"...at half past four"

Peter MacGregor

My legs were tiring and my chest had become painfully tight. My bag was heavy. No longer under the protection of shop awnings, I was running on uneven ground, kicking up water from black puddles on the side of the road.

I tripped and fell, rolling onto my back, my stomach gripped tight by nausea.

A car slowed and pulled off the road. It had an old number plate: CSE067. It was white, or light blue in colour, small, British, with the steel bumper and curves of forty years back — straight out of Heartbeat. The protruding tail-lights were amber beacons, lighting the rain-shafts as they spat at the ground in front of me.

I got to my feet. The driver had opened the passenger door. He looked respectable enough, half my age with shoulder length hair, hand-me-down blue jeans and a Tooheys beer t-shirt half tucked in.

I tried not to stare at the birthmark just below his hairline; it looked like congealed blood.

"Where y' goin', mate?" he said. He handed me a beach towel.

"Just to the bus terminal. It's probably, oh, not quite two kilometres straight along here." I wiped off the worst of the mud and handed back the towel. "Thanks."

"So, just over a mile or so, eh?"

"Ah, yeah that's right," I said. Funny for a bloke so young to talk in miles.

"Throw your bag over onto the back seat, mate." He stretched over to push the door open a bit wider.

"Thanks."

"Where ya head'n' for?"

He watched me as I shook more rain from my trailing leg and settled onto the passenger seat. "Ah, Inverell." I was shivering, and feeling wet and unclean. I moved my feet in closer so my upper legs were partly above the seat.

"Don't worry about it; it wipes off. Get comfortable. Inverell, you said?"

"That's right. Your heater works well."

"Yeah, relax. Mate, you just struck the jackpot. I'm heading for Moree. I don't know if you've heard the weather reports, but just about anything west of here is cut. Two choices: up the New England as far as Uralla, then across to Bundarra, to Inverell and across, or all the way up to Glen Innes and across. What do ya reckon?"

"Well... No, I couldn't. Just to the bus stop's fine, thanks."

"Bullshit! I could do with some company." He rubbed the birthmark a couple of times, then returned his hand to the steering wheel. "What are you goin' to Inverell for, on a night like this?"

He looked okay. Moree. We were practically neighbours. "My sister," I said at last. "Her husband died of cancer last year. I come down to Tamworth and visit her some weekends."

He slapped his forehead. "Yeah. Sorry. No business of mine."

We were getting to the outskirts of town. He switched on the car's high beams and accelerated smoothly up to cruising speed.

"You don't drive, mate?" he asked.

"I do. Car's in dock. Too many kilometres on her, I'm afraid."

He turned his head toward me. "Sure. Anyway, what should a bloke call ya, mate? Two and a half hours or so, especially in this weather. Can't just say hey you all evening."

"My name's Paul, Paul Harrison. And —"

"You're joking!" he said. "Just like two Beatles in one, eh? D'you like 'em that much?"

"It's my real name." But he was chuckling.

"Yeah. Fair enough," he said. "I like Elvis better. My name's Graham." He slowed a little to increase the distance between us and the car ahead, then leaned over to shake hands. "Graham Welch. Like Raquel, eh? Wow!" He laughed.

"Oh." I settled back in my seat, determined to enjoy the ride if I could. Graham was a bit of a character, I thought. Did he really have such an affinity with vintage icons, or was he having a lend of me.

I took inventory of the car rather than trying to make small talk with this curious young man: two flat bucket seats that almost joined in the middle, real wood on the dash, a parcel shelf below the glove-box that in my youth would have been used to elevate sweaty thong-clad feet. A gear lever as thin as a pencil stuck out of a transmission tunnel halfway as high as Uluru. Round dials with real levers behind real glass.

"I like your car," I said finally. "An old Hillman Minx isn't it? One of the later ones. Around nineteen-sixty-four?"

"When-I-get-older, losing-my-hair," he sang. "Very close, mate, it's a sixty-three. But, no, not a Minx. She's a well preserved Sunbeam Rapier. Part of the Rootes Group. But the sporty model."

