The Nest Page 3
Brother Gordon rose from his knees and saw a large black key attached to his habit belt by a chain. He had never seen it before but he knew at once which door the key opened.
That night he lit a candle and quietly snuck along the corridor to The Door of His Desire. Without taking the key from his belt he inserted it into the lock. The door swung open before him. He saw a flight of stone steps leading down to an enormous cellar. Brother Gordon quietly closed the door behind him and crept down the steps. To his delight he found that the cellar walls were lined with at least one thousand bottles of the finest champagne.
Overhead was a large sign which said:
KNEEL
AND
RECITE THE POEM
‘THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER’
BEFORE DRINKING A BOTTLE
The poem was written out in full beneath the sign. It appeared to have around a hundred and fifty verses, most with four lines per verse.
Brother Gordon salivated. He had not had a drink for a quarter of a century. The bottles called to him like sirens. He could remember some of the poem from his days at school. It was something about a sailor who was adrift on a ship that had run out of drinking water.
Like the mariner of old, Brother Gordon couldn’t wait for a drink. He reached for the nearest bottle but just as his hand was about to close on the neck, the cork shot out and sprayed the champagne all over him. The contents were totally wasted.
He reached for the next bottle in the rack but the same thing happened and the cork shot out like a cannon ball. Poor Brother Gordon was soaked once more.
This time he decided to obey the sign. He knelt and began to recite the poem. He read quickly but by the time he reached the end of Part I, the demon drink began to call him loudly indeed. He tried to ignore it and read on:
God save thee, ancient Mariner,
From the fiends that plague thee thus! –
Why look’st thou so? – ‘With my crossbow
I shot the Albatross.’
Brother Gordon couldn’t wait any longer. He ran to the wine rack to grab a bottle but it exploded in his face.
‘Damn,’ he said. He dropped back to his knees and continued reading:
And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work ’em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
Brother Gordon’s throat grew dry but he read on:
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
Oh, the word ‘drink’ nearly drove Brother Gordon crazy but he ploughed on until he had finished all one hundred and forty-four verses of the poem. It had taken him half an hour.
He lunged for a bottle, grabbed it and popped the cork. He drank the contents. It made his head spin. Brother Gordon would have liked another bottle but he was exhausted. He couldn’t read even one more verse. He walked up the steps, locked the cellar door behind him and quietly made his way, unseen, back to his tiny cell.
The next night Brother Gordon was again tortured by thoughts of champagne. He crept silently along the corridor and let himself into the cellar of a thousand bottles. He knelt and recited ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ without stopping. Then, with trembling fingers, he reached for a bottle of champagne. Before he could touch it, the cork shot out and sprayed him with the contents. The alcohol was wasted. He tried again and the same thing happened. There was only one thing to do. Hurriedly Brother Gordon began to recite the terrible poem for a second time that night:
Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
The words tumbled out until he was finished. Immediately Brother Gordon reached for another bottle and grasped it firmly. He removed the cork and drank the contents. His head grew light from the bubbles. Once again he crept back to his cell. He knew in his heart that to get the third bottle he would have to recite the poem three times. It was the way this demon worked.
On the third night Brother Gordon recited the poem three times and was rewarded with a beautiful bottle of champagne.
On the fourth night Brother Gordon recited the poem four times and was rewarded with another fine bottle. On the fifth night Brother Gordon recited ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ five times. And on the sixth he recited it six times. Each time he was rewarded with an unexploded bottle. The verses spun crazily in his head:
The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea!
Each reading of the whole poem took around half an hour. By the tenth night Brother Gordon was growing tired. It hardly seemed worth reciting ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner’ ten times just for one bottle of champagne. But by this time the demon drink had him by the balls and he couldn’t stop himself. He hesitantly made a few attempts at opening a bottle without reciting the poem the correct number of times but it always exploded in his face.
As the days passed Brother Gordon grew weaker and weaker. His knees were red from kneeling before the bottles. He looked along the rows of champagne and knew that this could not continue. More and more of each night was being gobbled up by the recitations. But he was hooked. He wanted to stop the repetitive poetry readings but his desire for drink was too strong.
Brother Gordon was good at maths and figured out that on the sixteenth night he would be spending eight hours reciting before the bottles. He would get no sleep at all. Something had to be done. He couldn’t stay up every night reading the poem. The poor monk was desperate. If there was no champagne he would not be able to drink it.
On the sixteenth night Brother Gordon reached out for a bottle of champagne without reciting. It sprayed all over him wasting the contents. He touched the next bottle and the same thing happened. Quickly he moved along the racks touching each bottle in turn. Explosions filled the air like shots from a repeating rifle as he hurried along the rows. The floor ran with champagne. His habit was drenched. But in the end every bottle was exhausted. There was not another drop to be had.
