Charles Street

Every empire is sustained by a body of water. Ours is fifty metres long, divided lengthways into eighths and available every day from a time earlier than we care to acknowledge. It’s been there since 1962, when the indigenes of various protectorates and colonies came to be flogged at backstroke by freckled Aryans.

Annexed at the side of the building is a gym where housewives are at treadmills and Swiss balls, desperate to escape before arrival of the young Greek labourers later in the day. The children’s pool is empty save for two urchins in thatched cowboy hats and footy shorts, floating on their backs in thigh-high water. The duty lifeguard lingers, unsure whether to call for police or ambulance, understandably concerned about seeing a fireman’s helmet.

Following the corrugated extraction pipes along the ceiling, over the kiosk and past the merchandise store, there’s a courtyard where scuffed bricks border sedans and mountain bikes. Noxious purple berries are smeared into the footpath, the mottled trees that bore them covered with pigeon shit and jagged acronyms. ‘KUB’ have staked claim to their boab.

The car park sits at the crest of a small hill, at the foot of which is an oval. Four goalposts, streaked bore water brown at their bases, protrude from the grass like iron cigarettes as, at the centre of the field, two men in matching white ensembles toss a dollar coin and twist sprigs into astroturf. The winning captain opts to bat so that he might catch a few hours in which to vomit behind the change rooms. His opponent – identical, save for his yellow hat – exhorts his men to stay sharp in the field, tenderise the openers with short-pitched bowling and ‘rout the bastards.’ During the week he sells garage doors.

At the far end of the oval, the number three batsman dabs at underarmed deliveries. A Sudanese man looks on from the street, waiting for a bus running fourteen minutes late. The delay is due to roadwork further ahead on the route, where ‘speed pillows’ are being installed to stop young men drinking too much and having testicles. He wipes his brow as a muted cover drive thuds into the glass. The heat at his face comes from a constellation worshipped by ancient peoples named after Lynx fragrances.

The Sudanese goes to put a bottle in the council bin, only to find doing so impossible. A beam running up the back of the bin then bending over the top of it in an ‘L’ shape prevents the lid being opened more than an inch. Unperturbed, he drops the bottle and sits back down as it rolls onto the road. It is squeezed from beneath the front tyre of a Commodore across two lanes and onto a front verge, where it comes to rest next to an empty box of wine. A letterbox with ‘218’ hand painted under the slot is built into a shoulder-height brick wall. The front stairs are steep and painted claret, reaching up to a house framed by a narrow balcony. I’m on a couch, listening.

“I dont know…it’s hard to say. I think I’d like her more if she wasn’t calling all the fucking time, you know?”

We sip our beers and look out across the oval.

“But it’s that whole psychology thing, man. The moment she stops I’ll wonder why and start calling her, and then I’m fucked. That’s when you’re always fucked, like a hundred-percent sure to be ruined. Ha. I suppose..”

He’s cut off by a shirtless torso craning out of the front door.

“Ohrrr boys, chargin’! I’m an absolute bucket of hay!”

He runs back in and the music gets louder.

“HEAR A PURRIN’ MOTOR…AND SHE’S A BURNING FUEL…”

We walk inside, down the corridor and into the refurbished kitchen that smells of lacquer and mustard. The jester is holding court, and pushes the hair off his shoulders before concluding a story I’ve missed the start of.

”And this fucking prissy bitch – she’s like a princess, or something….but she has to go to this poor English family. Poor English people, man! Like, they’re so FILTHY and there was this chain smoking ten year old and all he ate man, was…oi, no this is the best…”

I’m spinning a fridge magnet attached to a toaster.

”…all this fucking kid ate…was POTATOES!”

Their mirth resonates through the jarrah as, from within the bathroom, a voice cries out “LET’S GO THROW BROWNIE’S LOAFERS AT CYCLISTS!” We walk back to the balcony, having each contributed ten dollars towards a new carton. On the cricket pitch, the batsman plays and misses outside off. The entire slips cordon goes up as the umpire deliberates, scratches his nose once and then lifts his index finger to the sky. The indignant batsman shakes his head and pantomimes the shot once more. From behind, I hear

“BACK TO THE PAVILION, YOU JOKER!”

And I am serene. For, like the batsman; like the Sudanese; like the Coke bottle on the verge and the irate cyclist and the sagging women on the treadmills, I am doggedly moving absolutely nowhere, and the empire is united.