The Rosie Result Page 13

  ‘Bit different at primary school, Don,’ said Rabbit.

  ‘I don’t think Don was trying to tell you anything, Neil,’ said Rosie. ‘He was just being empathetic.’

  20

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t missed something? Spiced cranberry bitters or pencil sharpeners?’

  ‘None of the cocktails on the proposed list require cranberry bitters, spiced or unspiced. No pencils—’

  ‘I was joking,’ said Amghad. ‘This is the most comprehensive spec anyone’s ever given me. I could give it to the fit-out company as it stands. Actually, I’ll write a summary first, in case they see the size of it and think they’re quoting for a refit of the Dubai Hilton.’

  ‘You’re happy with the design?’

  Amghad waved his hand to indicate the empty lab. ‘A bit Soviet for me, but we can change that if it doesn’t work. Unisex toilets: same thing. I don’t know much about sound damping, but it looks like you’ve done your research.’

  ‘Did you read the specification for the app?’

  ‘The ordering system? I’m leaving the computer stuff to you.’

  Allannah was now collecting Blanche from school following an eyesight-related incident on the tram and subsequent verbal abuse by another passenger. Twice a week one of us would host the other’s child. Allannah thanked me for the animal-sex video. She had found the subject difficult to raise—and, exactly as intended, it had provided background information and prompted Blanche to ask her mother some important questions.

  Allannah had not seen it herself, so I brought my computer and we watched it in her shop.

  ‘I guess as a scientist you don’t get awkward about these things,’ she said as we watched the bonobo orgy.

  ‘All conversations with children are potentially awkward,’ I said, remembering that I had not found a way of communicating the greeting protocol to Hudson. I explained the problem to Allannah.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ she said. ‘And Blanche. I think getting greetings right is a pretty small price to pay for expert help with sex education. And I think she’ll appreciate the advice herself. She can be a bit unsure about that sort of thing too, but it never occurred to me that I could do anything about it.’

  When Rosie arrived home the following evening, Hudson emerged from his bedroom, raised his hand and said, ‘Hey.’ After he had gone to bed, Rosie said, ‘He seemed in a good mood. I think he’s becoming a bit more comfortable in himself.’

  It seemed like an ideal time to review progress. Rosie was aware of the bike-riding, ball-catching and sex-education initiatives, although the impact of the last of these on Hudson had yet to be assessed.

  ‘However,’ I said, ‘it seems to have encouraged Blanche to talk to her mother about the subject.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised that helping Blanche’s mother was part of the project.’

  I sensed criticism. I explained that, in return, Blanche had assisted with the greetings protocol which had, according to Rosie’s assessment, resulted in Hudson’s improved mood and internal comfort.

  ‘You never told me you were working on that.’

  ‘It was slightly embarrassing.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘I guess you guys can have a few secrets between you. As long as that’s all you’re keeping from me.’

  I had prepared further material on vaccination for my next visit to Allannah’s, but, on our arrival, Blanche fetched a shoebox and asked if she could visit our home instead. The shoebox turned out to contain a large dead rat, fortunately not yet malodorous.

  ‘Can we dissect it?’ asked Blanche. ‘It’s only been dead since yesterday. I haven’t touched it—I wrapped it in a tea towel and put it in the fridge.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’ I asked.

  ‘The kitchen. I probably should have put it in the wash afterwards, right?’

  ‘Correct. But my question was imprecise. I was asking about the rat rather than the tea towel.’

  ‘Dad set a trap. To protect the quinoa.’

  ‘I assumed your parents would be opposed to killing animals.’ It was an assumption based on a stereotype, but I guessed that statistics would support it.

  ‘It’s almost impossible to grow and store grain without killing animals. Like rats in the fields. Or bugs. My dad says all animals have souls, so it’s no worse to kill a rat than a bug or a cow.’

