recruited a Deputy Principal who was a direct descendent of a Viking axe-woman. Velda Horton lifted the discipline of the school in a satisfying way, including introducing a minimum length for dresses and shorts for girls, and making cleavages a figment of the imagination. She tolerated boys’ shirts out, but ties had to be neatly done up and jackets buttoned when inside the building. Internal clamour died and homework was handed in on time. I believe that she was married but I never met the husband. Perhaps he was too frightened to appear.

At the beginning of Year Twelve Liz and Zak became Joint Captains of the school. I was amazed that they managed this and a mad social life with intense study. They did, very successfully. I was pleased.

I met Liz’s parents. He was Doctor and verging on an alcoholic. His wife was once his Nurse and now charming and very social mother. They played cards a lot, so we didn’t see much of them.

The year passed, and we came to the Year Twelve Graduation Ball. Exams were over but there would be a wait for results. As Chairman of the School, I was one of the few adults who attended the Ball. It would be well conducted because two other adults were the Principal and Deputy Principal. The students all gathered in the Assembly Hall amidst lavish decorations and flanked by tables of food and soft drinks.

Zac was wearing an evening suit and black bow tie. He looked magnificent. Liz was dressed in a light green silk creation that reflected the light in a dazzling way when she moved. She was wearing a pendant that was sparkling and I hoped was paste. She was beautiful.

My son was burbling with excitement. “The Principal has told me that I’m a cert. for Melbourne Uni. He has spoken to them, and I can do Medicine and Medical Sciences simultaneously. Look at what I’ll be doing.” He waved a piece of paper from the Principal with a list of subjects. I was horrified.

“How are you going to manage all this?”

He leant over and whispered in my ear. “It’s going to be easy, Dad. I’ll do the medicine and Zorb will do the Science.”

He looked at the expression on my face and roared with laughter. He grabbed Liz by the hand and pulled her away onto the dance floor. They spun with enormous energy around each other, and the band picked up their movement and began to increase the tempo. A circle cleared around them as they spun and intertwined. A hypnotising pattern of black and white and shimmering green emerged in a harmony that was dazzling.

I watched this display of energy, and was struck by a thought. What if they married?
And had children? My grandchildren visiting us with this frightening combined energy.
The thought exhausted me.
Bloody doorbells!
Perhaps Helen and I should move into a quiet Retirement Village.
Under an assumed name.

But, of course, we didn’t.
And Liz and Zac married.
And had children.

The eldest stands in front of me now. He is a slim seven-year old boy. Of course, he is named Zorb. I don’t understand genetics. Zorb is an infant prodigy. He has just played me his first Piano Concerto. It was good. His teacher from the Conservatorium said it was good.

He comes and sits on my knee. I ask him, “Where does your music come from, Zorb?”
He looks at me. “I go into the fifth dimension and visit Uncle Zorb. We can’t speak. I just hear music, and come back and write it. Do you go into the fifth dimension, Grandad?”
Over the years I have learned to converse with children.
“Oh, yes. I go to my godfather, Mr. Justice Sir Reginald Smithers. He was a great Judge. We can’t speak. I just hear deep Law, and I come back and write it. I remember one day there was a man before him who said …, and my story wondered on while a small head sank gently onto my shoulder.

We both drifted off comfortably into a fifth dimension of familial bliss.

UNCLE ARTHUR

I wonder if many families have an uncle like Uncle Arthur. The boring old one. I was in the Bank Vault looking at his Safety Deposit Box. He had died. The solicitor had told me that I got everything, which was a little house in Malvern and a reasonable amount of cash. And the Safety Deposit Box. He gave me a key for this, which was a duplicate of one on Uncle Arthur’s ring.

Uncle Arthur had come from Queensland about ten years ago. He bought the house in Malvern, and settled into a quiet life. We invited him to the occasional family gatherings. He had taken up collecting walking sticks at markets, and didn’t talk about much else. He didn’t drink alcohol and didn’t smoke, drank innumerable cups of tea, and wasn’t an exciting guest. I knew nothing about him. My Dad had died, and Uncle Arthur just mumbled, “This and that,” if asked about his past activities.

