‘I thought you might show up. Your mum and sister didn’t want to say hello?’
I picked up a broken knob from the bench and turned it in my hand. ‘They’re shopping.’
Even when his eyes were concentrating on me, his hands kept working. To make me feel useful, he asked me to press the ‘Play’ button. He put down the screwdriver and, picking up a pair of pointy-nosed pliers, began pulling at something inside the machine.
‘Mechanical,’ he said. ‘Usually is with these.’
Dad liked fixing electrical faults more than mechanical ones. He could relate to electricity, its mystery, the invisible power of it. He once preached a sermon comparing electricity with God, saying Christ was the transformer, the Holy Spirit, the current. If we wanted to benefit from His power, we had to become receivers.
Ross poked his head around the corner of the partition. ‘Hey, Lindsay, do us a favour, look after the shop for me? Only be two shakes.’
Dad placed the pliers on the bench and moved his mouth to speak. Ross cut him short.
‘Thanks a million; owe you one.’ Spotting me, he gave a wink and said, ‘How are you, Sport?’ and ducked back into the shop before I could reply.
Dad slipped off his grey dust jacket, folded it, placed it on the stool and went and stood behind the service counter. The shop was empty of customers. I walked past him to the record players on display.
‘Your Mum asked me to talk to you about Mrs Potter’s canaries.’ He had his head down, checking the metal rim that ran around the top of the counter, prodding at its rivets. ‘Apparently Mrs Potter wants to give them to you.’
I knew I had a better chance of sounding innocent if I said nothing.
‘Says she can’t look after them any more.’
A young couple cupped their hands to the window. A display television, turned on but with the sound down, flickered in their faces. The man pointed at the stereo next to me. The woman smiled, said something, then kissed him on the cheek.
‘She wants to give them to you for your birthday — if you’d like them.’
‘Would I like them!’
I felt embarrassed. Embarrassed by Mrs Potter’s generosity, guilty that it came as no surprise.
Dad stopped poking at the strip of metal and rested his hands on top of the counter. ‘That’s what we thought. Your mum’s suggested that for our present we build you an aviary, one you can walk into, somewhere where the birds can breed.’
I didn’t say anything, I couldn’t. I had made words sound false by using them to feign surprise and now, in return, they failed me. I walked behind the counter and gave Dad a hug. As if granting a blessing, he rested his hand on top of my head and said, ‘It’s your mother you should thank.’
The electric buzzer sounded as someone opened the shop door. Reminded of where we were, we moved apart. Dad pulled at his shirt cuffs.
Mr Sturgiss ambled towards the counter. He was wearing bottle-green slacks and a machine-knit jumper with beige and brown diamonds patterned across the front. He brushed a hand across the record players as he approached, checking them for dust, touching what he owned.
It was hard to tell Mr Sturgiss’ age. He was going bald and his face was so thin you could make out the skull beneath the skin, imagine he was dead — and yet his body was small and lively like a boy’s. ‘We finished early,’ he said, ‘hardly a soul on the course.’ Now that he was standing near me I could smell the spicy sweetness of his aftershave. ‘Been slow has it?’
Dad nodded. ‘I’ve been out back all morning.’
Mr Sturgiss took a golf tee from his pocket and twirled it in his fingers. ‘Where’s Ross?’
Ross was Mr Sturgiss’ nephew. He employed him on Saturdays as a favour to his sister and to free himself for golf.
‘You’ve just missed him. He stepped out a couple of minutes ago.’
The tee went still in Mr Sturgiss’ hand; the skin tightened across his forehead. ‘What do you mean?’
Dad fixed his eyes on the bench. ‘He said he’d be back in a minute.’
Mr Sturgiss turned and, as if measuring the floor space with his stride, took five deliberate steps toward the window. Looking out into the street, sliding a hand down his smooth cheek and resting his finger in the dimpled crook of his chin, he said, ‘I don’t expect any better from Ross, he’s a no-hoper, but I’m depending on you.’
I was waiting for Dad to tell him how it had happened, how Ross had walked out without waiting for a reply — but he didn’t, he just stood there listening.
‘What if it’d got busy, Lindsay? You’re in charge. And who’s going to get the repairs done if you’re out here? — two of those stereos are being collected Monday.’
Dad looked up now and faced him. ‘They’re fixed,’ he said. ‘I’m working on Mrs Collier’s tape recorder.’
I had never really liked Mr Sturgiss, but hearing him speak to Dad like that made me hate him. I was sure Dad did too, though I knew he would never admit it.
Mr Sturgiss was a Presbyterian, an Elder. I knew they weren’t like Catholics, that they were meant to be like us, but I couldn’t help thinking that if they were all like him we were more different than alike. I knew what to feel when a non-Christian hurt me — forgiveness, compassion — but with someone like Mr Sturgiss I was left feeling hopeless, hateful. How can you rescue someone who isn’t drowning, someone who’s already been saved?
He left before Ross returned, saying he had business to attend to in town. When Ross did come back, wiping something red (lipstick? tomato sauce?) from the corner of his mouth, Dad made light of what had happened, telling him only that his uncle had dropped in and had asked where he was.
It wasn’t until we were walking home, crossing Murphy Street and cutting through the park, that I began to forget about Mr Sturgiss and remembered the canaries and the aviary. My birthday was only three weeks away.
As the Labour Ward Attendant it is my job to assist the Emergency Porter in the transportation of corpses from the wards to the morgue.
Last Saturday, working the night shift, the Emergency Porter paged me; there was a body to collect in Ward 63. We met by the sinks at the back of Emerg. Rodney’s the union rep and he made a point of telling me I’d find an extra ten dollars in my pay packet as compensation. ‘They should call it the death penalty,’ I joked. But then I thought how absurd it was that it was in my financial interest for a patient to die. It felt like I was being paid off, as if the hospital and the union were bribing me to keep quiet, to act like no one had died, to pretend death never happened.
I didn’t blame Rodney. I liked him. He’s about thirty-eight, with light brown hair, so fine you can see through to the scalp, and the pale complexion of a night worker. We don’t talk much and when we do it’s usually about football. His first passion though is horse racing. I can’t hold a conversation on that and only ever ask how he went, if he backed a winner. Usually he says he’s broken even, which probably means he lost a bit. One day last spring his face broke into a smile as he told me he’d won $700 on a $5 bet. He offered to buy me a drink after work, but we were working nights and, not fancying a beer first thing Sunday morning, I let the offer slide.
Pulling an operation trolley away from the wall, he said, ‘You’ll be all right then, doing this?’
I said I thought I’d be fine and began mentally preparing myself for the sight of death.
Grabbing the front of the trolley, I helped steer it towards the automatic sliding doors. Before I reached them, Rodney yelled, ‘Hang on,’ and ducked into an