Joyous and Moonbeam Read online

  Joyous &

  Moonbeam

  RICHARD YAXLEY

  For Carol, Tom and Ben, always.

  We must be our own

  before we can be another’s.

  Ralph Waldo Emerson

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  JOYOUS BOWEN

  JOYOUS and ASHLEIGH SUMMERS

  ASHLEIGH

  MARGARET KRAY

  JOYOUS

  JOYOUS and MOONBEAM

  ASHLEIGH

  MARGARET

  JOYOUS

  JOYOUS and MOONBEAM

  ASHLEIGH

  MARGARET

  JOYOUS

  JOYOUS and MOONBEAM

  ASHLEIGH

  MARGARET

  JOYOUS

  JOYOUS and MOONBEAM

  ASHLEIGH

  MARGARET

  JOYOUS

  JOYOUS and MOONBEAM

  ASHLEIGH

  MARGARET

  JOYOUS

  JOYOUS and MOONBEAM

  ASHLEIGH

  About the author

  Copyright

  JOYOUS BOWEN

  Yes, mister, it is. Joyous is indeedy-do my name which I like very much though some people do carry on and ask if Joyous is a hippy-guy. Or they say, Joyous? You’re kidding, right? Which is a doopy-doo because Joyous never kids, Joyous is always truesome.

  Once, back in those days before Sammy-K be having the accident, he did say, Come to the pub, Joyous, and I’ll make a man of you. Joyous was already a man with man-hairs and a deepened voice but we did go anyway and a bald man was drinking black stuff alongside us. When he did be hearing my name he said, Joyous be damned, which is not a good word but that is what he said. Then the bald man stood up and I did be noticing that he was a fatty one with a biggish shirt and he was saying, I’ll make you sad, Joyous, and he did bunch his fist and be swinging but missing because the drinking stuff had wriggled into him. And he did swing again then ended up on the floor in a swish-wash of beer and stinks. Then Sammy-K did laugh and call him names because he couldn’t even flog old Rigor himself. Rigor Mortis is me, and old Dumb-dick Joyous, which were Sammy-K’s words not mine and I didn’t like them but, mister, you wanted to know, so I am telling you because like I say, Joyous is always truesome and never kids.

  And here is the rest that is also truesome; my dadda did name me Joyous three days before he drove into a big truck after what Mamma is saying was a poorly judged whip-around a bread van. I did never know my dadda except through pictures and those are most gone now since the day years ago after we unpacked and Sammy-K got angry and did pour the petrol on to burn them all except the two that Mamma did hide in my T-shirt drawer.

  Yes, mister, it was a long time, five or six years after the poorly judged whip-around, says Mamma, and that is my first memory of Sammy-K. I do recall a thin man, a beanpole with eyes, and a tooth gone and little did I be knowing that this man was becoming Mamma’s new husband. Joyous can still be seeing that day when he was in the doorway ducking his head to come in then they had coffee in cups and I was having a small Coke on account of not being allowed too much sugar and a piece of Mamma’s fruit-and-nut loaf which is from Family Circles magazine. Then she was saying, Joyous, this is Sammy-K. And I do recall he was leaning in and saying to me, What’s your name, boy? Then I was saying it again with all the oom-papa I could do and he was turning and did be saying, Name like that you’re gunna make this boy into a faggot, Margaret. I became no faggot man though, after Mamma explained that word, so Sammy-K was wrong. That is another righteous story that I do remember.

  How old? Mister, Joyous is thirty-three years in the pink last January and liking of girls and boys as long as they are nice, but especially liking of those girls who look like Mamma is looking in the photo on the shelf with her white dress and long orangey hair tied in a bow, and mostly liking those who smile in a truesome manner when they say my precious, Joyous name. Which is what Moonbeam did early on and made me feel like a warm wave was splashing inside of me. Mister, I am liking of my name which has served me over the ages and which was given to me because of my father’s unique and honkingly good philosophy.

  All life is joyous.

  The good bits are naturally joyous but even the bad bits can be.

  You just have to work them around a little.

