Over the years, he had tried to show her that he loved her but she had made it so damn hard. She was never happy, just like her bloody mother. He had let Ellie have her stupid, bloody dolls, her drawings—hell, he had even let her keep the blasted cats. He had tried to keep her safe, keep her close, that little girl who had loved her daddy, but she had changed. She had made it downright impossible to show her he cared.
Arthur had put the bullets to the dogs himself, had done it that afternoon because he’d known the neighbours had heard the commotion, had witnessed his Ellie being bundled into the ambulance. He knew they’d be talking about him. He had wanted to keep his dogs, but someone might call the council to investigate. Bloody neighbours. Bloody council. Bloody dogs.
Arthur had never wanted genteel dogs, those long-limbed, elegant creatures featured in hunting and shooting magazines or in old-fashioned English paintings, depicted sedately emerging from the reeds, a lame bird cradled in the jaw. The restrained short and long-haired pointers were not for him, no; he had wanted unadulterated ferocity and brute strength. He had wanted the vicious breeds, the American breeds, the pit bulls—pure bred preferably, but a bit of mongrel mixed in for that extra unpredictable streak wouldn’t hurt. They could take down a feral pig or perhaps even a kangaroo. He hadn’t wanted dogs that would passively freeze and point at their quarry, awaiting their master’s presence; he’d wanted dogs that would hunt and latch onto their prey with unrelenting jaws. Dogs that could rip and tear and fight. No tamed, obedient retrievers for Arthur Clements—he had wanted dogs he had to force into submission, inflict pain upon, dogs that would learn to respect and respond to him alone. He had wanted to be the dominant one in an aggressive, loyal pack. He had wanted dogs specifically born and bred for the kill. And he’d gotten them.
Ellie was in the ambulance, Dolores at her side, when Arthur had finally managed to bind the dogs by their muzzles. Spencer had bucked and jerked, fighting the tug of the chain, fighting surrender. Arthur had shoved the dogs back inside the enclosure, their mouths still dripping blood and saliva mingled with the long strands of his daughter’s coppery hair caught in their teeth. Their claws had smacked relentlessly against the hard earth as they had leapt and hurled themselves at the wire, still pumped with the adrenalin of the attack.
‘Settle down,’ he had yelled before heading to his shed. He had gripped his workbench with both hands, staring out the small window that let in light and allowed him to survey part of his yard. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He had to regain control of his dogs, of himself. Of everything. He’d known what he had to do. He had reached towards the handmade, suspended shelf and slid out the wooden case that held his gun. With calm, methodical hands, Arthur had loaded the rifle with the .22 bullets.
With the rifle beside him on the ground, he had sat outside the dogs’ cage watching them, speaking softly to them, until they had settled. ‘C’mon now, sit. Sit.’ He had stepped over the bloody ground, let himself into the enclosure, and given both dogs a last pat. He didn’t think they’d bite him, not now, not ever. Not even with the taste of blood in their mouths.
‘I’m sorry, mate.’ He had aimed the rifle squarely at Dash’s head. He had flinched as the dog’s body fell to the ground, legs twitching. Spencer had whined and lowered his head. Arthur had given him another pat, looking him in the eye, trying to ignore the heart-crushing remorse that speared his chest. His beautiful dogs. He aimed once more.
‘Blasted child.’
It was the last time he fired a shot.
The cinemas were only a short ride away. With some money of their own, supplemented with their takings from the collection plate, Jack and Arthur would jump on the train to Wollongong. Arthur always let Jack go before him in the queue at the ticket counter. Jack was taller and Arthur stood aside, hoping a little distance made the gap between their heights less obvious.
‘Two please.’ Jack handed over the money. He had slicked back his hair with some of his father’s Brylcreem and it looked darker, though not as dark as Arthur’s. Jack took the tickets and gave one to Arthur.
