Death in Brunswick Read Online Free PDF Page B

her.
    â€˜Really quite well, dear. Now, get a move on, Carl, I’m hungry and I want my breakfast.’
    She left the room and he could hear her in the kitchen making more tea. She was singing.
    He sat for a while with his head in his hands.
    God, those pills must have been strong—what were they? Soneryl? I went out like a…Soneryl—I must look them up—I must get old Mustafa on to them. Shit! No Mustafa.
    Thirstily he drank the lukewarm tea.
    What am I going to do? She’s cracking the whip already—it must be true about the money otherwise she wouldn’t dare. And what was that about Prue?
    He stood swaying. I must see Dave—Dave will know what to do.
    Spurred on by his mother, Carl washed, shaved, went shopping, and, while choking on two pieces of toast, watched nauseated as she ate a large breakfast—kidneys and bacon.
    She lit a Rothman’s Plain.
    â€˜Now, what are you going to do today, Carl?’
    â€˜Well, I have to go to work at five, but I thought I might…’
    â€˜Now, what I wanted to say to you, dear, was your Uncle John is coming at eleven and I really think you should be out.’
    â€˜But, Mother, I wanted to ask him…’
    â€˜No, dear, it’s a lovely day. You should go for a walk. Besides you’d be embarrassed—now off you go, dear.’
    â€˜Oh, all right.’
    He looked at her. She sat, still in her dressing gown but heavily made up, her eyes half closed against the cigarette smoke. She flicked ash into the congealing remains of her breakfast.
    He looked away and got up abruptly.
    â€˜Yeah, I better go out.’
    *
    Gratefully he closed the front door on her. She was playing Mahler again and the triumphant music followed him up the street.
    It was a nice day though. The humidity had gone with the rain and it was pleasantly warm. Turning into Lygon Street, he met the girls from the Red Robin sock factory coming back from their morning tea. He walked behind them for a while, watching their short strong legs. He thought of Sophie. Shit! She was going to ring. He hesitated, then walked on.
    What’s the use, I’m too old for her. She was laughing at me. I’ll have to find someone like Prue, I suppose—someone my age—someone tall and blonde. Anyway Mother wouldn’t…
    Gentle self-pity overcame him. It was not unpleasant in the warm sunlight. As he came to Stewart Street he realized that he was halfway to his friend Dave’s house. I will go and see Dave—he always makes me feel better.
    When Carl could bear to think about it, his friendship with Dave puzzled him. They were so very different. Dave was short and powerful. His arms were literally as thick as Carl’s thighs. He had had polio as a child and it had left him with one leg slightly shorter than the other.
    This gave him an extraordinarily solid, purposeful gait. He and Carl, with his nervous, leggy walk, looked together like a comedy duo.
    Carl was totally apolitical, but Dave had been a committed revolutionary socialist all his adult life and on principle always worked at the hardest, dirtiest jobs. At the moment, to Carl’s distaste, he was a gravedigger.
    They did have some things in common, however: hard drinking and music. Dave loved opera with a real passion and Carl, though too fidgety to go to concerts, loved baroque chamber music. He had a good ear and some taste. They both collected early be-bop records and had a romantic devotion to Charlie ‘Bird’ Parker.
    Some of the happiest nights of Carl’s life had been spent with his friend, drinking huge amounts of whisky and listening to grand opera played on Dave’s expensive stereo. Towards the morning they would listen to Bird and drunkenly mourn that long-dead hero.
    Now these pleasant orgies had stopped. Dave had married and his wife disliked Carl. Still, Dave was Carl’s only friend. Carl knew that Dave laughed at him but he really didn’t