Between the Hedgerow Thorns

By Phil G Glenn

 

The story is narrated by Hendrix Milne with an implication it's to a doctor. Hendrix is thirty five, a full time English Literature student who struggles with reality. He strives to be alone, to write and read but friends, family and neighbours just won't leave him alone. He feels as if he's the only sane person left in the world. He is continually invited to dinner parties and sporting events, places he never wants to be. All of those around him seem to have a demand on him. He is not strong enough to refuse. The only places of solace are museums and art galleries which he frequents a lot. At the museum he finds a lover, a married security guard. They have sex regularly, rendezvousing in the museum's egyptian room until one day Hendrix, after hiding from a security guard, accidentally finds himself locked in the museum and is forced to stay the night. He is caught and banned for a year.

 

His only real friend is Lilly, his mate's Jim's daughter who is Down Syndrome. Jim is manic depressive and almost takes his life. While he rcovers Lilly stays with Hendrix. It is the happies few weeks of his life until a nosy neighbour reports him to authorities for not taking care of Lilly properly and she is taken away. Hendrix is devastated. At the same time he finds out his application to the One-way Mars programme is successful but he hangs up on them.

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil G Glenn
• Release date: May 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215286906

Phil G Glenn

Phil Glenn is the author of two published books and two children's picture books. He holds a Degree In English Literature and lives with his wife and one child in Adelaide Australia

Book preview

A Secret Life of Bitterness

It’s true. I didn’t have to go. I just wasn’t brave enough.

I hate a lot of things but dinner parties, man they are the worst. It’s always the same; a bunch of people being phony polite to each other, secretly yawning at their watches. I wonder why we put ourselves through it. I wonder even more why they invite me. I don’t want them to. Individually, none of them like me or I them but their dislike for me has yet to come up as a group discussion so my invite is automatic. The only highlight of the night was J.B.’s fist flying into Marcus Keyne’s nose because Marcus had made a mistake of bringing up religion late in the night when everyone was full of wine and beer. Marcus is an atheist who hates God and tells people so when he’s had a skin full. He’s one of those full phony types who everyone pretends they like. The only thing Marcus and I have in common is we went to the same school. Fucking Henley High. It’s turned into a good school now so when I tell people I went there, there’s no pity anymore, no excuse for my rotten life. Anyway, Marcus sits there at dinner parties armed with confidence, like he’s really something, as if selling car insurance is really something which is all he talks about when he’s not knocking religion. He knocks religion because he thinks he’s being an intellectual doing it. He’s not even good looking; short with a potted, acne face and a wife that looks like Miss Prissy from Foghorn Leghorn. She spends most of the night elbowing him or kicking him under the table. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making excuses for the guy who hit him either. J.B. Jaacko Boosalis. The big Greek. He’s phony religious. He uses the word ‘fuckin’ so much he doesn’t even know he’s saying it. When he introduced me to his son who was bashfully tucked under his arm at the time, he said, this is little Draco, he’s ten years fuckin’ old. J.B. has been working as an Orderly at a hospital for most of his life and lives in a two-million-dollar house. Everyone at the table admired him, you could tell and yet, not one dime of his riches did he earn himself. Every bit of it came from the blood, sweat and tears his father grinded out of fruit and veg and property. And he’s got a gold-digging wife, Pam, who’s got silicon breasts and weighs about half as much as J.B. She spends most of her time emptying wine glasses and hiccupping and flirting with everyone else’s husband. Once she gave me a feel under the table with her foot. It didn’t feel good, it just left a welt on my inner thigh. And, she’s a walking contradiction. She’s spent as much money on exposing things like her breasts (which were always out) and her lips (which were pumped up) as she did on other things to cover them up, like the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth and those hips that used to stick out at right angles, all of which are now miraculously gone. She’s another phony if you’ve ever met one and yet, it seemed, I was the only one in the room who knew it. I can’t even be bothered telling you about the others, except to say they’re all a bunch of do-gooders who smile because that’s what they’re supposed to do, not because they’re happy or pleased. All of them, by their own reckoning, have gifted children. They talk about refugees as if they’re family and you can tell they don’t mean a word of it. It’s like they’re on TV or something. These people would quite happily step over a homeless child in front of a bank after having drawn out a grand or two and who think global warming is just a myth (‘every century had floods and heat waves you know’) Blah, blah, blah, blah. You know the types. So, Marcus is sitting there with blood dripping from the end of his nose and Missy hovering over him, poised with a napkin, and me hoping like hell that will be the end of all of it, the whole night I mean, when out of the embarrassed silence pipes up one of the do-gooders who craps on about the weather and on the night rolls until three wines later, J.B. and Marcus are in a loved-up bear hug like adopted out brothers who’d just found each other again.

