by Toni Jordan
Some parts of the backyard have escaped the cement. There’s a vegetable patch and a shed and a little way inside the fence near the corner is a huge lilly pilly. It towers over the yard and even stretches across the corner of the lane. The cement under the branches is a carpet of squashed purple fruit. I run my hands around the tree; the bark is rough on my palms and they tingle. My nose bristles from the cold. I sit on the bed of earth near the trunk. I cannot delay now, not one more second. I am being consumed and the decision must be made. I have no incense, no oils, no candles, but soon I need to go in and speak to my parents. I cannot wait.
I rub my hands together, reach around my neck to unfasten the pendant and warm it in my hands. It is perfect, purple and gold with sharp edges, the right thing to make this decision because it is part of my family. My mother gave it to me and my father gave it to her. It is my connection with all those who have gone before me.
The trough is rough against my back. The lower branches have tilted down and I feel enclosed by nature. I lift my shirt and pull down the band of my skirt a little so that my stomach is bared. I say the question over and over: should I keep the baby?
Now it is no longer my problem. I have offered it up to Gaia. The pendant will circle clockwise for yes, anti-clockwise for no. I close my eyes and raise my hand. The pendant begins to move.
CHAPTER 5
Francis
CRANSTON IS PRETENDING to sleep. The old mansion is dark and spooky and the only light in the bedchamber comes from the full moon that floods in through the big glass windows facing the moor. Cranston examines the surrounds with his experienced and brilliant eyes. They suspect him, he knows. That is why they’ve set a guard to sleep in the next bed, not for his own protection as they said last night. The guard is one of the assorted nameless goons that slink around masquerading as servants. Yet there is no choice. It must be tonight. Cranston may not get another opportunity to search the mansion.
Silence is of the extreme essence. If his country’s enemies were to find him wandering about like he owns the place, looking for the top-secret room that contains the top secret stolen uranium, they would know he is not the debonair playboy adventurer he pretends to be. A chance presents itself, forthwith. The guard is a stupid, weak-willed buffoon who has failed in his duty and fallen asleep while on watch. Cranston looks at the guard, at his gormless boofy head. He lacks even the rudimentary intelligence required of a valet. Who knows what hideous crimes this oaf has committed? What violence he is capable of? Yet Cranston must seize this moment. He must move with no more sound than the wind.
He removes the bedclothes: first the blanket, then the sheet. He sits up, silently. He slides his feet into his slippers.
Wait! Is that the guard stirring?
‘Francis if you get out of bed again so help me I’ll brain you,’ says the guard, who is clearly a drongo of the first order.
But Lamont Cranston will not be caught so easily.
‘Righto. I’ll piss right here in the bed, shall I? And tell Ma it was your idea?’ Cranston replies, devastatingly outwitting his inferior foe. The thickheaded guard has his eyes closed and cannot see Cranston smile in victory.
‘Jesus Mary and Joseph,’ says the guard, adding blasphemy to his long list of character flaws. ‘Your bladder must have been made in Japan.’
The guard could not be more wrong. Cranston’s bladder is as good as cast-iron, the result of his superior willpower and years of training in the mysterious ways of the Far East. The guard suspects nothing. He rolls over to face the wall and Cranston escapes the bedroom and closes the door softly behind him! He is free! Serves them right. Everyone in the world should know by now—THE SHADOW CANNOT BE DEFEATED!
The huge stone corridor is pitch black and lit only by old-fashioned torches ablaze in holders attached to the wall. Cranston inches his way along, soundlessly yet manfully, on his tippy toes. He moves along the wall, avoiding the floorboard that creaks third from the end.
Then I see it. The kitchen. The cakes.
The cakes have been coming for three days, ever since the funeral. On the drainer and in the cupboard and even on top of the ice box. Pound cake with butter, jam roly-poly, cinnamon tea cake, all wrapped in wax paper. We could have cake for breakfast, dinner and tea for the rest of the year. Two weeks ago this would’ve been heaven.
The cakes are from friends and neighbours and people from the church and mothers from school. One thing I’ve learned about funerals is this: even if you’re not a relative, you still have to go, you have no choice in the matter, but you don’t have to say anything except a terrible thing, over and over, as long as you shake your head and look at the ground and send over a cake. I’ve already got a sultana and date fruit cake with lemon icing in my bag for school today. In case anyone tries to talk about Dad and I can’t think of what to say.