  Joyous has this on the back of my birth paper. This is why I was called Joyous which Mamma says was a tribute to all that my father held to be right in the hurly-burlisome of life. So I am a tribute to him like a statue or a painting, except being alive and not made of stone or paint. Sammy-K was often saying about Joyous not being a tribute but a big galoot which was a badness but I know now he didn’t mean it because that’s what Mamma said. And it is true, mister, that sometimes on good days Sammy-K was not like a guy in a black suit from a Western film. Mamma was telling me in our secret chatting that she always tolerated Sammy-K like she tolerates the TV stations who did be stopping the good shows because of football games and she tolerates having no fresh bread or the green mosquito burners before the shops are open to be getting some and she tolerates blackouts during the storms when we have the white candles in dishes and good smells and most of all she tolerates Sammy-K’s pet cross-dog called Sasha leaving poos. Mamma still does stroke my head which is googlish and she does be whispering that for all those years before the accident she did be tolerating Sammy-K because once he was like Sasha, not with the poos but because he came to stay like a stray pet comes to stay and Mamma was feeding him and giving him some attention because she was lonely too, since my Dadda did the poorly judged whip-around. So that’s the plain and simple kookity end of that.

  And it’s not such a big dealaroo, as Sammy-K used to say, because once he was doing things, although not anymore. In my memory of before he was fixing stuff like the door-stoppers and holes in the wall that he had been making with his fists and that damned corner cupboard and even though he didn’t always be talking in a propersome way Mamma said he was giving her some companioning, which was a googlish example of how the bad bits were worked around a little. So Sammy-K was to be tolerated because he was mainly beneficial although that damned corner cupboard is broken again.

  Mister, there’s not much else to be said about Joyous just now, that is pretty muchly being the history of my name, coming as it did from my Dadda and me being the tribute that Sammy-K didn’t believe in. And thinking about all that stuff in the last few weeks, Joyous supposes it is being righteous what you said at the start, about Moonbeam and how she might not have wanted to talk to me if I had been called something more ordinary and flat-sounded like Jeb or Al or Mark from the working shop. Maybe without my name she might have being helping the other guys like Davey Jones and Troy-boy and the Crew-cut Kid. She might have been doing the helping with their sewing things and gluing things and not stopped on by to see Joyous in Room 12, my favourite, and be saying my name in that softly, growly, growing-up voice that she has. Moonbeam’s voice, still swimming into my ears like white light bouncing off the dark water.

  JOYOUS and ASHLEIGH SUMMERS

  Joyous?

  Mm.

  Is that really your name? Joyous?

  Mm. On the badge here, on my pocket, look-see.

  Wow, it is too. Joyous. As in happy?

  Mm. And truesome.

  That’s so weird. Joyous. I mean, who gets called that?

  Mm.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind it. Kinda nice to say. Joyous. Joy-ous. Yeah, good word. But weird. For a name, I mean.

  Mm.

  So, what made your parents choose Joyous? Hey? Joyous? Don’t want to say? Sorry, I was just asking. Didn’t mean to be �
�

  Yes.

  Joyous, I like it, okay? It’s a good name. Soft, sugary. Sounds like a kiss.

  No. Not to be a kissing sound. Just Joyous.

  Come on, I’m only mucking –

  Not to be a kissing sound!

  Okay. Okay! Geez, note to self, lose the mucking-around. Which is exactly like that guy – what’s his name? Santorini? Like he said. Anyway, hello, Joyous. I’m Ashleigh. A-S-H-L-E-I-G-H. Boring, eh? Every second girl you meet. Ash-leigh. Ash on a good day, Ms Summers on a bad day. Shake my hand? Come on, won’t hurt. There we go. Wasn’t too hard, was it?

  Hello, Miss Ashleigh.

  Hello, Joyous. And by the way, you don’t have to say ‘Miss’.

  To say Miss is politely. Joyous is always politely, like Mamma says.

  Well, that’s good, I suppose. Joy-ous. Geez, why did they call you that? I mean, there must be a reason. Family story? Or haven’t they ever said?

  Yes.

  Then …?

  It was how my dadda was feeling, on account of me being borned.

