Sugar Town

by Robert Nicholls

  * * *

  The rest was that he’d known my mother since the early days of her marriage, through the bakery. In those days, he told us, the Reverend’s spiritual passion had thrilled and excited Rita, despite its ability to over-fill him, often leaving too little room for her. But a good and righteous man, nonetheless. How could she be critical? Then Bridie’d come along. And, as a bright, pious, vivacious pre-teen, had ignited a look in him that at first pleased, then confused and finally frightened Rita.

  “Probably it was all in her imagination!” Kev’ said. “But she didn’t know where to turn!”

  “And,” said Amalthea thinly from her place at the sink, “let me guess! She felt alone, insecure, a little bit . . . needy? Craving a sympathetic ear? And you, harmless little baker-man that you are, jumped into the breach? Purely as a friend, of course! A touch of the hand here, coffee and a scone there! With maybe the smallest dollop of . . . sympathetic understanding? And then . . . did you take advantage, Kev’? Vulnerable as she was? Did you have an affair with her?”

  He stuttered, looked at me. “I . . . I . . . !”

  I couldn’t press him, but Amalthea couldn’t let up on him. “It’s a simple question, Kevin. Did you have an affair with Rita? Yes or no?”

  “We . . . we never planned . . . !”

  “No. No, of course you didn’t!”

  I wanted Amalthea to stop then – not to say anymore. But there was a cold insistence about her that I was sure had more to do with her mother than with mine.

  “Nothing planned! Well, let’s be honest; probably she planned it! Being a scheming woman and all! Something in her ‘imagination’, no doubt! But you didn’t have anything to do with it, did you, Kev’? For you, it just happened! Because that’s what ‘love’ is, isn’t it? Letting someone ‘happen’ to you? And then, after a bit, she went off and killed herself which, again, had nothing to do with you, really! After all, dying is just one of the ways that people un-happen to us, isn’t it! You can leave them! Or they can die! Either way, you’re free to move on. Which, of course, is the really important thing!”

  He looked like a man with a knife newly planted in his ribs. Isak came back into the room with a question on his lips, but Amalthea intercepted him, steering him away from his unfinished lunch.

  “Come on, old man! I’ve got timber to shift for a funeral pyre. And you’ve got a debt to pay. No free lunches under my roof!”

  We sat for a while, Kevin and I. I fetched water for us both and waited, not knowing what to say, both hoping and fearing that there’d be more.

  “I wanted to take her away, Ru’,” he finally said. “Her and you and Bridie. We talked about it. Then the attack happened. And knowing what I knew. . . there was a time – a very short time – a totally wrong, mistaken, crazy time – when I thought it was him! The Reverend! From what she’d said about him! From what I knew of him! I told Rita she had to leave him but she said if I could see how broken he was, how completely shattered, I’d know it wasn’t him! Then Grace was killed and Les Crampton’s name was whispered around – not a good answer but it eventually became obvious that there’d never be any other! I tried to see her but. . . after Asael came, she locked herself away – poured herself into Jacob’s fiction that Asael was theirs and that Bridie was just a traumatised kid and she tried . . . she tried to go on! But she never gave up believing Sugar Town had betrayed them. And she never forgave. I don’t know if that explains why she . . . why she went off and . . . !”

  “Do you think,” I asked, picturing the turmoil that must have been going on in our house, “that the Reverend ever knew? About you and Rita?”

  He buried his face in his hands.

  “And you never told me because . . . ?”

  “She was a good person, Ru’. Nothing should ever be allowed to challenge that.”

  I lifted him to his feet by his shoulders and held him there, at arm’s length, until he was able to raise his head and look at me. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want either of us to cry. When he was ready and I was ready, I moved in close, slid my arms around to his back and pressed against him.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re okay. Come on! Let’s you and me do these dishes.”

  * * *

  The pyre took a long time to prepare. Eventually all five of us were involved, making a scaffold of dry old railway sleepers and packing the hollow with kindling. It seemed to me that we had enough to burn down a church, but Amalthea was frightened of it going out with the job only half done. At the last, we put thick planks across the top of the scaffold and, as tenderly as we could, hoisted Rosemary into place.