My name is Brian Hartley, and I’m married to Jessie. We have two children, Tom and Veronica, nine and seven. I’m a building inspector. You know the old saying about building inspectors? The pay’s lousy, but the bribes are magnificent. We were certainly honest, and the salary was quite good.

We weren’t aware that Arthur knew anyone here, so we didn’t have a funeral, just a direct cremation, and the ashes were now in a locked cupboard in my study, unbeknown to my little children

I suppose you look forward to opening someone else’s Safety Deposit Box with curiosity and anticipation. What Uncle Arthur had, I could not guess. I opened the box.

On top was a little cardboard box. I opened it and was astonished to find a collection of Army Service Medals. I examined one. Korea. I’d had no idea Arthur was a Veteran. Underneath was a heavily sealed package. I put the lot into my bag, closed the account and returned the keys.

At home after Dinner, I settled in my study with a whisky, and opened the package. There was a Grave Deed for a double grave in Brisbane, and a notebook. I opened that and started to read.

My dear nephew Robert.

If you are reading this, I have died. I thought you should know a little about me, and, in any case, I have written this to set my thoughts in order.

I was a lonely child and never as good or as popular as your father. When I finished school, I didn’t really know what to do. There was rumour of war, so I joined the Army. I was sent to Korea. I spent nearly twelve months front-line, and then my leg was hit with shrapnel. It wasn’t serious enough for me to be sent home, but I was off front-line service. They sent me to Quartermasters Forward Supply, which was marginally less dangerous.

Typical Army. Your leg is damaged, so you are assigned to drive a heavy truck, but I managed. Some genius at Headquarters had worked out that if I drove a supply truck to an operational area with supplies, I would return empty, and this would never do. So, my trips back comprised the dead and wounded. There were not enough Ambulances.

I became skilled at catering for the needs of the wounded and the dying. I liberated (we didn’t say, “stole”, out loud) a bunch of dressings, anti-septics, and painkillers, and kept them in the truck.

The whole supply business was insane. Australian supplies were uncertain. We cadged from the Americans, who always seemed to have an excess of everything. Some goods we bought with acquired American dollars, which were probably forged, but who could tell? The rest we nicked.

Then it was over for us, and we were returned to Australia and kicked out into civilian life. I was very lucky. I got a job in a car parts company. Locating parts and delivering them by truck was a comfortable occupation, and no bodies in the back.

I married Justine, and we had two children, Francis and Sue. They were two and three at the time of the accident. It was a Friday night, and we were returning home at 7.30 pm after eating out at a café. I drove through a green light and a maniac shot through the red on my left and rammed us at speed.

I was totally shocked, but I came out of it fast. I looked at Justine beside me and she was dead. I swung back and looked at two dead children. I’ve had seen a lot of bodies before, but these were mine. I forced my door open and walked around to the other car. It was an older Ford, and the driver was squeezed between his seat and the steering wheel. He stank of beer and there was pile of empties in the foot-space beside him. He moaned, “I think I’ve broken my neck.”

I reached through the window and took his head in both hands. I twisted sharply. He was right. He had broken his neck. I left his body there and went back to my car. Police arrived, then the Fire Brigade, then an Ambulance. The usual complexities followed, through funerals and Coroner and Insurance and more. People said how calm I was. It was a façade. I was seriously angry.

When things settled, I decided to make myself useful and I trained as a Paramedic. It was much more technical than I was used to, but I was focussed on achievement. I graduated and was out on call. I’d done some of it before, but it amazed me that calls were so complex. Babies stuck their fingers through drains, elderly people fell and couldn’t get up, asthmatics stopped breathing, Appendix burst, and more.