And so, I sat there and smiled like it was the greatest night of my life. I even complimented the cook on the curry that was way too watery and salty for my liking. J.B. ate all the poppadums. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I found myself nodding my head when one of the do-gooders got fooled by all our compliments and announced that we should ‘do this again’ and then another said, ‘let’s make it a monthly thing’ which was followed by cheers and the last thing I said as I walked out the front door was see you in four weeks. I just about burst into tears by the time I got to the pavement. 

But it wasn’t last night, was it? It was three months ago. I know that now. I’m sitting here in bed, rubbing my eyes, just as shocked as I was yesterday and the day before and the day before that as to where I am. This morning my sister came to visit me. She belongs in a dinner party. She’s the sort that would go to a hospital to visit a dying friend and bore them to death with her own problems and leave when she was done. She came to see me out of a sisterly duty, told me how much she loved me, told me about the weather, told me nothing real though I know she was thinking it and backed away as if I had a contagious disease and nodded awkwardly to be let out without looking back. I swear she broke out in a sprint on the other side of the door. My mum made her come, now that I think about it. I was glad to see the back of her. She’s had three marriages and counting. She’s the sort who hates her own company and sets up a new relationship before she’s finished with the old one. Somehow, she finds a way to look rich even though I know she owes money to just about everyone. She dresses well, and she drives a silver BMW and she’s been to Bali three times this year that I know of. My phony mum tells everyone how great she is even though my mum doesn’t like her that much either. My sister works as a nurse’s-aid but she’s the ‘go-to’ when my mum needs medical advice like she’s a doctor or something. My mum has got no use for a dumb writer like me.

The reason I’m sitting in this room is because of a series of events. It isn’t far from any of us you know. That’s all it takes; a series of events, close to one another and before you know it, you look around and you’re not where you used to be. Most of the time, if these events are small, you just walk back to where you started but, sometimes, if they’re big enough, there’s no going back.

I’ve already told you about one event; the dinner party and I’m not saying another word about it. You got the idea. The next morning, I climbed out of bed and made as much effort out of it as I would to climb down a hundred-foot cliff and took to the shower almost on hands and knees. I drained every bit of hot water out of it I can tell you. I still had a dull headache by the time I got out, but I felt a lot better. The best thing was, it took all those characters from the night before out of my head and that’s not easy when you’re angry. Instead, I laughed it off, especially when I remembered standing up drunk and shouting over the table, self-confidence doesn’t mean intelligence you know, and immediately sat down and everyone looked at me in awkward silence and then went about their conversations as if I’d said nothing. That was about my only contribution to the entire night’s conversation pretty much.

After my shower, I dressed quickly. I can do that because I only wear tracksuits most of the time. If I was Prime Minister there’d be no such thing as fashion, just ‘social’ tracksuits and ‘work’ tracksuits and ‘around home’ tracksuits. I’d have Super Models arrested.

I put on my social tracksuit because I was on my way to see Jim Newton. We’ve been mates since high school. He’s about the most intelligent guy I know and about the least successful. He got married young, nineteen or thereabouts to Jackie Hammond, Henley’s goal shooting netball champion and got hooked into a mortgage not long after. Then someone got him a crappy job as a fitter and turner around about the same time he got the mortgage and that was it. His life’s been locked in ever since. It’s even more locked in now that Jackie’s dead. She died quickly of cancer about three months after their daughter, lilly, was born. Lilly is Down Syndrome and about the most loveable human being I’ve ever met. Every time you go through their front door you got to get past Lilly’s bear hug first.