  When it was done, Amalthea fetched the banners – THE FORCE IS GATHERING and LET IT GATHER IN YOU. Neither Garlic nor Rosemary had worn them since we first encountered Queenie in the paddock and, though they’d apparently refused to be without them in the past, neither had finally objected to their absence. Amalthea draped them both over Rosemary. And finally, she read some words. I remembered the poem (or at least bits of the poem) she’d read over Garlic – ‘prince of the apple towns’; ‘I sang in my chains’. And the bit that Asael had loved: ‘It was all shining!’

  She picked something different this time, from a tattered old book that, from the moment it appeared in her hand, had Kevin agitated. I expect he would have gone closer to her, to investigate it, if it weren’t for the fact that she’d been moving around him as though he was a bush of nettles.

  I liked the lines a lot – so much so that I eventually borrowed the book and copied them down.

  “I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,

  If you want me again, look for me under your bootsoles.

  You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,

  But I shall be good health to you, nevertheless,

  And filter and fibre your blood.

  Failing to fetch me at first, keep encouraged.

  Missing me one place, search another.

  I stop somewhere waiting for you.”

  * * *

  I especially liked the third line: ‘You’ll hardly know who I am or what I mean’. It seemed to me that you didn’t have to meet someone in another life for that to be true: Right there in Sugar Town it seemed that I hardly knew, or knew the meaning of, anyone around me!

  Anyhow, for the last part of the ritual, we each lit a match (even Asael managed it, despite his awe at what we were about to do) and we each touched our bit of flame to the paper at the bottom. Within ten minutes, the flames were ten metres tall – a metre for every minute we watched – and we had to move back from the heat. I stood with Kevin, Isak stood alone off to one side and Amalthea, Asael and Garlic stood in a separate group. But we all craned our necks to watch the column of smoke. It rose straight up until, at some indistinct point it, with Rosemary in it, became too thin to see.

  There was only one unexpected bit of movement and that was when Isak suddenly appeared in front of me. Over the fire’s roar, he asked for Gramma G’s ring, which I took off my finger and gave to him. He squinted at it briefly, tossed it into the fire and went back to stand on his own.

  * * *

  It’s not a cane fire, Bridie thinks. Too early in the day. And if it was, the smoke would be broader, blacker and wilder, with kites riding above it, picking toasted insects out of the air. She wonders idly what kind of fire it is that creates this thin grey column with its top blown off. Something hot, no doubt, that consumes cleanly. She is nurturing just such a fire within her.

  She has been drawn from her bed and her cloistered room, first to find Johnathon Cranna and then to find this window from which to look out on the world. She’d struggled to re-construct Johnathon’s earlier words: ‘Grab what you want – Do whatever it takes – Your father understood.’ And to reconcile them with images that lingered around the edges of her memory: the Reverend pushing her gently away, the Reverend drawing her near. The Reverend’s voice in the kitchen, in the study – one day cryin
g for forgiveness, the next cursing womankind. The Reverend’s tears soaking into her shirt. None of it made sense.

  When, in Johnathon’s hospital room, she’d asked what he meant, he’d only smiled sadly.

  “I told you not to be thinking of this,” he’d said, pretending to scold. “I spoke out of turn and you should ignore me. As I told Ruthie yesterday, your father entrusted me with many things before he left, all those years ago, including the welfare of his family. I certainly have no intention of . . . betraying any of his confidences.”

  When she’d pressed him further, he’d spoken with pained reluctance.

  “Well . . . having been one of the few people he seemed . . . at peace with . . . in his last months in Sugar Town, I suppose I do have some insights that no one else has. Particularly in view of the fact that your own memory is . . . corrupted, if I can use that word in its most harmless sense. I just worry, Bridie! I worry that knowing the truth might only be damaging to you. And that’s the last thing I want.”

  It was far more damaging at this stage, she’d told him, to be left wondering.