"It's certainly in good condition, all right. A very nice car. Did you restore it?"

"Restore it? Mate, my dad bought it new. Turned it over to me when I got my licence. I've tried to look after it."

"I'm a bit of a fan of the old Rootes Group; my first car was a Hillman Super Minx."

He turned his head. I couldn't see his face, but it felt like I was getting a funny look. "Got your license pretty late, mate," he said.

He drove on. The rain was getting heavier. He put his wipers on high speed.

"Same wipers as the Minx," I said.

"Get off it!" came the reply.

The driving was difficult. Heavy rain washed across the windscreen and many oncoming vehicles failed to dip their headlights. Graham slowed, respecting the conditions, and reached forward to turn on the radio. He found a station playing old rock-and-roll music. He settled back, singing along to a Crash Craddock number.

"Elvis Presley?" I said.

Graham glanced sideways and scowled into the dark. "No, mate, Crash Craddock."

"Sounds like Elvis Presley."

"You like Elvis?"

"Yeah... I prefer his older stuff, like the one that's on."

"That's Crash Craddock, I tell ya, Billy 'Crash' Craddock. Know what you mean, though. Good old stuff. Elvis's getting a bit morbid these days."

He returned his attention to the road. There was a slow moving van in front. Looked like an old Kombi. Graham seemed to be watching for an opportunity to overtake.

I figured we'd been travelling for about half an hour. The clock on the dash said around five past eight. Not exactly like my first car, I thought. The clock was smaller. Instead a big tacho had pride of place. But the rocker switchers were the same, yeah and all of them the same as each other. No ergonomics here, mate.

"Most of the knobs are the same."

"What?"

"On the dash. Very similar to the ones on the Hillman Minx."

Graham scratched inside his left ear, glared at me, suppressing a grin, then changed back to third gear as we crept up a steep hill behind the van. "You know, you really are a bastard," he said.

"Good torque for a Minx," I said, my head still half-turned to the window.

As a song faded out, I thought I heard a train whistle. I looked to the indistinct hills to my left. I couldn't see anything. And when we left the hills, I thought, I'd see nothing of the wheat which should be about a foot high now; at least Hughie timed it right this year. It would be lovely to see sheep up to their ears in lucerne all the way home.

"Watch this." Graham changed to second, floored the accelerator; the engine screamed in tune to the song on the radio, Skyyyyyy Pilot! He started pulling out — and we were immediately greeted by a set of high beams. "Shit!" He braked, untidily in the wet.

We seemed to be forever on the wrong side of the road. The other headlights kept getting brighter. The birthmark on his forehead seemed to be glowing, as the light from the oncoming truck contrasted the mark's lumpy purple with the rest of his unlined pale brow. Finally he pulled back in behind the van.

"I drive very smoothly," I said.

"Yeah, when your car ain't in dock."

We both kept up the banter until the music from the car radio began to penetrate again. The Beach Boys sang "Heroes and Villains", the Beatles "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", Bobby Goldsborough sang one of his interchangeable sentimental things.

* * *

I think I dozed for a while.

My head bumped against the window and the BeeGees were singing "Words". The rain was still pelting down. I started humming along with the music, occasionally wailing a few words out loud.

Graham slowed the car as we approached a town. The light was distorted by the constant wet film across the windscreen (I could have stirred him about the quality of his demister, too). It had to be Uralla. We'd go bush now. I hoped no other roads had been cut since Graham had heard those traffic reports. I'd heard nothing on the Tamworth station we were tuned to. Just non-stop golden oldies with minimal commentary.

We crawled through Uralla. Visibility was not good. It was hard to see other cars. I could make out the outlines of familiar buildings. And a few — very few — figures hurrying along, hunched over against the weather. In mid-August Uralla was cold as well as wet. Driving through, I could feel it through the glass.