  Despite numerous visits to Blanche’s, I had never met her father, the homeopath, who worked upstairs. His choice of profession suggested extreme gullibility, but I had learned that people with irrational beliefs in one domain could be sensible and reliable in others. The animal-soul logic—easily adapted into reasonableness by replacing ‘soul’ with ‘central nervous system’—made sense and I was looking forward to using it in arguments with vegans.

  ‘You’re not vegetarian, then?’ I asked.

  ‘We are, but because of health. We eat fish, though. Sometimes. Not whale, obviously.’

  ‘Whales aren’t fish,’ said Hudson. ‘But you’d get a huge amount of food for one soul.’

  I dissected the rat. Blanche undertook some of the task under my supervision, with Hudson holding her magnifying glass.

  ‘Brilliant work,’ I said to Blanche as we disinfected our hands. ‘You definitely should consider becoming a scientist. Would you like to see a video of how to dissect a larger animal?’

  ‘Blanche has to go home,’ said Hudson.

  Afterwards, Rosie was surprised by Blanche’s continued interest in dissection.

  ‘She’s a weird kid,’ she said. ‘In lots of ways.’

  ‘But also Hudson’s best friend.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘The two things may not be unrelated.’

  Rosie accompanied us on the next visit to my parents’ in Phil’s Toyota.

  My father’s condition appeared unchanged, but my mother advised that, according to the doctor, he was ‘getting very near the end’.

  All three of us went into his room and my father sent Rosie and me out.

  Hudson exited a few minutes later.

  ‘What were you talking about?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘The difference between effect and affect,’ he said. Effect’s usually a noun and affect’s usually a verb, but there are some important exceptions. Do I have an odd affect?’

  ‘Possibly. It’s hard for me to tell because I’m used to you.’

  ‘It wasn’t a question. I was giving you an example of affect as a noun.’

  Hudson continued his explanation while my mother and Rosie made tea. It was good to have a discussion in which hard, unambiguous information was exchanged.

  ‘Pa wants me to remember him every time I see affect or effect used incorrectly.’

  ‘You won’t have to make any effort. It will happen automatically.’

  ‘He also wanted to know if you brought the CD. I think you’ll be in huge trouble if you forgot.’

  I had purchased the recording. My father and I seldom failed to communicate requirements and specifications.

  ‘Look in the rack,’ said my father quietly, indicating the compact-disc collection.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘This one. The Ninth Symphony. It’s not there. Not even the von Karajan version. It’s the last symphony he wrote, and your mother’s hung onto it because she’s got it into her head that after I’ve heard everything, I’ll fall off my twig. So, now I’ve listened to every piece Beethoven wrote—everything that survived, a good number of them more than once—except this. Put it on and let’s see what happens.’

  ‘Do you want me to tell Mum?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Not now.’ He waved his hand to indicate the recordings again. ‘Fifty-six when he died. And all of this. Do you know how he died?’

  ‘No.’ It didn’t seem like information that would ever be useful, but obviously it would have been now in impressing my father.

  ‘He was on his death bed, and there was a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder and he sat bolt upright. And that was the moment he
expired. According to the biography. Not that you can believe these things.’

  My father and I listened in silence for the hour and nineteen minutes. The choral section was familiar, and it seemed like a suitable prelude to a Beethoven-like death. When the display on the CD player indicated that the music was finished, my father was still alive.

  ‘So much for superstition,’ he said. ‘You can tell your mother she was wrong. She ought to know I wouldn’t leave a project unfinished. Put on Opus 27, No. 2. Not the most complex piece but I’ve only been listening to classical music for a few months. If I’d had more time I’d have had a go at Mozart. He’s supposed to be on much the same level.’

  I found the CD—the Moonlight Sonata—and gave it to him to verify.

  ‘Put it on and go and make me a cocktail.’

  ‘You want a cocktail?’

  ‘Do I have to say it twice? You’re the famous New York barman and you’ve never made me one. Do the best you can with what you can find in the cupboard. Make one for yourself and Rosie and your mother, too. Cocktails—who’d have thought you’d have that bent?’ He handed me the disc. ‘You know, I was worried about you, but in the end, you’ve surprised me.’