Where I was at home was motor accidents and fires. I gained a reputation, though, at a road rage. We were called out onto the Logan Motorway one afternoon and found a minor collision. But the excitement was with one of the drivers. He was topless and waving a big knife. At a distance were Police, fingering their pistols and Tasers. I recognised the guy. I had served with him. Like lots of us he had come back drug crazy and unable to cope. He was high and dangerous. I marched past the Police, snapped to attention, and shouted, “PRIVATE MATTHEWS, ‘SHUN.” He almost fell over, dropped the knife, and stood to an exaggerated attention. I secured his wrists and arms with Velcro straps; much prettier than handcuffs and easier to manage.

A Senior Constable came up beside me and said “You stupid idiot. You could have been killed.”
I smiled at him and replied. “Nah, we’re OK. We’re mates.” This was not strictly true, but was probably more diplomatic then, “Nah, I’m OK, I’m a trained killer.” My fame spread.

Over the years working as a Paramedic, I saved a lot of lives. I am very proud of that. There are children and adults running around today who are only doing so because I reached them. It’s a sort of honouring my own children who did not die in vain.

I also terminated five killer drugged/drunk drivers who may have lived to drive again. Four men and one woman, three at the scene and two in the Ambulance. I am very skilled and left no trace. But I decided that it was enough. Some desk-bound bugger in Head Office who had never seen an accident might notice on his spreadsheet a ’statistical anomaly’ and start an investigation as to why an excess of my patients died.

And the job was exhausting. I had done my bit. I retired.

I had a few years left in me yet and wanted something quieter. There was a vacancy for a school bus driver advertised three times and I made some enquiries. It seemed that the local school bus drivers didn’t last long. There were unruly children. After Korea, it sounded fun. I applied and was trained and licenced.

I still remember the first day. I had hardly picked up the first load of students when it started. Some boys began abusing an Indian girl, and they were offensive. I told them to stop, and the leading boy shouted out, “Shut up. You’re only a fucking bus driver.” I stopped the bus and walked back down the aisle to him, I reached over and put his arm in a nerve-lock. I said to him, “Your right. I am a fucking bus driver. Because I fuck the life out of anyone who disobeys me. You keep quiet and leave other kids alone, here and other places.” I have a manner about me, and it has been known to frighten people. He shut up.

But then, when he got off the bus, he began shouting abuse at me. As I rose from my seat, he started to run, and he got another surprise. I caught him. I told him, “You apologise, or you won’t get on the bus in the morning.” He screwed up his face and said, “I’ll tell my dad.” I told him, “No, you’ll tell your dad, and I’ll tell your dad, and the Principal will tell your dad, and the head of the bus company will tell your dad, and you might never ride on a bus again in your life. You could be doing a lot of walking in future.”

It took him a moment, but he apologised.

Highly exaggerated versions of this spread through the school, and some child added to it by saying that I was in charge of all the buses and kids had better behave. A few other drivers caught whiff of this and encouraged me to wander into their buses while loading. It stopped the rowdiness and made our life easier. Vlad the Impaler probably had the same effect. I thought it was rather funny.

About two weeks later the little Indian girl surreptitiously slipped something into my hand as she went by. I let her move away and looked at it. A tiny curl of Buddhist prayer beads, with a label.

I put them in my pocket and looked later. The label was for a Sri Lankan Buddhist Meditation Centre. Big correction. The girl was not Indian but Sri Lankan.

Well, I was getting older and a bit more philosophical, so I thought that I would pay the Centre a visit. I Googled the Centre and found the address and activity times, and the following weekend I went to Ellen Grove. There were a lot of people: Monks, women in saris as well as dresses and suits, mostly white. Men in tops and sarongs, others in tops and trousers. Children everywhere. I wasn’t the only European. I headed for a guided meditation session in English.

Afterwards I wandered around, looking at everything. Then a young girl came up to me. She was dressed in white, about thirteen and was very beautiful. She said, “Hello, Mister Hartley. I’m Shanaya, from the bus. Would you come and meet my parents?” I walked with her to a close by, watching couple. Mr. Dishan and Mrs. Ahana Jayasuria greeted me with warmth. He said, “I Googled you. You’re a very unusual bus-driver.”