He crept up the stairs and paused to look back. To his amazement he saw that the racks of champagne had gone. In their place were a thousand beds and on each bed was a naked woman. Brother Gordon shook his head and made a vow never to return. A single verse echoed in his head as he left:
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.
The monk hurriedly stepped out of The Door of His Desire for the last time. He reached for the key but found that it was no longer hanging from his belt. The door had locked itself. The first rays of sunrise glowed from a high window in the corridor. An image of a full bottle of champagne floated into Brother Gordon’s head.
‘Damn it,’ he said.
He decided to leave the monastery forever. Just to be on the safe side. Running away from the problem seemed to be the only way of avoiding it.
At that moment he saw a figure lurking nearby. It was Brother Theo who had been watching from the shadows.
‘Have you been through The Door of Your Desire, Brother Gordon?’ he asked.
Brother Gordon nodded guiltily.
Brother Theo grinned and held up a black key. ‘I have prayed for my heart’s desire and have the key,’ he said eagerly. ‘What will I get beyond the door, Brother?’
An image of the thousand naked women flitted across Brother Gordon’s mind. ‘More than you expect, Brother Theo,’ he said. ‘More than you expect.’
THE NEST
2
It’s a week since I left Charlie kissing the moon. Dad and I dr
ive down the mountain in his old Land Rover to Bright Dale. We need groceries and supplies for the workshop. We travel without speaking because Dad needs to concentrate when he’s driving on icy roads. This suits me fine because I’ve got so many problems to think about. Ever since I ran away from Charlie I’ve been weighed down by guilt. I insulted her. If I turn what happened around and imagine that I’d had the guts to try and kiss her and she’d turned away, I’d have been so humiliated that I’d never have been able to look at her again. And, to make it even worse, I still haven’t got the money I promised her.
I put my hand inside my T-shirt and wrap my fingers around Mum’s ring. Because the old man knows I have it, I keep it on a chain around my neck. Feeling it now gets me thinking. I create a little picture in my mind where I’m giving it to Charlie as an engagement ring. It’s a few years down the track and I’ve just published a book that has instantly become a bestseller. Charlie has finished university and we’re both free to do whatever we like. She’s thrilled when she sees the ring and throws her arms around my neck with joy.
I’d have to take the ring to the jeweller’s and have it professionally cleaned first though.
My daydream is rudely interrupted when Dad hits the brakes at a set of traffic lights. We’re there. He pulls into the car park behind the main street and then takes off to buy some tools and have a drink in the pub.
‘Don’t waste your money on books and crap that just fills your head with nonsense,’ he says.
‘What money?’ I say. He doesn’t take the hint.
Bright Dale has more shops every time we visit. The highway to Sydney cuts straight through the middle of the town but there’s talk of creating a bypass which the locals don’t want. The shops, including those that hire out ski gear, snow chains and warm clothing line the road together with cafés and places flogging souvenirs to the throngs of tourists. A supermarket and a cluster of office buildings are behind the main street to the north. Just outside town to the east is the school and to the west is the industrial area. There are three pubs – Dad’s favourite watering hole is The Vic.
Expensive cars with skis on the roof hardly slow as they roar through the town. The caffelatte crowd don’t stop in Bright Dale; they own all their own gear and have everything they need for a week on the slopes. The day visitors with kids mostly hire their equipment down here because it’s cheaper than on the mountain.
I pass a family standing around an old station wagon warming themselves with thick mugs of coffee poured from a thermos. My feet take me slowly to the place that I’ve been thinking about for most of the morning. I push open the door of the jeweller’s shop and wait while a guy and his girlfriend are being served. They’re buying a wedding ring and take ages looking at just about everything in the shop. After what seems like forever they leave without making a purchase. My hand trembles as I put my mother’s engagement ring on the counter in front of the owner and I hear myself utter the saddest words of my life: ‘How much?’
The jeweller, who is a middle-aged guy, doesn’t seem too happy that he just missed a sale. He picks up my ring and examines it through a magnifying glass. Then he looks at me over the top of his glasses. ‘It’s worth around four hundred. Maybe a little more. Whose is it anyway?’
‘My mother’s.’ I can hardly believe I just said that.
‘I can’t buy it without her permission,’ he says, handing it back to me.
‘She’s … gone,’ I say, blinking quickly as tears threaten to fill my eyes.
‘Your father then. I’m sorry, son, but it could be stolen. Do you want to sell it or not? You’ll have to bring your father in. I can’t buy it without ID showing the name and address of the adult who’s selling it.’
‘Please, it’s really important. It’s mine, I swear it. My mother left it to me when my parents split up.’
He shakes his head. ‘Can’t do it, son. Sorry.’
I emerge into the crisp air and the bright sunshine where the mood of the happy weekend crowd just increases my inner misery. At least I’ve still got the ring. I vowed I’d never part with it, and I won’t.