We turned left, leaving civilisation behind us. We'd be home in — given the conditions — say an hour and a half. Earlier than if I'd caught the bus, which would have gone up via Glen Innes. I'd be home before Robyn could worry about picking me up from the terminal. I'd be home to a big hug and a lingering kiss, then stretching out in front of the TV for a little while before bed. Maybe some left-over salmon patties or whatever was on offer, washed down with a glass or two of our finest cask wine.

"Graham, you probably don't drink, but when I've been workin' too hard I remind myself of these words of an old poem:

Till charged with ale and unconcern,
you think it's noon at half past four."

"Kenneth Slessor," he said.

"You sure? I thought it was Lawson. Old Henry didn't mind a drop, they reckon."

"No, mate. Slessor. I've got a book called Beer, Glorious Beer by Cyril Pearl and it's the first quotation in the book."

"Oh, right —"

I looked across at Graham's fuzzy grey silhouette. Apart from his occasional impenetrable attempt at humour we seemed to understand each other a hell of a lot better than most people a generation apart.

The radio signal was fading.

"Try Inverell," I suggested.

"What — 2NZ isn't it?"

"Yeah, I like it better than the other one."

"Paul, Inverell's only got one wireless station," he said.

"They've got the FM station."

"Piss off!"

And it dawned on me: original Sunbeam Rapier AM radio. No FM here, mate. His dry sense of humour again. "Sorry, Graham," I said, "Used to Hillman Minx dials, eh?"

He threw an imaginary brick in my direction.

He found 2NZ and the familiar voice of Greg Kachel. I wondered how long Kache had been part of the air-waves out from Inverell. Not as long as this car had been on the road, but quite a while...thirty years maybe? Kache seemed very chirpy tonight. But, perversely, not as confident as usual, a couple of uncharacteristic stumbles. Still, it was the same old Kache.

* * *

I stirred as the car slowed. The rain had eased. Bundarra. I wearily gazed at the sparse shops, the two old cars and one 4X4 parked along my side of the main street. Just surviving, unchanging, like a page out of history.

The rain eased to a light drizzle as we drove the last thirty miles. I must have dropped off again, because the next thing I knew we were coming in to Inverell. Graham was shaking me.

"I said, which way mate?"

"Sorry. Ah, left... to the left. Bannockburn Road. Do you know it?"

"Over the town bridge, couple of streets after that, on the right?"

"That's it. But just drop me off after we get over the bridge. I'll walk up the —"

"Don't be silly. Just point out the house," said Graham.

"Thanks."

A sense of impending danger jerked me fully alert. "Graham, aren't we —" going too fast, I almost said. To go through the roundabout.

There was no roundabout.

Past Graham's head I could see the old Catholic Church. The one I used to joke about, because it was pulled down after I was married in it.

The trip along Otho Street was quick tonight: the speed bumps were gone...

I put my head in my hands, rubbed my temples hard.

Was it because of this car that I was in? Would everything return to normal when I got out of the car? It had to. Needed a rest. Hadn't really got a rest this weekend. Stress. Yeah. Stress does funny things sometimes.

"Bannockburn Road, you said?"

We rumbled over the town bridge — the old town bridge; this car's suspension, I thought, old as it was, wouldn't feel like this going over the new bridge.

I was nearly home now and things should have been looking — and feeling — familiar — twenty-first century familiar. I should have had a smile on my face, this close to home. But my jaw was tight and when I closed my eyes again I could feel them twitching behind the lids.

I directed Graham to what I hoped was our place. We pulled up outside a Federation cottage. It used to be Robyn's parents', before her father died and her mother went to the nursing home.

I thanked Graham profusely and tried to put some money into his hand.

"Piss off!"

I pulled my suitcase over the back seat, pushed the door open, stepped out and closed the door. I started shivering. The frosty air was chilling the anxious sweat in the middle of my back.

Through the glass Graham's head looked ghostly until he wound down the window and I could see his smiling face. "Paul, I'll wait. In case you can't get in."

"What? No, I'm home now. Thanks again, Graham. Hope that old Minx makes it to Moree."

"Bastard." And he was gone.

