The Honeyman and the Hunter

by Neil Grant

  ‘Ama, you shouldn’t.’

  ‘Phhft!’ She purses her lips on the sound. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘It’s illegal, Ama. You have to declare all food at customs.’

  ‘It’s LADOOS, Nayna, not drugs.’ She shakes her head at Rudra as if his mum is simple. ‘We’ll have some with cha. You like ladoos, Rudra?’

  ‘I—’

  ‘Of course you do. What Indian boy does not like ladoos?’

  ‘I don’t know that he’ll like ladoos, Ama.’

  ‘Just put the cha on and don’t be a bore. You were always such a serious little girl, Nayna. She was, Rudra. Always one for rules.’ She purses her lips again. ‘Well, some rules.’

  ‘Ama.’ His mother’s eyes are flames.

  ‘I’m not saying a thing.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Ama!’

  ‘Let’s have some ladoos.’

  They are eating ladoos and drinking cha when Cord Solace returns from the sea. He smells of seaweed and prawns and there is salt in his hair. Nayna places her hands around his biceps as if restraining him. She looks right into his eyes, speaking slowly as if to a dangerous dog. ‘This is my mother, Cord.’

  Cord blinks as though to make her disappear, but still she remains – five foot of her, from grey wisps of hair to slippered feet.

  ‘Ama, this is Cord – my husband.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rudra’s grandmother’s mouth tightens around the words.

  Cord ignores her. ‘Nayna, we need to talk.’

  ‘Cord, please.’

  ‘In the other room.’

  The kitchen vomits Cord into the hallway.

  Nayna watches the weave of her own fingers. ‘I am sorry, Ama.’ Then she leaves Rudra alone with his grandmother and goes in search of her husband.

  ‘So, Rudra,’ says his grandmother. ‘Have you heard of Rabindranath Tagore – the most famous of all Bengali poets?’

  Rudra shakes his head.

  ‘Such a pity,’ she says. ‘Still, there is time.’

  The walls muffle his parents’ voices but it is clear what they are saying. Rudra can picture his father, legs apart. His mother, clutching at straws.

  There is a knock at the front door and Rudra takes the opportunity to leave the kitchen. It is Wallace and Tangent. The little dog turns circles when he sees Rudra.

  ‘Ah … hi, mate.’ Wallace rubs his stubbly head with his palm. ‘It’s just your dad said to come by. Said he had some pay.’ He looks beyond Rudra. ‘If I’m interrupting, I can come back later.’

  ‘Come in,’ says Rudra and Wallace follows him down the hall into the kitchen. ‘Wallace, this is my grandmother – my didima.’ He looks to his grandmother to see if he has the pronunciation right.

  ‘Didima, is it? Please to meet you, Didima.’ He takes Rudra’s grandmother’s hand and shakes it vigorously. ‘Wallace. Wallace Gully.’

  Tangent jumps up, barking.

  ‘And this is Tangent. He’s a dog.’

  ‘We have dogs in India, you know,’ says Didima sharply. She grimaces. ‘But usually not in the kitchen.’

  ‘He’s a bit special, this one, Didima. Aren’cha, Tangent?’ Tangent agrees wholeheartedly.

  Rudra’s parents return to the kitchen – Nayna first, Cord following like a cloud.

  ‘Wallace.’ His father nods a greeting.

  ‘Boss.’

  They stand for a moment, awkwardness unfolding like a banana lounge between them. ‘Nayna,’ says Rudra’s father, turning to his wife.

  She snaps out of her stupor. ‘Ama, you have to leave.’ The words come out like a rush of water from a burst pipe.

  ‘But I just got here. It’s been so far.’

  ‘I know, Ama.’ Rudra’s mother seems like she is on autopilot. ‘I will pay for a hotel while we find you somewhere to stay.’

  ‘Nayna, is this you speaking?’

  ‘Ama, please.’

  Cord speaks up. ‘You can’t stay here. There’s no room.’

  ‘She can stay with me,’ says Wallace.

  They have all forgotten Wallace standing there and, like a flock of curious birds, they swivel in unison to look at him.

  ‘You can stay with me, Didima. I got heaps of room. Too much, really.’

  Didima looks grey and crumpled. ‘That’s very kind—’

  ‘Then it’s settled.’ Wallace nods. ‘Rudra, grab her bags and walk her to the boat.’

