The Koel

I lie in bed, listening to the Eastern Koel—the male, always the male—perched high in the camphor laurel, proclaiming his existence.

Coo-ee, Coo-ee, Coo-ee.

His first thought each morning, and too often his last: ‘Girls, I’m here.’

Coo-ee, Coo-ee, Coo-ee.

What stamina. What self-belief. A narcissist, an extrovert, an egotist—a social misfit, at the very least, drowning out the airwaves. He dominates the more socially-minded magpie warbles, the butcherbird sonatas, the kookaburra chuckles, and the sparrows’ incessant chirping—those morning commuters scurrying about with their trite little pleasantries.

Coo-ee, Coo-ee, Coo-ee.

Eternally, in threes. The Holy Trinity. Macbeth’s witches and the Rule of Three: Sun, Moon, Earth; mind, body, spirit; past, present, future; beginning, middle, end.

We’re born, we live, we die.

I lie, listening, too scared to ask the questions that haunt, and taunt, and drive us to our graves, exhausted.

Am I worthy?

Does she love me?

Time to get up?

***

At precisely seven o’clock—no more, no less—my alarm sounds.

I rise.

I turn on the radio for the ABC news theme song as much as the news. It’s a familiar start to the day, as comforting as the birdsong and my mother’s distant hug.

I shave, dress, boil a saucepan of water, then place the egg in the saucepan for seven minutes—no more, no less. Egg eaten, I wash the dishes, dry the dishes, and put the dishes away, then fold the tea towel across the oven door handle to dry.

On these hot, humid summer days, I close the windows and pull the curtains to trap the evening cool, then I measure each potted plant’s moisture level and water the needy.

Finally, I leave, but not before checking the front door lock. Then check it again. And check the letterbox by the front gate even though the postman comes at midday and I’d checked it yesterday afternoon before locking up for the evening.

I pull the front gate shut and step onto the pavement. Tap my hip pocket—wallet? Check. Umbrella? Check. The sky’s clear blue, but you never can tell. It was a fierce storm last night—two inches according to the rain gauge. Some things you can rely on.

Head down, I grip the shopping trolley and set off.

I walk the hundred metres to the street corner and turn.

Mrs Smith—Helen, she says to call her Helen—is three doors down, watering her geraniums. We had two inches of rain last night.

She smiles and waves.

I pretend I didn’t see her. I stop, bend, and re-tie my shoelaces. There are only two shoelaces. There are only the two of us in the street.

She waits, feigns pulling a few weeds.

“Morning, Nev.”

“Morning, Helen.”

“Fierce storm last night.”

“It certainly was.”

“The Koels didn’t seem to mind.”

“Noisy as heck. I’ll be glad to see them gone.”

“Care for a cuppa?”

“Another day, perhaps. Better get going. Get the shopping done. It might rain. You never can tell.”

“Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Bye. Oh, the mangoes are ripe. I’ll toss a few over the fence.”

“I’d be grateful. Bye, Nev.”

“Bye, Helen.”

I walk on, head down, determined.

The soles of my sneakers leak in the pools of water, drenching my socks. I really should buy that new pair I’d promised myself. Maybe a treat this Christmas? My brother is always at me: "Spoil yourself, Nev, no one else will."

No.

One.

Else.

I tried—twice.

The last time was at my first job out of school. It was a railway job. I was a conductor. Jill was the office receptionist. We would nod politely to each other at the start and end of my shift. She was the one who asked me out—quite bold, really, an omen if I’d care to think about it, which I don’t. We had a brief courtship, and a briefer engagement. My boss pulled me aside the day after we announced it: “Neville, you’re a good man, a kind man—too kind. I hate to see you heartbroken. Has she told you she has a child? The father’s my predecessor; he’s in prison for fraud—she threw him under the bus, Nev, laid all the blame on him. But she was the brains, mark my words.”

I finish shopping and walk home around the other side of the block, just in case. I open and close the gate. Enter and lock the door. Turn on the radio. Place the shopping on the kitchen bench and put it away—a loaf of white bread, low-fat skim milk, instant coffee, and a cinnamon bun for later that afternoon when I study the paper—the form guide, to be precise— and win the trifecta. Two local horses are running. I might even walk to the track to catch one or two races. Who said I didn’t spoil myself?

I turn on the kettle, then while it heats, I walk out the back door to the mango tree. I pick a few choice ones and toss them over Helen’s back fence—which is my side fence, the same fence I scaled all those years ago. Catherine had egged me up the tree, over the fence, and finally up the drainpipe to her second-floor window when her parents were asleep. I’m sure that damn Koel was watching.

We fumbled a bit, not even under the covers. Two days later I saw her kissing Kevin Bloody Brown after school. On the lips! He was a proper Koel if ever there was one. Mother had warned me: “You’ve got no chance, Neville. Stick with me; they’ll break your heart.”

Every so often, I spot her—Catherine—walking her dog. She’s single, with five kids and twelve grandkids to worry about. It serves her right.

I sit on the front verandah and study the form guide. I miss the shade and scent of the two camphor laurels that had stood out the front. They died years ago and the council replaced them with two Jacaranda trees which have beautiful purple blossoms but are devoid of scent. It’s funny how it’s the scent that lingers: the front room still has the smell of mother’s lavender and dead scaly skin, and the questions: did she love me? Or need me? Was it time to tuck her in?

I dared not ask—the Trinity is rarely holy.

And that damn Koel perches on the camphor laurel across the road now. God damn pesky bird. It’ll fly back to its home soon, but not before tossing the eggs of scorned lovers out of their nest and replacing them with his—for them to care for his bastard child and spite those rejections.

That clever Koel.