THE LESSON
A short story of 1600 words
© David Lowe, January 1992
The light winked on as Richard Dexter wiped his face clean in the tiny cubicle. He had been sick, twice. Tie lopsided, Dexter stumbled back down the aisle towards his seat. The hostess glared through her make-up. 'Sir, the aircraft is about to land-'
'All right, all right,' he waved her away. The accent was hard to place - Los Australian, as his agent said.
'Please fasten your seatbelts. Flight 41 from Los Angeles to Sydney is about to land. Temperature in Sydney is 22 degrees, estimated time of arrival...'
Thank Christ for the end of that, Dexter thought to himself.
In the next seat a woman executive with power shoulders flipped through a magazine filled with glossy snaps of movie stars. Dexter turned away to look at the city lights wheeling outside his porthole. Home again. Somehow it didn't feel that way.
Inside the airport, poster advertisements chortled behind frowning people waiting with hands in pockets. There was a delay for the transfer to the light plane heading west. As usual, nobody recognised him. Finally the boarding call came. Richard Dexter stepped out of air-conditioning on to warm tarmac, and the smells of burned fuel and the sweaty city beyond. Impatiently, baggage vehicles scurried back and forth.
There were only two other passengers on the 12-seater to Coonongla, an old man and his drunken mate. As soon as the plane started taxiing down the runway they promptly fell asleep. Lucky bastards, thought Dexter, gritting his teeth. As the little plane took off he thought again of all the tortures he'd perform on the Wright brothers if he ever got hold of them.
Flying. Part of the biz. Part of the industry. The motion picture industry.
To think it was fifteen years ago he'd left Australia. Twenty years since he ran from Coonongla, not looking back. All those years, and the trade papers still called him the enfant terrible from Down Under. Back home, for a while he'd been the prime export; the young writer-director with the mysterious past and a big future. It certainly hadn't always been that way, and at first Dexter had been bitter about his country's change of heart. After years of knockbacks, praise for his work only after someone else's money supplied the break. But he knew he wasn't the first one to have had to go thousands of miles away to get recognition, and wouldn't be the last. Meanwhile Dexter's past remained mysterious, if only because he refused to discuss it.
With four days to spare between jobs, he was returning to the town where he'd been born. The little plane vibrated as the moon disappeared behind clouds and they descended.
At the little country airport a limousine was waiting, sitting incongruously beneath an old streetlight surrounded by Christmas beetles.
'Who the hell sent you?' Dexter demanded.
The driver stubbed out his cigarette. 'You Dexter?'
'No. Go away.' Dexter strode off towards the township, the black car trailing behind.
Somehow the studio had found out he was here. Damned interfering executives.
'Woman called Chrissie said to pick you up,' called out the driver. 'Paid in advance. Ordered me up from Newcastle special-'
'I told you I'm not Dexter. Now fuck off!'
There were no taxis, and Dexter was glad he didn't have much luggage as he walked along and tried to ignore the long car burbling along behind. The stars seemed very bright.
When he reached the main street there was only one hotel still open. 'Got a single room for the night?' he asked a woman with tight blue jeans minding the bar.
'Er, yeah. I'll get the key.' She eyed the black limo parked outside curiously. 'That yours?'
That night Dexter dreamt of childhood treehouses and his first girlfriend.
The next day it was drizzling. He slipped out the back door of the hotel to avoid the limo.
The town hadn't changed much. Wide streets, blue hills beyond. The fragrance of wattles. A tractor drove past him on the street and the driver waved. Dexter waved back. Now that wasn't something you'd see on Sunset Strip.
The old war memorial near the courthouse was looking a bit more weathered than he remembered. Water trickled down his collar as he noticed some recent names. Vietnam.
There was a new family running the Greek cafe. Dexter ordered breakfast and read the Coonongla Clarion. The cover story was about some new kind of farm machinery. News of a bushfire a few miles out of town. Ads for stockfeed and chainsaws.