  “Yes? Well. If you’re positive?” He’d drunk water and wriggled with discomfort. “You must promise me, then, that you won’t be angry with me. All right? Will you do that? Because I wouldn’t be telling you this if it was up to me. No one ever has up until now and no one else in Sugar Town ever would. They know they’d answer to me if they did!” (He’d laughed – a harmless bloke like me? Ha!) “It’s only that, lately, I’ve been wondering if my loyalty to the Reverend hasn’t . . . I don’t know . . . run its course; maybe even . . . contributed to an injustice? Maybe it was misplaced to begin with, God knows!”

  He’d drunk more water and she’d waited, heart hammering. He wouldn’t hold her eye but his glances had a narrow, hungry feel.

  “You’re a grown woman, Bridie. And I’m a grown man. So I’m going to speak bluntly; because if it has to be said, it’s best to be clear – no misunderstandings. So here it is. It wasn’t only a religious calling that took your father away to New Guinea, Bridie. It was a . . . a carnal calling, as well. Do you know what I mean? The truth is that he couldn’t trust himself . . . to be near you, Bridie.”

  His eyes had turned full on her then, greedy, it seemed, for any shock or anguish or anger that might appear there. She’d held herself like a thing of stone, allowing herself only to blink and blink again, revealing nothing of the understanding unfolding within.

  Johnathon had had more to say, but Bridie hadn’t heard. Instead, she’d heard a tumultuous voice crying out about the weakness of women. “All weakness . . . !” When she rose to leave, Johnathon had asked her if she was all right.

  “Yes,” she’d said. “Of course!” And from the door she’d said, “Women are strongest, Johnathon. But above all things, Truth beareth away the victory. That’s from the Apocrypha.”

  And now she’s at the window, looking out at the world and at the column of smoke which, unbeknownst to her, carries Rosemary out across the country.

  Chapter 20 - Reconsidering

  Half an hour passed. The planks that supported Rosemary burned through and the centre of the fire collapsed, but the outer scaffolding held – bloodwood and ironbark, blazing cleanly. At a point, I had a sense of being watched and I turned to find Dale Sutton, slouched against the corner of the house. The school day hadn’t ended yet, but he was no longer in school uniform, so I assumed he’d not gone back after our morning chat.

  “Fire seems to be a theme in your life these days,” he said when I approached him.

  “Mmm. Like stupidity’s a theme in yours. Whaddya want?”

  “I suppose an apology’s too much to hope for?”

  “You can hope for anything you want. Keep an eye out for the sky dropping on your head. The apology’ll be right behind it!”

  He nodded. “That’s what I thought. Good thing I keep my expectations low when it comes to you.”

  “Look, we’re in mourning here, Dale. I haven’t got time to be listening to your scintillating banter. Whaddya want?”

  “Want you to come for a walk.”

  “Get stuffed! Are you deaf and blind, as well as stupid?”

  I was probably more surprised than he was to hear the tone in my voice – surprised and a little ashamed, if truth be told. I think it was because he was confusing me. In the last four days alone, we’d had two knock-‘em-down fights. And yet, on this one day, I’d found myself thinking that he might not be a total cretin after all! He’d said he liked me, for one thing, and in my book, anyone with taste that strange deserved at least a little sympathy! So I back-pedalled; not far; just a bit.

  “Whaddya mean, ‘come for a walk’? Walk where? Why?”

  He stood up to his full height, which was probably fifteen centimetres taller than me, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and made an exasperated face.

  “I got something to show you,” he said. “Somethin’ that’d likely make most people smile. I expect a smile’d break your face but what the hell! No big loss, eh?”

  I studied him carefully for a full minute. There were still shadows under his eyes from the lucky punch I’d managed to land on his nose at the marshalling ground. I thought of commenting but I didn’t because there was something else there that I had to think about. It was a sort of fierceness but perhaps, I thought, not really of the dangerous kind. Challenge, I decided; the ‘I-dare-you’ kind. We stared at each other for so long that the corners of his mouth started twitching toward a smile, which made mine do the same and I had to look away.