I tugged at the rusted latch on the low gate. Yes. This was my home. Robyn would be surprised at my early arrival. Her eyes would light up. Her kiss would be sweet. She'd chastise me for the mud on my clothes. But she'd cuddle me, then send me for a quick shower. I could almost taste the cheap wine and the left-overs in front of the TV.

But where was the rose garden I'd put in? And the new paint job? Where was the sheen of the fresh oil on the verandah boards?

I was sweating again.

The house lights were on. I could see the old swing-seat in its usual place on the verandah. But the seat didn't look old. And there was no screen door.

I looked around and almost turned away; this house, my home, was bare of any touches I had added.

I breathed deeply and stepped forward. I grasped the fox terrier-shaped knocker and rapped, tentatively.

I heard rapid, light footfalls. The outside light came on. The door opened.

The woman in front of me could have been little older than I am: fifty-five at most. But it was my mother-in-law. Her voice. Her walk. Her face. In their photo albums. Not in my memories. I'd never seen her quite this young. She didn't look like Robyn. Not that much. Robyn was taller, thinner, just as pretty but different. Robyn was an even mix of her mother and her father.

Like the young woman standing behind her.

"What's up, Mum? Who's there?"

She looked like a schoolgirl. Her clear, blue, almond-shaped eyes have never altered in the twenty-odd years I've known her. The eyes that now stared out into the night were the same, only impossibly younger.

I felt my own eyes becoming moist.

"There's nobody there, love. Could've sworn I heard the door."

"You missed a newsflash, Mum. There was a bad accident on the New England Highway. A young man was killed, they said he hit the windscreen. The police haven't released his name but they said he was from Moree."

"Oh, dear, how awful." My mother-in-law turned away, pushing the door closed behind her.

I stumbled away from the light, backed down the steps off the veranda, shuffled back over the cracked concrete path, fumbled with the old gate.

I gripped my bag tightly. I took one look back then ran, madly, all the way to the main road. Turning right, I started up the hill. Half falling, I scrabbled on my hands and knees, tore my trousers, scrambled to my feet, ran again, past familiar houses and unfamiliar gardens.

Short of breath, I leaned against a weathered paling fence, under a lamp-post. I picked up a piece of old newspaper, soggy, smelling stale, of wrapped garbage pulled apart by dogs. Page three, Thursday; the month was August, August 14; but the year was 1975.

My eyes moistened again. I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped my eyes. I blew my nose. Robyn bought me this handkerchief. I thought about all the handkerchiefs she had bought for me in the last twenty-four years. I put it away, and then wiped away fresh tears with the back of my hand.

"Hey, Paul, over here!"

I looked back over my left shoulder, at a car sitting across the road. It was illuminated by traffic coming into town from the west. A white, or light blue car, and the number plate was CSE067.

"You waited."

"I said I would."

I started picking up my bag.

"You won't need that any more."

"I guess not."

I looked both ways — a habit I could afford to break now — and crossed to the car.

I settled myself in. "Graham, when did I — ?"

"It was your heart, mate, in Tamworth, when you fell. I can't pick up live hitch-hikers these days."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have believed me?"

"Yeah," I paused, listening to the raindrops on the car's roof. "Graham, why is this 1975?"

Graham shrugged.

"It's always 1975 for me, Paul."

I thumbed the radio dial as he put the car in gear.

Peter MacGregor is originally from Newcastle. He was a paid captive to a bank for 34 years, leaving four years ago to escape excessive Newspeak and to help care for his wife's mother. He has also been patching up her 1903 Inverell home. Peter has been married 25 years and has three boys: one a graphic artist and two at uni. He has reinvented himself as a paid handyman since his mother-in-law was recently admitted to nursing home. His previous publications include an article on living with Alzheimer's published in The Majellan magazine in 2005 which was also used as a feature by local paper for Dementia Awareness week. His fiction to date includes a short-short (involving Alzheimer's) forthcoming at AntiSF Issue 97 (June). This is his first paid fiction publication.