By the way, I’d better tell you I’m not married. There’s nothing wrong with me, at least I don’t think there is. I just have no interest in it. It’s something for someone else. I made it through my twenties without doing it and now, in my mid-thirties, everyone has stopped asking ‘why’ or ‘if’. Most of the dinner party people just feel sorry for me. That’s probably the real reason I get invited. I know my parents think I’m weird. My mum always gives me that look with her head slightly cocked like she does when she can’t quite work something out. When we all get together at Christmas, we all give each that very same look as if none of us can believe we’re all related. Don’t get me wrong, I love girls, admire them in fact but I don’t want to burden any of them with me, it wouldn’t be fair. My longest was Sara Cushway when I was twenty. We made three years. We were solid until her father caught me banging Sara in the front seat of his own car. That was a day I won’t forget. He made me clean the car for a start. After I was finished, I mowed his lawns and cleaned his gutters which wasn’t easy because the house was surrounded by trees. When I was done, he went around and inspected every piece of my work. I stood there like an Army Private at locker inspection. After he was satisfied, he banned me for life from his house. He rang my parents too, but they weren’t mad. I think they were relieved to tell the truth. I think they had it in their minds I didn’t like girls. Sara and I snuck around for a while, but it petered out.

It’s fair to say old Jim’s house has been let go. It’s hard to distinguish a driveway now. I know there’s cement under there somewhere, but I can’t see it. There’s a creeper on the side wall that Jim planted when they first moved in, which seemed to be slowly swallowing the entire house. Once you lost a ball in there it was gone forever.

Inside wasn’t much better. Jim was one of those guys who treated any sort of reading paraphernalia, no matter what form, book, magazine, like they’re the crown jewels or something. He’s made a bookshelf out of just about everything; crates, planks, you name it. Every wall is covered in books, even the laundry. I once asked Jim if I could borrow his ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. You should have seen his face. It was like I’d asked him to donate one of his kidneys. I don’t reckon he’d be able to find it anyway.

When I stepped inside, Lilly was crying over a lost piece of jigsaw and Jim was turning over the whole house looking for it. That’s what you got to do with Lilly. It’s the sort of crying you can’t ignore. She’s fourteen and it’s loud and hard.

Hello Hendrix, screamed Jim to me without looking up. His head was under the couch. That’s my name Hendrix. Hendrix Milne. You can guess where my parents got my first name from. I reckon I lost half my hearing because of it.

By some miracle, Jim found the missing piece. The silence was like heaven. That’s the good thing about Lilly, her crying instantly stops as soon as she’s sorted. She was sitting at the dinner table, the entire jigsaw done except for one piece. She did this funny little giggle and a stiff hand clap that she always did when she was excited.

I started her up again though because I put that last piece of the jigsaw in. That arced her up. I was pretty pissed at myself for doing it. I took it right out of Jim’s hand and placed it in like I was being real smart and funny. The picture was a 1000-piece picture of a stalk of broccoli. I quickly took the piece out again and gave it to her.

You finished it Hendy, not me now, she said.

No, no, I said, anyone could have put the last piece in but you’re the smart one who did it all. Lilly’s crying eyes were teetering on the edge. I looked up at Jim and he nodded his head to confirm.

Lilly looked back and forth at us at least ten times, took out the piece again and placed it straight back in. Then she clapped her hands and Jim and I joined her. We both breathed out a sigh of relief. It was a pretty amazing effort getting the thing out I thought. Even so, I saw Jim look down at her with worry. It’s like he can’t look at her any other way these days. I knew what he was worried about. He tells me every time I visit. Today was no different. He went out to the kitchen to make me a coffee and didn’t come back. I found him sitting at the table with his head in his hands.

What will happen to her if I die? he says. If you had walked into the room right at that moment you could be forgiven for thinking Jim was terminally ill. He’s not. He’s as healthy as a winter tree but he suffers a lot from hypotheticals. I can’t blame him. I suffer the same way sometimes.

I’ll take her Jim. I swear, I replied.

But Jim wouldn’t have it. Not with your lifestyle, he says.

I don’t know what lifestyle he thinks I live. He’s never said, and I don’t ask.

There was an awkward silence after that. I studied Jim’s hands while I waited for him to compose himself. They’re like the worst tradesman hands you’ve ever seen. All his fingers are split and calloused and the grease from his work has tattooed itself under his skin. No amount of time or soap would ever clean them. As usual he’s wearing his khaki overalls with a lumberjack shirt beneath. What with his long, greying, wispy hair hanging down each side with a balding part down the middle, you could be forgiven for thinking the man was homeless.