After he paid, Dexter walked up to the town graveyard. It felt good to stretch his legs. The drizzling rain eased off as the rusty gate creaked and opened. From a couple of graves the flowers had blown out of their jars and lay strewn on the ground. Dexter gathered them up, and walked over to a double plot near the fence. A shiny bronze plaque stood out among the weathered stones. 'Dennis and Elizabeth Dexter...' His parents. Well not really. They'd adopted him as a baby. Even then they were old. He'd broken their hearts when he left. They died within days of each other.
Dexter left the flowers beneath the plaque and walked back into town.
Out of curiosity he looked up an unvandalised phone book at the post office. Not many familiar names. No-one he really wanted to talk to. Except one entry. Dexter dialled the number.
'Hello?' a woman's voice.
'Oh hello, is Mr Wilson- Phil there please?'
Phil Wilson had been Dexter's high school history teacher years ago. When he came on the crackly line he sounded just the same. They invited him over that afternoon, and the Wilsons' old Citroen picked him up from the park twenty minutes later.
'Dexy!' boomed the voice from within, 'Had any lunch?'
Dexter grappled with the old door handle and finally flopped inside. Before he'd even closed the door, Mr Wilson had the car moving, grinning maniacally behind a grey beard. 'Good to see you mate!'
Conversation was impossible as they bumped up the old dirt road to the house, the car rattling and protesting.
Wilson's wife Clara greeted them at the gate, her old face wrinkled from years of smiling. 'So how's the famous director?' she grinned.
'Oh you know, struggling along', said Dexter lamely as Wilson propelled him up the path.
The old lady continued, 'You must stay for lunch - we've got a roast on.'
Dexter and Mr Wilson sat in sagging armchairs, sipping red wine, as Clara busied herself in the kitchen. Beethoven played on an aging turntable.
'So Dexy - in town long?' asked the old man.
'Not really. I mean I don't think so.'
'Saw one of your movies the other day. Now what was it called... 'Trainline'?, 'Rainline'?'
'Mainline'.
'That's right, 'Mainline', knew it had some kind of silly name. Great-looking lass in it. Didn't understand it though...'
Dexter looked round at smiling photos of the Wilsons' children and grandchildren. There were relics from various overseas trips lining the walls, and a typewriter in the corner. In the next room he could see a piano with yellowing keys, a hand-written score on the stand.
'So are you still teaching Mr Wil- Phil?' asked Dexter.
'Sure I am. What else could I do?' chuckled the old man, 'They can't make me retire for a couple of years yet.'
'You know, I'm gonna be forty next week.'
'Is that a fact?' exclaimed the old man, 'And I bet your hand-writing still hasn't improved.' Dexter laughed for the first time. From the kitchen wafted a delicious smell of roasting food, making his mouth water.
Mrs Wilson bustled in and embraced her husband warmly from behind his chair. 'Lunch is ready.' she announced.
Over roast beef the Wilsons updated Dexter on happenings in the town. He talked about ex-wives in America, and a new idea for a period film.
'You know,' said Dexter, his mouth full, 'I still remember what you told me.'
'Really? What was that then?'
'You said that there was only the past - that if people didn't know the past then they knew nothing.'
'I always did tend towards over-statement.' said the old man with a twinkle in his eye. His wife smiled.
'But it's true,' said Dexter urgently. 'I know that now.' The old man chewed by way of reply, gravy on his beard.
Dessert was fresh fruit salad. 'You could have gone a long way with history you know - best marks in the state.'
'And end up like you, you mean?' They all laughed.
As Dexter thanked them for the meal and prepared to leave, he though again of how the Wilsons had been the closest thing to a real family he'd had. He felt the sadness and loss return as Clara Wilson opened the front door.
In the driveway stood the limousine.
'That yours?' asked Dexter's old teacher.
'They find me wherever I go.' said Dexter. He hesitated for a moment, then embraced the old couple warmly. They waited on the edge of the verandah as he walked over to the rear door of the big car. Dexter waved one last time, and stepped inside.
As the limousine drove away, it began to rain lightly again. Air-conditioning purred as Dexter looked back through tinted glass. The Wilsons were holding hands. They embraced each other before walking back into their house and closing the door. Richard Dexter shut his eyes and sank into a corner of the long leather seat, crossing his arms against the cold.
'Changed your mind then Mr Dexter?' said the driver.
'Yeah.'© David Lowe, January 1992