  I put on the Moonlight Sonata and Rosie and I made Boston sours, the best option with the limited selection of ingredients, and by the time we had made syrup, squeezed the lemons, separated the eggs, poured the whisky and shaken it all with ice, the music was still playing, but my father had died.

  Driving back to Melbourne, much later than planned, due to the need to notify relatives, arrange for the removal of the body and provide emotional support for my mother, Rosie suggested we stop in the town for pizza.

  ‘We’re supposed to be having dinner at home,’ said Hudson.

  ‘We needed to get away,’ said Rosie. ‘Your grandmother didn’t want to eat, and we couldn’t ask her to cook. But I’m starving.’

  Food was definitely necessary. We had finished by drinking the sours, my brother Trevor arriving in time to consume the spare one, and my mother had seemed emotionally stable.

  ‘You said we’d eat at home,’ said Hudson. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it all day.’

  Sunday was the only day on which I cooked separate meals: some variety of red fish for Rosie and meat for Hudson and me. There was a chicken in the refrigerator which was intended to yield sandwiches for Monday and Wednesday. Any disruption was irritating but, on this occasion, Rosie was right.

  ‘Unfortunately, there is insufficient time to drive home and cook and eat without causing lack of sleep and probably indigestion.’

  Rosie had stopped the car outside the pizza restaurant. ‘And it’s a school day tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘I got up late. I can go to bed late.’

  ‘Your dad and I need to eat. We’re getting pizza. You like pizza.’

  ‘Not on Sunday nights. I can skip reading in the morning and get up late.’

  ‘If you can change the morning routine, you can change tonight’s.’

  ‘It’s been a terrible day. Pa died. I want to go home and eat the chicken.’

  ‘It’s been a terrible day for all of us. For Grandma, for…’

  It was obvious that either the argument would continue indefinitely, or Rosie would back down. I was certain Hudson would not change his mind. And I found myself speaking words that seemed to come from some other part of my brain.

  ‘That’s enough. Your mother and I are going inside and getting pizza. You can stay in the car if you want to, or you can come in and either eat or not eat. If you want to get something from the fridge when you get home, that’s up to you. But we’re not going to be held hostage by this behaviour.’

  Rosie looked stunned.

  I got out of the car and walked into the restaurant. Rosie followed, and Hudson stayed in the car. Rosie ordered a small pizza for Hudson and took it out. I did not check whether he ate it: he was asleep on the ride home and Rosie was silent as I drove. I was remembering times where I had been as inflexible as Hudson, involuntarily locked into an unreasonable position. And I remembered—apparently—how my father had dealt with it. On the day that he died, my subconscious had delivered me a reminder that something of him had survived.

  21

  It is recognised—and supported by research—that humans do not generally enjoy public speaking, due to the fear of making some mistake that will be noticed by others. Even as an academic working with familiar material, I had encountered problems.

  Social occasions are even more perilous. I had done my best to persuade my mother that someone else should deliver my father’s eulogy, but she had a compelling counter-argument: ‘I suppose I’ll have to ask your uncle Frank.’

  Uncle Frank had delivered an insulting speech in the guise of humour at my twenty-first birthday and had apparently remained alive since then, although his wife, my aunty Merle, had died while we were in New York. He must now be at least eighty-five, and I suspected any change would be in the negative direction. In the absence of anything hilarious to say about my father, he might use the occasion as an excuse to make jokes about me.

  I had four days to prepare my speech, and suspended the Hudson Project and development of the app for The Library. The latter had, until my father’s death, been occupying almost all of the spare space in my schedule. Now I found myself unable to code. Although my brain did not seem to have a specific emotion that I could call ‘grieving’, my thoughts had been dominated—overwhelmed—by memories of my childhood and my final moments with my father.

  ‘We grieve in different ways,’ said Rosie. ‘I think you’re so…cerebral…that you translate your shock into thinking rather than feeling. If that makes sense.’