  “Right!” I said. “You wait here! I’ll tell the others. How long are we going to be?”

  “I’ll wait around the front,” he said, I’m sure only so that he wouldn’t be seeming to take instructions from me. “An hour. Tops.”

  The walk took us back up to the main road and toward town. I took the opportunity to tell him about Hoggs’ false confession and to remind him that he himself wasn’t in the clear; that he stole the knife that was used on Rosemary, that Amalthea had handed the knife in to Sergeant Morrow and that the only thing missing was a clue as to what his problem was.

  He barely responded. “Uh-huh.”

  “Why aren’t you in school, learning to speak properly?”

  “I’m with you, Ru’! It’s all listening around you.”

  “And who told you you could call me Ru’? Makes me sound like a wallaby!”

  “Truckie calls you Ru’. I’ve heard him.”

  “Yeah, well Truckie’s different. He’s knows how to say it nicely.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He was laughing at me under his breath and I knew it. I put my hands on his big shoulder and tried to push him toward the ditch which I knew, since he weighed probably twice what I did, would have no effect at all on him. Nonetheless, he staggered exaggeratedly then stopped.

  “All right!” he said. “All right! Why don’t you teach me how it goes when it’s said nicely, then?”

  I tried to imagine the syllable as somebody genteel might say it – maybe with a little accent, like Mister Bandini’s. “RRRuuu!”

  And it suddenly occurred to me – mostly because of the silly little smirk on his face – that I was standing in front of him with my lips fully puckered as though waiting for a kiss.

  “You are a dead-set idiot!” I barked and stalked away from him, fully embarrassed and getting more confused (and therefore less patient) by the minute. He ran to catch up with me, which I thought was the least he should have to do.

  “Don’t talk to me!” I said. “Let’s get this over with. Where’re we going?”

  We were at the entrance to the showground and that’s where he pointed.

  * * *

  I was prepared to crane my neck to see if Bessie and Mister Bandini were still parked at the low end or if they’d taken Isak’s advice and hit the road to catch up with the Showies. I expected them to be gone, but they weren’t. Nor were they alone!

  “What�
��s going on?”

  A dozen tents, six or eight more caravans and probably forty other people had turned the paddock into a small village – as though a new Show had slipped into town. But this one was made up of people I knew – people whose own homes were within close walking distance.

  “Frieda Hoggitt’s going on. She’s mobilising.”

  “Mobilising? For what?”

  His answer was a hand on my back, pressing me forward toward the largest, most conspicuous of the caravans. A bright green awning shaded the entry and under it sat Lyle Hoggitt, patiently nodding his way through an ear-bashing from Marybeth. The instant he saw Dale and me, however, he jumped up and began banging on the caravan’s side with his fist. I could hear him shouting: “She’s here! She’s here!”

  Marybeth, far from being insulted, immediately abandoned the shade and bustled her way past us, pausing only long enough to squeeze my hand and say, “Just as I said, dear! We’ll get him back! You’ll see!” Then she skittered off amongst the tents, her hands flitting like birds in front of her.

  I looked at Dale. “What the . . . ?”

  He shrugged and walked on. By the time I’d turned in a circle and decided to go after him, he was already in a conversation with the mayor.

  “The great outdoors, eh?” the mayor was saying, slapping his belly with satisfaction. “Get back to the simple things, that’s what I say! Mother Nature! Puts our little squabbles in perspective, doesn’t she? Speakin’ of which, magnificent Grand Gourd this year, young Sutton! You boys an’ your dad – you did Sugar Town proud! We’re indebted to you! Shame it ended the way it did, but that takes nothing away from your achievement, mate!”

  I could only shake my head at the bluff and bluster of the man. I mean it was inconceivable that Frieda wouldn’t have told him how his ‘agreement’ with Johnathon Cranna had been outed. (Better he learn from her, than from someone whose ear had been whispered in by Vivian Caletti!) Nevertheless, there he was, head high, glad-handing for all he was worth.