  ‘Boat?’ Didima seems unsure.

  ‘The creek’s a bit deep to wade on this tide.’

  Cord fills a glass at the sink. He says over his shoulder. ‘Rudra, get your grandmother’s bags. Quickly now.’ This is clearly the end of the conversation.

  They walk down the long, tree-lined street – Rudra tugging Didima’s unruly suitcase, its wheels slowly disintegrating on the rough surface. Didima’s shoulders are rounded by the blows she has just taken. ‘My daughter,’ she says to no one in particular. ‘All this way.’ Then, her hand against her chest as if someone has torn at her heart, ‘So sad.’

  The tide is on the turn by the time they get to the creek. Rudra helps Wallace pull the dinghy to the water, then places his grandmother’s battered suitcase in the bow.

  ‘You can sit here, Didima,’ he says.

  ‘I know where I can sit, Rudra,’ she says, straightening her back. ‘I am from the Sundarbans. We are very familiar with boats.’ Rudra sees that nothing will keep this woman down for long; that this is from where his own mother draws her strength.

  Wallace nods approvingly and slips the oars in the rowlocks. ‘Come on then, Didima, let’s get you to your new home.’ He helps her into the boat and lifts Tangent on board. The little dog runs to the box and perches on Didima’s suitcase.

  ‘Is the dog coming too?’ Didima asks.

  ‘Can’t leave him here, can we?’

  Didima seems to consider it, but Wallace breaks in. ‘You coming, Rudra?’

  ‘I might swim over.’ He watches to see if Didima has registered this. If she knows water, she’ll see how tricky this tide is. She’ll notice Wallace having to hold the tinnie against its force.

  ‘You sure, mate?’ says Wallace. ‘The current’s moving a bit.’

  ‘I’ll be right,’ says Rudra and, throwing his shirt in the boat, dives into the creek. He knows almost immediately that he has misjudged. He’s done this swim plenty but usually he would never attempt it at this point in the turn. It’s only thirty or forty metres over, even with the tide this full. He starts strong, stroking hard into the water, eyeing the opposite bank like it’s his. But pretty soon Wallace and Didima are alongside him.

  ‘You okay?’ Wallace shouts.

  ‘Fine,’ Rudra manages, putting his head down and powering ahead. After ten or so strokes, he lifts his gaze to see where he is. Wallace and Didima are almost at Wallace’s jetty. He can just make out Didima’s hand shading her eyes; looking his way. He is nearly at the mouth of the creek now. There are mangrove sticks in the water and his shoulders are on fire.

  He gives up and, floating on his back, allows himself to be carried into the bay. The water is calmer out here and the clouds are mere papercuts on the blue of the sky. He can hear his heart thumping and bubbles popping, and he is happy for this release – to allow the current to carry him.

  ‘Why is Cord such an arsehole?’ The words tremble off his tongue. And then to himself, so even the fish can’t hear, Why would he turn Didima away? His wife’s mother. My grandmother. Does family mean nothing?

  He never met his dad’s dad, nor Cord’s mother. They were both dead before he was born. And there is the mystery of his uncle – an absence never discussed but there all the same, like the warmth on a seat after someone has left the room. A blurry photo in their hallway – him just a smudge in their collective history left for Rudra to wonder over. So many mysteries in this family. So many boxes unopened.

  He hears Wallace before he sees him – the tonking of water
against the hull of the tinnie, then Wallace’s face eclipsing the sun.

  ‘What are you doing, mate? Scared the bejesus out of Didima. Old girl’s having kittens. She made me row out here to save you.’

  Rudra pulls himself over the gunnel and drops into the dinghy. Tangent is all over him, ragging his tongue on his face. They row to Wallace’s in silence. Wallace is good like that. He usually knows the right time for words and the right time for holding back. Rudra keeps Tangent on his knee, feeling the little dog shiver. As they near Wallace’s jetty, he sees Didima sitting on her cardboard case, her sari pulled over her head.

  ‘Oh, Rudra,’ she says as they dock. ‘I was worried. Sometimes the sea is hungry for young men like you.’

  ‘I was fine, Didima.’

  ‘Of course you were. But I am an old lady. You cannot worry me so.’

  ‘Sorry, Didima.’