  Oh. Well, that’s cool. Happy parents, eh? Novel idea. So, Joyous. It’s kinda –

  For a few days in a hospitable with Mamma and Dadda and no Sammy-K then –

  What?

  Dadda did a poorly judged whip-around.

  Um … pardon?

  A poorly judged whip-around a bread van.

  Sorry, don’t understand. Say again? What’s this about a bread van?

  Whip-around.

  Whip-around a bread van? Is that what you said? Come on, don’t be shy. I promise I’ll listen. I’ll be a good listener. Look at me, all ears.

  Dadda was driving his car. Just after I was borned. And a bread van in the front, going too slowly …

  Go on.

  And Dadda did the poorly judged whip-around.

  Uh-huh. Got it. Dodgy passing manoeuvre. Don’t worry, my father specialises in crappy driving. Too busy dreaming about all the things he hasn’t done with his life to concentrate on the road. Anyway, what happened with the bread van?

  Joyous is not knowing.

  Nothing more about the bread van?

  No.

  Okay. Your call. Here, you want me to help with that? What is it, anyway?

  It is being a pin-cushion.

  Course it is. Cute.

  Mm.

  Geez, Joyous, humungous stitches.

  Joyous’s fingers are bigly for sewing, sometimes hurtful.

  Yeah. Hey, I’ve got smaller fingers, I could –

  Joyous is liking your fingers, Miss Ashleigh.

  Oh, right. Thanks, Joyous.

  Miss Ashleigh has fingers being long and thin, white like moonbeams.

  Okay … um, thanks again. I think. Look, how about you cut the shapes and I’ll sew?

  You be sewing – with your moonbeams.

  Ah, yes.

  Okay.

  Good.

  Good. Excuse me, Miss Ashleigh?

  Yeah?

  Are you staying on for long hauling or being like the others?

  Well, it kinda depends. This is a – they told me that I’m here for a while.

  Others stay here for a while too then not be coming back which is sometimes a good bit, sometimes a sadness.

  Well, I don’t have much choice. Not … not until Bracks tells me, anyway. As of this morning, it was, Non-negotiable, Ms Summers! How long have you been here, Joyous?

  Eighteen years and five months and thirteen of the days.

  You’re kidding! I haven’t even been alive eighteen years.

  Joyous is never kidding, always to be truesome.

  Eighteen years? Wow.

  And five months and thirteen of the days. Today is being the thirteenth day of the sixth month of the fourteenth year.

  That’s a shitload of pin-cushions, big guy.

  Not always to be making pin-cushions. Sometimes Joyous is making wooden things in the workshop like pegs and hat-racks that we do sell of Saturday marketing. But wooden things are only when Mr Santorini is inside and not at his office on account of safety, which is usually on Thursdays and sometimes Saturday if we are behind time with ordering.

  Right – ow! Shit!

  No –

  Bloody needle!

  No, please not to be swearing.

  Ow! It frigging hurts, alright?

  Not to be swearing. Miss Ashleigh is too pretty like a thing of beauty like a doll to swear. Moonbeams don’t be swearing.

  What the – ?

  Before the accident, Sammy-K was swearing all of the time –

  Are there any band-aids?

  Promise not to be swearing.

  Okay, okay! I won’t bl– I won’t swear. Now where are the … oh. Thank you, Joy-ous.

  Welcome. Wrap it round, firm not tight, a day or two, it’ll be right.

  Thanks, doctor. So, who’s Sammy-K?

  He was a companioning man at my home. Mamma tolerated him because he was being mainly beneficial.

  Good for her. And him.

  And Sasha.

  Who’s Sasha?

  Sammy-K’s pet cross-dog. Sasha is being big and bounciful.

  A dog. Hey, I like dogs. He or she?

  Joyous is not –

  Name like that, probably a she. Is Sasha good? You know, well-behaved?

  Some.

  Hey, Joyous, I used to have a dog. When I was a kid. It was a fox terrier. You know them? Small and yappy, cute nose. Silly thing got out one day and went under a car.

  Mm.

  It was so quick. Never forget it. One minute, woof – the next minute, bam.

  Were you being sad, Miss Ashleigh?

  Very. Second saddest day of my life. Hey, Joyous, how do you go with a name like that, you know, when you’re feeling like sh– sad?