Jim’s life was always full of troughs and peaks. Sometimes, when I got there, he’d be rolling around the floor with Lilly laughing until he had tears down his cheeks, other times he’d be in tears about his life at the lathe. I don’t blame him. I dropped some money I owed him at his work one day and I was ready to commit suicide just standing in there for five minutes.

Today he was back in the trough about Lilly. I don’t blame him for that either. Jim had never met his father, or his drug addict sister and his mother was an alcoholic who lived in a house with an old couch on the veranda and a car wreck on the front lawn. I heard from others she was on the beat too when Jim was a kid, but Jim never said so. As far as I know, I’m Jim’s only real friend. He was right. There was no telling where Lilly would end up if he did die.

I couldn’t say that so I lightened the mood. I read today that bees are on the way out. Experts reckon if we lose bees it’s the end of the world.

Jim wiped his cheeks and sort of nodded. Yeah I heard that too, he says.

Just then we heard a strange sort of crashing sound so we both sprinted back into the living room. There was Lilly standing ankle deep in jigsaw pieces. She’d swiped the puzzle off the table and onto the floor. That’s what she did when she had enough of something. It was going to be just as much a challenge getting all the pieces back into the box. Jim tried to invent a game of picking them up and tossing them into the box, ‘whoever gets the most in the box wins’, but Lilly was too smart to fall for that one, so that’s pretty much what Jim and I did for the rest of my visit. Still, it gave us something to do and it kept Jim from crying again. Lilly settled on the couch and watched a Bewitched re-run. She loves that show. Take my advice, don’t go anywhere near that TV when she’s watching Bewitched if you know what’s good for you. Jim reckons one time the TV went on the blink right in the middle of it. He found her in the bedroom spinning on the floor like a sprayed blowfly.

Sometimes I get this urge to grab Jim by the shoulders and slap his face three or four times or throw a bucket of ice-cold water over him. I’ve had that urge ever since I met him if you want to know the truth. I was getting the urge sitting on the floor flicking jig-saw pieces into the box. The urge was heightened by the fact that every time I picked up a piece, I pinched crumbs and dirt up with it and wondered how long since he’d vacuumed the place. I was starting to hate him to be honest.  

I heard from Uncle Mal yesterday, he suddenly said. Uncle Mal was Jim’s only relative that he ever saw albeit once every three or four months. Mal had happily kept up the family tradition by being an alcoholic. Drunk driving was his speciality. He’d been caught for just about everything drunk driving charges had to offer. One time he was released from the police station for drunk driving, walked back to his car, hopped in and got caught again. He’d been caught drink-driving three times without a licence. But he was a good bloke, a real swearer but not like J.B. He knew somehow to deliver it right, so it didn’t sound like swearing. He laughed a lot too, contagious as hell and even if you popped around his house at six in the morning you found yourself laughing at something with a beer in your hand.

I was pleased that Jim had heard from him. That’s good. I said.

He rang to say he’s got cancer in his liver, says Jim, without even a hint of emotion in his voice.

Well I’d better get on, I got things to do, I said as I stood up from the floor.

What things you got? asked Jim.

This caught me by surprise a bit. Oh, just the usual things, you know, that I got to do.

Jim nodded politely. It’s the usual things that get in the way of the other things.

I nodded back. Yep, better get on and do ‘em.

I made a big arc around Lilly to the front door, tip-toeing as I went. Jim made a signal and we walked in silence to the end of the grassy driveway.

Well, goodbye, says Jim.

Jim always said goodbye like you’re never going to see him alive again. It’s hell depressing. He stares at you for longer than you want him too and then rushes back in at you with a sort of half bear hug. Then he turns abruptly, walks off with his head bent down without once looking back like the final plane scene in Casablanca. One time he saved his crying right till the last moment when we were saying goodbye and he started firing questions like ‘what’s the point?’ and ‘how is it possible to go on?’ Those two questions were about his life but then he drifts into questions about war and global warming with pretty much the same ‘we’re all doomed’ theme. Once Jim’s emotion’s tip, they can spill anywhere. I didn’t know how to answer but later that night, all his depressed questions worried me enough to ring him three times. The first time I rang, I pretended I was looking for my wallet, the second to see if he’d be home the following night. The third time I rang he hung up on me because Lilly was asleep. I was pretty much resigned to the fact he’d be dead when I went back there again but he turned up alive and he’s been alive ever since;