‘You get the smokes and drinks.’ Jack jerked his head towards the woman selling confectionary and cigarettes. Arthur hesitated and felt in his pocket. A couple of shillings and pennies jangled. He could have sworn his father was watching him as the collection plate had done the rounds of the pews that morning, so he had deposited his coin with a sad clink without trying to scoop another out, and let the plate go by. His old man wasn’t too keen on him hanging out with Jack every Sunday either. He would always mutter, ‘Something not right about that kid.’ Arthur had known not to bother asking his father for money for the movies. He fingered the coins again. This was all he had for the week. Jack raised his eyebrows.
‘You’re useless.’ Jack walked over to the woman and smiled his way to a drink and a couple of loose cigarettes. With Jack’s height and charm, no one ever questioned him like they did Arthur. It wasn’t fair, Arthur thought, as he followed Jack into the cinema to take their seats.
The boys left the movie theatre, squinting against the glaring afternoon sun.
‘Man, I’m going to slick back my hair every day.’ Jack ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m going to look like one of those dudes, with their shiny cars and greased-back hair.’
Arthur frowned. He knew Jack as the guy with scruffy, sandy, beach hair, all salty and mussed up from the waves, not groomed and sleek like this. Arthur toyed with the hair that strayed onto his forehead and wondered if he should start greasing his back as well.
‘You gonna walk round with one of them posh suits, too?’ Arthur caught Jack’s eye and strutted down the footpath, trying to imitate the saunter of the leading man. Jack laughed until Arthur spoke again. ‘You don’t think you’d look pretty dumb down on the wharf?’
‘Just because me old man’s a wharfie, it don’t mean I’ve gotta be one too.’
Arthur felt childish. His mother and father seemed to expect that Arthur would follow his father into the mines and he had naively assumed that Jack would follow his father onto the wharves.
‘Well, what you gonna do then?’ He blurted out, to cover his embarrassment.
Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Not the wharves though. Not the mines.’ He ran his hands through his hair once more. Arthur wondered if Jack’s palms were feeling greasy when Jack spoke again. ‘Maybe I’ll get me a fancy job in the city and wear one of them suits. I’ll get the hell out of here, that’s for sure.’
‘You gotta do the walk though.’ Arthur tried again to imitate the swagger the film’s leading man had possessed and it came out a demented two-step, with Arthur bobbing his head like a crazed rooster. Jack roared and clapped him on the shoulder. Arthur beamed.
‘No way, I walk around like that and people would think I was queer or something.’ Jack gazed off into the distance. ‘Nah, I just want to be like everyone else.’ Arthur looked up at him quizzically. He didn’t know what Jack was worried about; he’d give anything to be as tall and good-looking as Jack. Then Arthur wouldn’t feel like the sidekick. Then they would be equal.
One month later, their run of funds for Sunday afternoon pictures came to an abrupt end. As the collection plate made its way along their pew, Jack had slipped the pilfered coins swiftly into his pocket unseen, but Arthur had been too slow. His father had clamped a hand onto his son’s thigh and squeezed. Arthur had dropped the coins back into the dish as his stomach dropped in the face of his father’s stony rage.
‘I wasn’t going to,’ he whispered and his father’s hand squeezed tighter on his thigh. ‘It wasn’t my idea, it was Jack…’ His father’s glare deepened. Arthur wished he had never spoken. Why had he named Jack? A real mate wouldn’t have dobbed.
‘They do it every week,’ Miriam whispered and, as his father tightened his grip, Arthur felt as if his leg were in a vice. The remainder of the service felt too long, a
nd then, when it was over, all too short. Arthur stood up to follow Miriam and the younger children to the Sunday school classes, but an unyielding hand yanked him back to the seat, followed by a hissed command.
‘Sit!’
Arthur sat. He wished he were strong enough to disobey his father, but he wasn’t. He was weak. Miriam shot him a look that pretended to be apologetic before blithely walking off. He hated her. He watched as Jack, with an innocent face to match those gloried in the stained glass windows above them, rounded up and escaped with the rest of the Sunday school class. The boys were really too old for the classes, but Jack had convinced his mother that they would help by getting the cordial ready for the smaller children. The boys had Miriam do this while they sat outside the rectory smoking until it was time to carry the tray of drinks into class. Every week Mrs Fordham would smile and say, ‘Thank you, son’ to Jack, and give Arthur and Miriam a cursory nod, if she acknowledged them at all.