  It did. ‘But it’s making the eulogy incredibly difficult to write.’

  ‘Don, you only need to say a few words, maybe tell a couple of stories. You’re getting way too knotted up about this.’ It was 4.58 a.m. and I had disturbed Rosie as I got out of bed to record an idea that might have disappeared if I resumed sleeping.

  She sat up. ‘Hudson will be up in twenty minutes anyway.’

  We made coffee and Rosie sourced a pen and paper.

  ‘Best story about your dad?’

  ‘He didn’t do anything noteworthy.’

  ‘What about the soundproof crib he built for Hudson? That’s a great story. Generous, smart, a bit quirky.’

  ‘You think my father was quirky?’

  ‘Do I think the Pope’s a Catholic? Of course he was quirky. What about the way all the nuts and bolts are organised in the hardware shop?’

  ‘I started that. Forty years ago.’

  ‘That’s a great story too, then. What about listening to all of Beethoven, and dying when he got to the end? You have to finish with that.’

  ‘The funeral attendees will know those things already.’

  ‘You’re not informing them—you’re reminding them. Now, what about something he taught you?’

  ‘He found me frustrating to teach. He used to say, “With all that knowledge of yours”—because I got good marks at school—“why can’t you…?” I was incompetent at numerous physical tasks, which was annoying in the context of assisting in a hardware shop.’

  ‘Really? Your dad expected that being intelligent would make you good at mechanical things?’

  ‘Not exactly. He would have said I lacked common sense. He was probably right. I did some incredibly stupid things.’

  ‘Like Hudson putting the maple syrup in the tools drawer back in New York?’

  ‘Correct. I said some stupid things too—to customers and suppliers. I even knew they were stupid at the time—immediately afterwards.’

  ‘But you got there, right? Your dad persisted. That’s got to be a huge positive you can say about him. Maybe you’ve got some sort of self-deprecating story about screwing up and him teaching you…’

  ‘You could ask Uncle Frank. He would have numerous examples.’

  ‘Hey, don’t get tetchy.
Without your dad, you’d have turned out differently. And you’ve turned out okay. Better than okay. So, you owe him. I do too.’

  ‘When I was six, the other kids had Lego and Meccano sets. But my father made me the world’s best construction set, assembled from commercial hardware items.’

  Rosie’s suggested approach to the eulogy was going well. My voice had, to my surprise and discomfort, been affected by emotion as I started, but it was now under control. The Mechanics’ Institute Hall was almost full: my father had been well known in the community and had continued to assist my brother in the shop until recently. And to my surprise, several people who had met my father on only a few occasions, or not at all, had travelled to Shepparton: Phil, Claudia (‘I’m here for all of the Barrow family’), Dave and Sonia, Laszlo and Frances the Occasional Smoker, and, amazingly, Amghad and Minh, and Simon Lefebvre. Judas. ‘At least he can see I’m taking the day off for something other than Hudson,’ said Rosie. He was sitting beside Claudia, who had dumped him for infidelity and coined his insulting nickname. Unfathomable.

  The construction set had, I now remembered, been jointly used with two other boys on numerous occasions, so my father had indirectly facilitated some social interaction. My own interest had been more in collecting and organising the components, which were augmented on birthdays and at Christmas, than in actual construction.

  I finished with the story of the Beethoven project, then returned to my seat between Rosie and my mother, who was, understandably, crying. My primary emotion was relief: I felt that I had done an acceptable job.

  Then: disaster. The celebrant announced that another relative would be saying ‘a few words’. I had not seen him for years, and he was now physically decrepit, in a wheelchair. With the help of his daughter—my cousin Lynda—he succeeded in pulling himself to his feet to address the crowd.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Hudson, leaning over Rosie.

  ‘Your great-uncle Frank,’ I said. ‘Grandma’s brother. He’s very old and has Alzheimer’s disease. Ignore anything he says.’