But then this tiny glow of imaginary warmth is extinguished. I’ll never make it up to Charlie if I can’t sell it – she won’t forgive me for a second betrayal. I start to talk to myself, putting the case for each side:
— Try to sell the ring. Get Dad to sign the papers.
— Forget about Charlie. She’s only a girl. The ring might lead me to my mother.
— But what about the Somali kids? They’re already looking forward to their holiday. And Charlie will look like an idiot when she can’t produce the money.
— Mum wouldn’t want me to sell her ring.
— Yes, she would. She would understand. She’s my mother.
I feel like a trapped rat – whichever way I turn I’ll hurt someone. It’s a lose-lose situation.
I take a fifty-cent coin out of my pocket and run my fingers around its edges. I could toss up and let fate decide – heads I keep the ring and tails I approach Dad to sign the papers. He’d be glad to get rid of the ring once and for all. I realise with a start that I’m standing outside Jackson’s second-hand bookshop, looking in the window without knowing it. I’m staring at an old book. The author’s name is in big print at the top: Noel Coward.
Coward! That’s me. The name is telling me something. I have to make the decision about the ring myself. Tossing up is a coward’s way out. I can’t just spin a coin and then blame the result on fate. My eye travels to the title of the book: Look After Lulu. Another alliterative title springs into my mind: Choose Charlie. Suddenly I know what I have to do. Charlie and the kids from Somalia are more important than an object, even if it’s a precious ring, and no matter how much I love her, Mum’s gone and I have to accept it.
I walk to the pub where Dad’s sitting in a corner drinking a light beer. The Vic is the only pub in town that doesn’t have ready-cooked food and heaps of tables for the hungry hordes of skiers when they head home from the snowfields. It’s tucked into a back street and inside is quite small with just one long bar and carpet that stinks of stale beer. A few farmers and truckies sit on stools at the counter. At the end of the room is a large screen flickering with the violent images of a boxing match. The blows make me wince and I try not to look. I place the ring on the table. The old man stares at it. One of his eyebrows starts to twitch.
‘What?’ he growls. Behind his thick glasses his eyes are smouldering.
‘The jeweller’s offered me four hundred dollars for it – maybe a little more. I need your permission.’
‘You’re selling it? The thing you searched for all night in the snow? That you vowed never to part with? I don’t believe it. What do you want the money for? Have you got that girl pregnant? Or is it drugs? Good grief, as if I haven’t got enough troubles already.’
‘Dad, it’s nothing like that. I just want to sell it, that’s all. I know how much it upsets you.’
His eyebrow stops twitching. He seems pleased at this news. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You’ll need ID,’ I tell him.
He drains his glass and we march over to the jeweller’s. ‘This is mine,’ he says curtly, putting the ring on the counter and slapping his driver’s licence down. ‘I want five hundred for it. That’s less than half what I paid for it in the first place. Take it or leave it.’
The two men look at each other and the jeweller decides that my father won’t negotiate. He reaches under the counter, takes out a form and places it on the bench.
‘Fill this in while I get your money.’
I’m relieved that I’ll soon have the money for Charlie, but I feel as if I’ve sold my mother’s soul. I’ve eased one pain by creating another. The weight in my heart has grown even heavier.
Dad walks out with me, counting the money as he goes. He peels off a one hundred dollar note and hands it to me.
‘Here you go,’ he says. ‘Like I said, don’t fritter it away on nothing.’
‘What you want and what you get are two different things.’
‘It’s my ring, not yours. You never wanted it, you threw it out.’
‘I bought it,’ he says. ‘And I want my money back. Think yourself lucky you’ve got a hundred.’
Defiantly I start to walk back into the shop.
‘Where are you going?’ he demands.
‘I’m going to tell the jeweller it’s stolen. He’ll call the police.’
I’ve never stood up to him like this before. He’s quivering with anger but I can tell there’s more to it than that.
An old lady with a pram has stopped and is listening to the exchange as if it’s a bit of street theatre.
‘Have it your own way,’ he snaps. ‘Selfish as always, just like your mother.’
He suddenly drops the rest of the money onto the ground without a word and storms off towards the supermarket to buy the groceries. Why did he change his mind? What is he scared of?
The journey home is hideous. The feelings of resentment between me and Dad kill any form of communication for the first hour or so. Not that I care. I’ve got plenty to think about anyway. I did the right thing by selling the ring. I never break a promise, and it’s good to help the Somalis. But it hurts. It hurts bad. Just as we reach the snowline the old man suddenly pulls the car to the side of the road and switches off the motor.
‘You’ve got her hairbrush too, haven’t you?’ he growls.
‘No,’ I say instinctively. There’s no way I’m giving him the hairbrush.
‘Ha!’ he exclaims.
‘What?’
‘You glanced up. A liar always glances up before they speak.’
‘Try me again.’
He thinks about this for a few seconds and his face hardens.
‘Okay, repeat after me: “I do not have my mother’s hairbrush”.’