Arthur slouched on the wooden pew. His father nudged his ankle with one shiny Sunday shoe—polished for church every Sunday morning—and Arthur straightened with a scowl. Jack would be out there having a fag in the sun and he was trapped in here, listening to the droning words of the minister, wondering what his father’s punishment would be. A belting? No dinner? It wouldn’t be good. Arthur just hoped it would be quick.
After the service, his father clamped a hand on his shoulder and pushed him to stand before Reverend Lyne.
‘Mr Clements, Mrs Clements, Arthur, I hope you enjoyed the service.’
‘Yes, it was…’
‘My son tried to steal from the collection plate.’ His father interrupted his mother’s words, leaving her mouthing empty space.
‘Oh.’ The benevolent smile faded from the minister’s face, and Arthur dropped his chin to his chest.
‘My son will be punished.’
‘Well, now…’
His father stared down the minister. He would not be argued with, not even by the Church. ‘And he will take whatever punishment you dole out, too.’
‘I don’t know that…’ The minister stopped, and when he spoke again, his voice was firm. ‘That money goes to help support the good works of the Lord.’
A jab on the shoulder from his father made Arthur raise his head and meet the minister’s eye. He couldn’t believe it. He’d heard his dad say more than once the money went towards Reverend Lyne’s gin.
‘Arthur.’ His father jabbed him again. Harder this time.
‘Yes, sir.’
The minister continued. ‘The garden beds here could do with a bit of weeding, I suppose, and the cemetery grounds need tending. If you don’t think that’s too harsh?’ Reverend Lyne looked to Arthur’s parents for confirmation.
‘Arthur will be mowing and weeding for as long as you see fit, Reverend.’
‘Well then, lad, I’ll see you this afternoon.’ Arthur nodded. ‘Two o’clock down at the cemetery. Perhaps whilst you weed, you could spend your time thinking about those who rely on those donations.’
‘Yes, si—’ Arthur started to agree when his father spoke over him.
‘He’ll be there. Good day.’ Arthur’s father strode off and, without another word, the small party moved on. Miriam met them at the gate and, noticing the silence and tension between her brother and their parents, mouthed a quick ‘Sorry’ to Arthur, and hurriedly fell in behind. Arthur glared at her. If she thought that would make him forgive and forget, she was wrong.
‘It was Jack’s idea.’ The guilty words tumbled from Arthur’s lips with embarrassing speed. ‘His idea, I just followed, I know it was wrong. I just wanted…’ His father lifted his hand as if to strike, but turned it into a wave as other members of the congregation walked past them.
‘If we were at home, I’d beat the living daylights out of you.’ Arthur staggered backwards as if he had received a blow and stood in mute horror as his father wheeled around and strode back towards the church grounds where Mrs Fordham stood with a smug-looking Jack.
‘Mrs Fordham, your son is guilty of theft.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Jack’s mother turned her best Sunday school mistress face outward.
‘Your son’s a thief.’
Mrs Fordham’s face tightened. ‘I don’t like your accusations. Jack, do you know what Mr Clements is talking about?’
‘No.’ Jack widened his eyes as he looked to his mother. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘It wasn’t your idea to take from the collection plate to pay for your smokes then? The movies?’ Mr Clements leaned towards Jack, who jerked his head backwards.
‘My son doesn’t smoke.’ She looked fixedly at her son, faint lines forming between her brows.
‘No, ma’am, I don’t, I didn’t.’ Jack regained his bluster. ‘I don’t know what he, um, Mr Clements, is talking about.’
Mrs Fordham’s lips pursed in a failing imitation of a smile. ‘Then I believe you are very much mistaken, Mr Clements.’ She shifted as if to move away, but hesitated. ‘Falsehoods are a sin, you know.’
Arthur’s father stared down at Jack as the smugness fell away. ‘That’s not the only sin here,’ he muttered.
