noticed.’
She smiled. ‘Can we go over it all a bit? I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Suits me.’ I spilled some bread out of its wrapper and inspected it for mould. ‘A talk’d be good. I need to know a hell of a lot more about him. Toast?’
We sat and drank coffee and ate toast and she talked about Mountain at length. A picture formed of a wilful, selfish man, but one capable of great emotional generosity. Erica claimed that he had taught her a lot without ever patronising her or making her feel inadequate. She thought he’d make a good teacher.
‘It sounds like a gift all right, but what he wants to be is a great writer, not a teacher. How about that?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s what he wants, that’s true. He wants it so badly.’
‘Does he want it too much to do it?’
‘How do you tell? I never even write a letter. I don’t know what it’s like to write anything. Do you?’
I shook my head.
‘He reads about writers all the time. Literary biography is probably his favourite reading. He says he does it to find out how a writer should behave. When he’s drunk enough ….’
‘Yes?’
‘He curses television, says real writers don’t have anything to do with television.’
‘Certainly didn’t bother Shakespeare.’
‘Don’t joke; you said you wanted to know about him. Well, this was his obsession. Look.’ She pulled the book I’d brought from Blackheath, and completely forgotten about, out from under the morning newspaper. ‘Why did you take this?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s have a look at it.’
The book was a thick paperback biography of Jack Kerouac. The pages were turned down at irregularintervals indicating that Mountain had read it in dribs and drabs and possibly more than once. I looked at his big sprawling signature—a firm hand that he’d tried to disguise when he wrote ‘Bruce Worthington’. The date was printed boldly in figures half an inch high.
‘I hope he wasn’t trying to learn how Kerouac lived. He drank himself to death.’
She nodded. ‘Bill wanted to stop. He tried to a few times, but he couldn’t.’ She pushed back her fringe and gave me an unimpeded straight look. ‘Are you going to try Mal again today, Cliff? Can I come?’
I liked the ‘Cliff’, but I was trying to think of a way to say no, when the book came open at a page that had been turned down at the corner more than once and the binding had been strained by being bent back flat. A couple of paragraphs on the page were heavily underlined in fresh-looking ink. While Erica waited, I read the paragraphs: they described the period, late in Kerouac’s life, when he went to live with his sister and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop drinking. My mind flicked back to what Erica had said about Mountain’s alcohol problem.
‘You said he wanted to give up the grog?’
‘Yes, but he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to write without it. And you know how it is, all his social contacts were drinkers, they met in pubs … he’d have to give up almost everything he did to stop drinking. It was just too hard.’
‘Does he have any relatives?’
She thought about it, which meant lighting another cigarette. ‘A sister, but they’re not close.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Did he ever talk about her?’
‘Mm, not much. She lives in Melbourne and she’s pretty straight. Bill called her something strange, something old-fashioned. A wowser.’
‘Wowser is old-fashioned?’
‘Is to me. Why? What’s his sister got to do with it?’
I showed her the passage in the book about Kerouacdrying out with the dried-up sister. It seemed too thin and fanciful to even be called a lead, but if I followed it I could at least get off on my own and do some investigating in my own style. My old mate Grant Evans was currently nudging his way up the police preferment ladder in Melbourne, and I could have a quiet word about stolen hire cars with him without alerting Bernsteins and Woodwards. I’d
She smiled. ‘Can we go over it all a bit? I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to do.’
‘Suits me.’ I spilled some bread out of its wrapper and inspected it for mould. ‘A talk’d be good. I need to know a hell of a lot more about him. Toast?’
We sat and drank coffee and ate toast and she talked about Mountain at length. A picture formed of a wilful, selfish man, but one capable of great emotional generosity. Erica claimed that he had taught her a lot without ever patronising her or making her feel inadequate. She thought he’d make a good teacher.
‘It sounds like a gift all right, but what he wants to be is a great writer, not a teacher. How about that?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s what he wants, that’s true. He wants it so badly.’
‘Does he want it too much to do it?’
‘How do you tell? I never even write a letter. I don’t know what it’s like to write anything. Do you?’
I shook my head.
‘He reads about writers all the time. Literary biography is probably his favourite reading. He says he does it to find out how a writer should behave. When he’s drunk enough ….’
‘Yes?’
‘He curses television, says real writers don’t have anything to do with television.’
‘Certainly didn’t bother Shakespeare.’
‘Don’t joke; you said you wanted to know about him. Well, this was his obsession. Look.’ She pulled the book I’d brought from Blackheath, and completely forgotten about, out from under the morning newspaper. ‘Why did you take this?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s have a look at it.’
The book was a thick paperback biography of Jack Kerouac. The pages were turned down at irregularintervals indicating that Mountain had read it in dribs and drabs and possibly more than once. I looked at his big sprawling signature—a firm hand that he’d tried to disguise when he wrote ‘Bruce Worthington’. The date was printed boldly in figures half an inch high.
‘I hope he wasn’t trying to learn how Kerouac lived. He drank himself to death.’
She nodded. ‘Bill wanted to stop. He tried to a few times, but he couldn’t.’ She pushed back her fringe and gave me an unimpeded straight look. ‘Are you going to try Mal again today, Cliff? Can I come?’
I liked the ‘Cliff’, but I was trying to think of a way to say no, when the book came open at a page that had been turned down at the corner more than once and the binding had been strained by being bent back flat. A couple of paragraphs on the page were heavily underlined in fresh-looking ink. While Erica waited, I read the paragraphs: they described the period, late in Kerouac’s life, when he went to live with his sister and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop drinking. My mind flicked back to what Erica had said about Mountain’s alcohol problem.
‘You said he wanted to give up the grog?’
‘Yes, but he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to write without it. And you know how it is, all his social contacts were drinkers, they met in pubs … he’d have to give up almost everything he did to stop drinking. It was just too hard.’
‘Does he have any relatives?’
She thought about it, which meant lighting another cigarette. ‘A sister, but they’re not close.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Did he ever talk about her?’
‘Mm, not much. She lives in Melbourne and she’s pretty straight. Bill called her something strange, something old-fashioned. A wowser.’
‘Wowser is old-fashioned?’
‘Is to me. Why? What’s his sister got to do with it?’
I showed her the passage in the book about Kerouacdrying out with the dried-up sister. It seemed too thin and fanciful to even be called a lead, but if I followed it I could at least get off on my own and do some investigating in my own style. My old mate Grant Evans was currently nudging his way up the police preferment ladder in Melbourne, and I could have a quiet word about stolen hire cars with him without alerting Bernsteins and Woodwards. I’d
Similar Books
