Holden's Performance by Murray Bail Read Free Book Online

deepest recesses of the gasping houses—air-conditioning on a grand scale, a peculiarity of Adelaide.
    Holden first entered the cul-de-sac soon after receiving the bike. He'd climbed Magill Road, turning right before Bennett's Pottery; and after pressing an electric bell Vern's welcome was so matter-of-fact, as though he was already a regular, that he pedalled up several times a week, straight from school. With the arrival of the soldier the visits tapered off; but now that the corporal preferred talking to his mother in the kitchen, he began returning to the cul-de-sac again.
    To Holden the house occupied a rare position. It was distant, it was ‘farther-off’. From there you could look out and across. And the fact that his uncle lived there alone and remained at home during the day were other novelties; approaching the cul-de-sac, Holden felt the thrill of the many expectations. The house faced the sun at an unexpected angle and everything inside, including the chairs and tables, was in an unusual—different for him—position. Ensconced between the walls his uncle looked away when he spoke, beginning sentences, ‘As a matter of fact…’
    This man wanted to isolate tilings, to clarify them. He never stopped asking questions which in turn made Holden ask questions. His uncle could spell out and pronounce the longest Welsh word in the world. Together they looked up the origins of Mercury , the presider over roads. There was a reason for everything. He always had something to show Holden. Having so much information at his fingertips had left them blackened. He handled words. Fact-collector, establisher of facts, walking atlas and almanac; and still he kept looking out for more.
    Frog-marching the bicycle-boy outside Hartnett pointed to the weathercock. Nothing could be more accurate than a weathercock. But that wasn't it. Those same Roman letters fixed on the spokes which marked the four corners of the earth spelt out (explained with a pencil and paper) his profession. Which was?
    NEWS
    â€˜So there you go. It only dawned on me yesterday morning.’
    Happily Holden joined in. ‘Africa!’
    â€˜What's that? Where?’
    The boy had second thoughts. ‘Doesn't matter…’
    It wasn't exactly hard and fast: just that with the sun behind his uncle, casting his face in darkness, the flaxen hemispheres of hair on either side combined with his tapering chin to form the shape of the dark continent they'd been studying at school. His teeth which generated the aerosol spray pinpointed the Victoria Falls.
    Holden measured a faint smile. He could be as clever as his uncle.
    It took many months to acclimatise to his uncle's world. Presented with a front-door key he taped it under the seat of his bike. Often he rode up late in the afternoon, knowing the house would be empty, and in the curtained silence moved through the rooms, inspecting and replacing personal objects. He opened cupboards and drawers, and went outside. Thinking he had memorised everything he was pleasantly startled when an unknown object or a fresh piece of information fell into his hands.
    The backyard had a special attraction. Holden spent as much time there as inside the house. Life-size statues had been planted at set intervals, quite a crowd, and moving among them he felt their stern gaze, transfixing him from all angles.
    Cities erect statues to their prominent citizens. In the older European cities the exemplary figures in bronze virtually outnumber their living descendants. Adelaide had its statues to English monarchs, statesmen and town-planners. Standing on municipal lawns and under evergreens, or half blocking the foot-path along North Terrace, they supplied a continuity with the past and an example to the present. ‘I've done something similar,’ Holden's uncle confided. ‘I see nothing wrong with putting another man up on a pedestal. On the contrary.’
    In that sense, his backyard had the