‘You pay for his ice cream and smokes, do you?’ He looked at Mrs Fordham, his feigned equanimity laced with venom. ‘You pay for him to waste time at the cinema with my boy, do you?’
‘I most certainly do not,’ she spluttered, ‘and I don’t know what you mean by such a question.’
‘You think I don’t know what goes on? Your son and mine buy fags and go to the cinema every Sunday afternoon with money they steal from the collection plate. Both boys are thieves. And your… son,’ he looked Jack up and down with a sneer, ‘is also a liar.’ He tipped his hat and stalked off, leaving a red-faced Mrs Fordham muttering about glasshouses and sinners reaping what they sow. Arthur followed, taking a deep breath before he dared speak to his father.
‘You believe me?’ His father smacked him across the jaw. Arthur tasted blood at the corner of his mouth.
‘That’s for telling tales like a weak little girl.’ Arthur dabbed at his torn lip as his mother and sister scurried away, heads down. They never stood up for him. They never said anything. Arthur trudged after them. You couldn’t count on anyone.
‘Do I have to go?’ Arthur asked his mother when she had finished her lunch. He spoke quietly, hoping his father wouldn’t hear, but that was impossible. His mother had nodded and looked towards the head of the table where his father sat. There was a soft clink as his father placed his teacup back onto its saucer and fixed his son with a stare.
‘You’ll go, and you won’t leave until that cemetery is clipped and mown, and there isn’t a single weed in any of those garden beds. You mind me, lad,’ he pointed a thick, stubby finger at his son, ‘because if I don’t hear a good report from Reverend Lyne I’ll give you such a hiding you won’t sit down for a year.’
‘All right,’ Arthur mumbled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Yes, sir.’ His father lifted his cup again and the rest of the family waited in silence. No one could leave the table until he was done.
Arthur headed off to the Wombarra-Scarborough Cemetery, which sat exposed on the edge of a cliff, buffeted by fierce sea winds and the constant rush of waves below. Jack was waiting for him.
‘Bad luck getting caught,’ Jack swung his legs and kicked the marble tombstone he was seated upon.
Arthur glared at him. ‘S’all right for you. You didn’t have to lie, you know.’
Jack jumped off the tombstone and stood looking down at Arthur. ‘You shouldn’t have dobbed me in.’
‘You could’ve said something.’
‘Bugger that! I wasn’t going to admit to nothing. You would’ve gotten away with it too if you weren’t such a girl.’
‘Am not!’
‘Are too!’ Jack shoved h
im hard in the chest and Arthur fell back onto the ground. ‘That’s for dobbing, ya sook.’
Arthur realised he was probably lying atop somebody’s grave, someone’s corpse. He stood up and shoved Jack back. Jack staggered, but remained on his feet.
‘Boys! What’s going on here?’ The minister had arrived, lugging a hand mower in bad need of oiling, along with a pair of secateurs that looked as if they had been made centuries before. Arthur groaned.
‘Nothing, Reverend Lyne. Just thought I’d see if Arthur wanted to come to the movies with me, but he’s busy.’ Jack had his holier-than-thou, Sunday-school face on, and Arthur wished he had shoved him right into that tombstone.
‘You could help him, lad, if you wanted.’
‘Nah, I mean no. I’ll just go by myself then,’ Jack smirked at Arthur. ‘Have fun, Artie. Goodbye, Reverend.’ He swaggered off as Arthur began pushing the mower painfully around the overgrown cemetery grounds, cursing Jack under his breath.
It was only when the thumps of the washing machine on the uneven laundry floor announced the end of another cycle that she remembered his clothes. Or rather, that he wasn’t wearing any. She rushed back to his room.
‘I’m sorry, Daddy.’
‘I protected you, gave you shelter, gave you life for Christ’s sake. This is how you repay me, leaving me naked all morning.’ His eyes were open and accusing. The sheet she had draped over him now lay pooled on the floor.
‘Sorry, Daddy,’ she said again, looking at his cold face. ‘I forgot.’
His expression didn’t change and she hung her head, closing her eyes. Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry. She sighed. It seemed she’d spent her whole life feeling sorry, being sorry for something, for everything.
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