  Joyous is always trying hard not to be sad.

  But you must be, sometimes. Everyone gets sad. What do you do?

  I am working things around a little.

  Working things around? What does that mean?

  Joyous is finding the good bits.

  Nice try. Not too many good bits about a squashed dog.

  He was in happiness.

  Pardon?

  Moonbeam’s dog was being in happiness, running and sniffing and feeling freedomly when he did run out. That’s a good bit.

  Guess so. Never thought of it like that.

  Joyous is working things around a little. Like Dadda’s unique and honkingly good –

  Yeah. But – feeling freedomly? You say some kooky things, big guy. Actually, you are big, aren’t you?

  Mamma says I would be growing like the beanstalk of Jack.

  Good old Mamma; she’s got the sayings. There you go. Finished.

  Yes.

  Another? I’m here until four. Non-negotiable.

  Yes. Thank you, Miss Ashleigh.

  That’s okay, Joyous. Joy-ous. Love it. How about the stripes?

  Joyous is liking of the stripes.

  Me too, big guy. Me too.

  ASHLEIGH

  Funny sort of day, today. As in good-funny. Later on, anyway.

  Not at the start, though. Not when Bracks orders me out of class first thing for one more lecture (which sucked because a) what more is there to say? and b) I was working on my exhibit piece in Art and I love doing that) then makes me sit in the office for hours with old Madam Clickety-Clack typing attendance records until Bracks finishes meeting number fifty-eight for the day and can drive me over to the workshop, shelter, whatever it is. More lectures on the way, same-old same-old. This is about giving back to the school community, Ashleigh. This is about restoring your good name, restoring our faith, becoming the person you used to be.

  Sorry Miss, I know you’re doing your best and I can even respect that but it’s such a load of you-know-what. Becoming the person you used to be? Why would anyone want to do that? Doesn’t that mean reversing? Going backwards? Not growing? Keep the wings tucked and stay static, people! Yes, that’s you, you�
��re the one in the photograph, the one stuck in time.

  Of course, that’s what schools want. Schools and parents, working in tandem. They see this ideal when you’re – I don’t know, eleven, twelve – a cute kid with pig-tails and ribbons and a goofy love-the-world smile and pretty books and neat writing and nice colours in your paintings, and that’s it – that’s who you are. Branded for life. And if you dare step away from the ideal, step outside to someplace else, it’s such a shame! She’s changed so much! So different! Used to be a lovely kid, but now…

  But now. Crap-crap-crapola.

  It’s not Bracks’s fault. She’s just – the system. The way things are and probably always have been. A billion years as part of the institution has bent her into shape. Sometimes, when she’s rabbiting on, I tune out and look at her, look hard to the inside and I think, Lady, I bet you were like me once. I bet you gave people hell. ‘Cause beyond the façade, Bracks is kinda edgy. Got that look behind the eyes, hovering on the accepted side of crazy. Just. Like she’s controlled on the outside but knowing underneath. She can be a hard old cow but I’d much rather spend time with her than other teachers, and certainly my parents.

  Yeah, I guess I respect Bracks. Which is why I’m doing this, recording this stuff. Get it out, she said this morning. Sometimes our thoughts sit inside and become viral. You need to open doors, let them go.

  I don’t mind that idea, viral thoughts. I know exactly what she means. Diamond number one.

  So we drove there eventually, over the river, back towards the industrial estate, around a few corners then went inside this big brick place, old-looking. There was a guy called Santorini, the boss, fat bloke with a really soft voice. I could hardly hear him when he said stuff about space and respect, which was kinda predictable, then something which wasn’t: We are all disabled. Weird, but I know that’s what he said because he repeated it: We are all disabled. Then he said, Ashleigh, these people are profoundly disabled. But we all carry disabilities of some sort.

  Interesting idea, made me think. Diamond number two.

  Then Bracks weighed in with a story about a writer who saw a beggar and said, There but for the grace of God go I. I swear, that woman has a quote for every occasion! Anyway, if they were trying to make me feel guilty, it worked. Because I did, I felt guilty for being – okay. Physically, mentally, whatever.