  Wallace ties the dinghy off. ‘Let’s get you settled and put the kettle on. Rudra, grab Didima’s bag for her.’

  They climb the steps to Wallace’s shack. It looks very worn. The paint, dull and flaking; the mismatched tin. Didima struggles with the climb. Even though it is no more than twenty steps, she stops three times for breath as if she is ascending from a dive. Her sari has fallen from her head, revealing a mist of grey hair. Rudra wonders exactly how old she is.

  Wallace opens the door, throwing his arms wide dramatically. Ta-da. Didima puts her hand over her mouth and Rudra closes his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Wallace,’ she says finally.

  She hates it, Rudra thinks. Now where will she go?

  When he opens his eyes again, Didima is smiling. ‘It is a palace, Wallace,’ she says. ‘I feel like a rajkumari – a princess.’

  ‘You are that, Didima. Plonk yourself here.’ Wallace brushes the dog hair from his favourite chair. Rudra feels relief wash over him. His grandmother will be fine here. She likes the house. She likes Wallace.

  ‘I’ll put the billy on,’ says Wallace. ‘And when you’ve got your breath, we’ll set you up in the spare room.’

  ‘You are too kind, Wallace. Isn’t he kind, Rudra?’

  ‘He’s kind, Didima.’

  ‘Come and sit beside me, Rudra, so I can see you.’

  Rudra does as he is told, even though he is sixteen and beyond all that. Didima takes his hand, and the feel of her skin is like newspaper from an attic or behind the plaster of an old wall: thin and cold and dusty, with dark blotches here and there as if her ink has bled through. He wants to pull away, disgusted by the oldness of her. And then he is disgusted by his disgust. He repeats to himself, She is my grandmother, she is my grandmother…

  She sees it, his disgust. It is in her eyes – a sadness gathering, harlequin bugs souring the summer.

  ‘Here, we go, Didima,’ says Wallace. ‘A nice cup of tea. Put your feet up here. Tangent, git down from there!’

  The little dog looks up at him with his round moist eyes and doesn’t move.

  ‘Doesn’t listen to me. Does what he likes. Still, he’s a mate. Can’t argue with that.’ He scoops Tangent into his lap. ‘So, where you from, Didima?’

  ‘The Sundarbans.’

  ‘India?’

  ‘Near Kolkata. Between there and Bangladesh. It’s where all the rivers decide to come together before they give themselves up to the Bay of Bengal.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ says Wallace, considering this for a moment. ‘Is it pretty?’

  ‘The most beautiful place on earth.’

  ‘Big call.’

  ‘It’s quite like here.’ She smiles. ‘But a bit nicer. I can see why your mother chose it, Rudra.’

  ‘Well,’ says Rudra. ‘She didn’t really choose it, Didima. She chose my dad.’

  Didima’s lips tighten for a moment on that thought. ‘Well, it is beautiful. Nearly as beautiful as the Sundarbans. You’ll come one day, Rudra, to see your home.’

  ‘This is my home.’

  ‘This is where you live, but India is your home.’

  Wallace shifts on his seat, looks out the window. ‘Looks like the wind is coming up,’ he says, trying too hard to change the subject.

  ‘It’s my home, Didima. I come from here.’

  ‘But do you feel like you belong?’ asks Didima.

  I am from here, he thinks. I am of here. He has lived in Patonga his whole life. That is surely enough. But Judge’s words still sting. Curry-muncher. Drop-in.

  Didima places her cup on the table. ‘I wrote to Nayna so many times, you know,’ she says. ‘But she replied so little. And not at all in these last years.’

  Rudra doesn’t know what to say. ‘She is busy, Didima. She thought of you a lot. Told me stories about you.’ It wasn’t a lie. When Cord was out of the picture, Didima was all his mum wanted to talk about. But Rudra also knew how proud his mother was and that telling Didima of her misery could be seen as defeat.

  ‘Still, she could have written more. I am old and she is all I have.’

  Wallace slurps the last of his tea and grabs Rudra’s mug. ‘You should be getting back,’ he says. ‘Your mum and dad will be expecting you for dinner. I’ll run you over in the boat.’

  ‘I can swim.’

  ‘I know you can, mate. For Didima’s sake though.’

  ‘Will you be okay, Didima?’

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Wallace says. ‘Tangent will look after her. Won’t you boy?’ The little dog yaps a quick yes.