I told him, “We all get older. I have come to desire a quiet life. And you, what do you do?” He grinned. “Nothing quiet. I’m in the Department of Transport and Main Roads. On site stuff.” They invited me to eat with them, and we became very friendly. I told Shanaya for her welfare, not to recognise me on the bus. I didn’t want allegations of favouritism.

Well, I became a Buddhist and that provided some answers and framework for my life. Over the four and a half years I was there, I got to know Shanaya well, and encouraged her to go to University.

But the time came for retirement, and the bus company was strict about that. I decided to return to Melbourne, mostly to be closer to you, my only real relative. I said all my good-byes, some rather sadly, and came to Melbourne.

Now that you know all about me, you should burn this, and let me rest. I wish you and your family well.

Your Uncle Arthur.

I sat for a long time. I was stunned, amazed, awed. Uncle Arthur was something else. Then I copied out the names and places that I needed, went outside, and burnt the book. Jessie stuck her head out of the kitchen window. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m just getting rid of some rubbish of Arthur’s. I’ll be in shortly.”
“Well, make sure you put the ashes out. Wet them.” I said I would. I didn’t know whether Arthur’s memoir was fact or fiction, but I wasn’t letting any of it survive.
And I had a lot of work to do.

I phoned the cemetery on the Grave Deed, Hemmant Cemetery, and yes, they had a double grave for Hartley. It was in a lawn section. Yes, I could inter ashes but only one plaque on each grave. If I wanted more, one would have to change. Did I own the site? Would there be a graveside service?

That pulled me up. I hadn’t given it any thought. Yes, I said, probably, Buddhist. We have catering, the voice said, you have to book, and there’s a fee. I said thanks.

Back onto Google. I located the Buddhist Centre and phoned them. To my surprise there was a receptionist. She remembered Arthur Hartley. I explained that he had died, and I wanted to inter his ashes. Would they want to do anything about that? And could they notify the Dishan Jayasuria family if they did?

“Yes,“ she said, “There is a funeral we can arrange if you wish. I’ll tell the Jayasurias. They will probably want to help organise. Phone me when you are ready to arrange a time and date. Oh, and we don’t wear black. White if you can.”

I told Jessie that I had to go to Brisbane to inter Arthur’s ashes. I had some leave owing. Armed with the ashes, I flew to Brisbane. I went straight to the cemetery and located the plot. I looked at his wife’s headstone and decided it could be added to without trouble, and went to the office where I organised a time for the funeral with the cemetery and the Buddhist Centre.

It was booked for Thursday afternoon at 2 pm. I arrived early. I hadn’t known what to expect. There was hole cut into the grass grave. There was a white altar with a statue of The Lord Buddha. Five monks were sitting on chairs, and there were quite a few people.

A young woman in a white sari with a small boy on her hip came over. She smiled and said, “You must be Brian. I’m Shanaya, the girl from the bus. Shanaya Jayasuria, but now married, I’m an Abeysinghe. Thank you for making this possible. It was sad when he left. I am deeply indebted to him. He put me through University. I’ve started in Biological Research” She swung the little boy towards me. “So, in thanksgiving, this boy is named Arthur.”
I looked into the small face and smiled. He smiled back. He could have no idea of the amazement that I felt that my Uncle Arthur had inspired all this. Shanaya worded me up on what would be expected. Her family was covering the costs, but during the service I would be given a bowl of fruit to present at the altar. In the middle of it I was to put a substantial cash offering. I had that ready.

The Funeral began. There was chanting and words and fruit offerings and flowers. I didn’t really understand much of it. There was a lot of incense and candles. I did all that was required, and everything went well.

After the service people were to travel to the Buddhist Centre for refreshments. As people left, I stood in front of the grave with Shayana beside me, and little Arthur regarding me curiously.

I thought about Uncle Arthur. He had been an extraordinary man. If all he had written was true, he was complex beyond my comprehension. I remained amazed.

I wonder if many families have an uncle like Uncle Arthur.

© David Townsend