  Rudra’s didima throws her arms around him, and she is so dry, so papery, it is like hugging a cicada shell.

  ‘Thanks, Wallace,’ he says as they close the door.

  ‘What for, mate?’ Wallace replies. ‘She’s family.’

  6

  THE NEXT MORNING, AFTER BREAKFAST, Didima turns up on the doorstep.

  ‘Is your father home?’ she asks Rudra.

  ‘He’s on the boat.’

  ‘Good,’ says Didima, nodding as if to herself. ‘He’s not a kind man, is he, Rudra?’

  ‘Not often, no.’

  Didima’s eyes narrow. ‘Was he unkind to you when you came home last night?’

  ‘No more than normal.’

  ‘To my Nayna?’

  Rudra wants to hold back and make it seem like things are normal in the Solace household. He doesn’t want Didima to become tainted by Cord’s poison; to let it out in the world. ‘She’s not supposed to see you,’ he blurts.

  ‘Not supposed to?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Didima swallows as if she has a chicken bone lodged in her throat. ‘Is she here?’ she asks.

  ‘She’s in the garden. Reading. She has to do the lunch shift.’

  ‘Work?’ asks Didima.

  ‘At Second to Naan.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s an Indian restaurant. In Umina. A friend drives her.’ Rudra doesn’t know why he offers up all this information. It’s not like Didima is Federal Police.

  ‘She’s a cook?’

  ‘She waits tables.’ There it is – more family shame. And he sees it hit Didima fair in the stomach.

  ‘She is a waitress?’

  Rudra knows the word is waitress but Didima makes it sound so wrong – so unclean. ‘She’s been saving money. Trying to help with things around here,’ he tries.

  ‘She was studying science, Rudra. My daughter is a scientist, not a waitress.’

  ‘Well she’s not a waitress until one. Until then, she is reading a book.’ He pauses, nodding to the back door. ‘In the garden.’

  ‘So like her, always with a book. I used to tell your grandfather she’d drown in those words. Do you like books, Rudra? Are you a reader?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘We all need just the right amount of education, you know. But don’t drown in those words, Rudra, not like your mother. And all the good it did her. A waitress – well I never. Now, how about you make your didima a nice cup of cha.’

  She herds Rudra down the hallway and seats herself at the kitchen table.

 
‘I’ll get Mum,’ says Rudra.

  ‘Leave her be. We’ll have a nice lollygag, you and I.’

  Rudra fills a saucepan at the sink and puts it on the stove.

  ‘Didima, can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course you can, my grandson.’

  ‘Didima, why words like lollygag?’

  ‘Those damn Britishers,’ she says. ‘When they finally let us be, they left behind all their rubbish. I don’t think even they would even use such words these times. Twenty-two languages of our own and still we cling to these stupid words. It is hard to let things go.’

  ‘True,’ says Rudra, grabbing a handful of tea from the caddy and adding it to the water.

  ‘Some people say I speak English even better than Bangla. That is because I was able to get an education. Just the perfect amount. Some good fortune came from some bad fortune.’ She waggles her head. ‘And this story I will tell you one day.’

  ‘You speak very good English, Didima.’

  She smiles, obviously happy with the praise from her grandson. ‘No spicy things in the tea, Rudra, okay. This masala cha is no good for my stomach.’

  ‘Okay, Didima.’

  ‘Plenty of sugar, though. And boil the milk nice and hard.’

  ‘Yes, Didima.’

  Rudra pours in the milk and adds three heaped teaspoons of sugar.

  ‘Don’t skimp, Rudra. It’s not like you are poor. Make it nice and sweet for your didima.’

  Rudra adds another scoop. The pot begins to boil and foam. He turns the heat back, allowing it a rolling boil for another minute, then pours it into two small glasses.

  ‘Any of those ladoos left, Rudra?’

  ‘I ate them.’

  ‘Good boy. Come and sit beside your didima. Tell me what you are going to do after school.’

  Rudra sits like an obedient Indian grandson. He looks out the window to where his mother is sitting under the jacaranda, her book on her lap, head thrown back in sleep.

  ‘I don’t know what I am going to do, Didima.’

  ‘You are young yet.’

  ‘I’ll be in year eleven soon.’

  ‘And you are clever. We always had brains in our family. Always.’

  ‘Dad wants me to be a fisherman.’