At the head of the kitchen table is his chair. It looks the same as the others but it’s his. Was his. I run my hand along the wood, the square corner, down the slats at the back. I pull the chair out. I touch the seat, scratch my nails along the padded bit. It’s brown roses like the lounge. This is where he sat, every single night. When we were little, me and Kip’d sit under the table. It was our fort. He’d sit down and say to Ma, where the devil are those boys? We could only see up to his knee; his shin was about our size. His socks were thick and baggy—boots left at the front door, Ma insists. We’d take it in turns to poke his ankles. Soft at first, then harder. Jean we got mice under this table, he’d say. Shoo, mice. Then he’d give a little kick and we’d scramble out of range until our giggling gave us away and he’d haul us out. Jean this is the funniest looking pair of mice I ever saw! I’ll just pop them over the back fence. He could carry both of us, one squirming under each arm, legs kicking. When we were small.
I’m nearly thirteen and there’s no one left in the world big enough to carry me under one arm. I crawl between the chairs and sit there hugging my knees and the underside of the tabletop hits the back of my head and I can’t believe the two of us ever fitted. I shut my eyes and imagine Dad’s legs just there. Like I could touch them if I just reached out my hand.
I sleep late and when I get up I see them sitting in their usual places as if it’s a usual day, as if he’ll be along any second. The clock on the mantel has just gone seven. Dad would be going to work.
‘Sit down,’ Ma says. ‘Eat something before we drown in cakes.’
I sit down in my chair and Ma gets up and opens the oven and takes out a pile of scones she’s wrapped in a tea towel to warm. There’s jam on the table, and butter. For the life of me I can’t even touch them.
‘They’re not going to waste,’ Ma says. ‘People are good enough to bring them.’
Even Kip doesn’t move. Connie looks like she’s going to be sick.
‘I’m waiting,’ Ma says.
I cut a scone in half and butter it. The butter melts like a slick. Kip takes a plain one. Connie cuts it in half and has a tiny nibble.
The butter and the jam. On the table. They’ve been bought with Dad’s money, with his wages from the Argus. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.
‘Ma,’ I say, but I don’t know how to go on with it.
‘What?’
Payments on the house, wood for winter that’s nearly here. What if someone gets sick and needs the doctor? Kip and I have our scholarships, but there’s books and we’ll both need new uniforms pretty soon. Connie’s art school. Food.
‘Cat got it, Francis?’ Ma says.
Ma’s old. Nearly as old as Dad, close to forty. If she dies too there’ll just be me and Connie and Kip. I don’t have the foggiest what Dad used to earn, what it costs to keep the house, but I know what happens if we can’t afford to stay here in Rowena Parade. Those slum shacks in Mahoney Street, what they call the Valley of Death on account of the diphtheria. Whenever we passed it, Dad used to say there but for the grace of the Argus go us.
‘Well?’
‘Wha
t are we going to do for money?’ I say.
Kip slams his fist down on the table. ‘He’s not been in the ground a week!’ he says. Then all at once he’s out of his seat, grabbing me by the collar, tipping over my chair and pulling me up and against the wall like he’s going to clock me and it takes Ma and Connie to pull him off. Ma gives both of us a whack and my ear is red and stinging and ringing.
‘We will all sit down like Christians or I’ll give the pair of you a hiding you’ll remember till this time next year.’ Her mouth is that tight and white I know she’d do it. When we were little, Dad was never the one that done it. It was always her.
Connie rights my chair and we all sit and Kip is snivelling and looking at me fierce.
‘If you had half a brain Kip Westaway you’d be dangerous. Your brother is, as usual, the grownup one.’ Ma takes the scone from Kip’s plate and puts it on mine. ‘This is nobody’s business but mine. But this is how it’s going to be.’ Ma tells us we have a little money: a collection at St Ignatius and another from St Kevin’s and from the Argus. And tomorrow morning, she starts work.
‘Not in a common factory,’ she says. ‘I’m to be a housemaid in a big place at Kew. Father Lockington himself arranged it. They’ve given me a black dress and all. And Connie. You tell them.’
‘I won’t go back to art school. I can get a job too.’
‘A job? Not on your nelly. I won’t have these two roaming the streets like urchins. We’re taking in a boarder. Myrna Keith’s sister-in-law, the widow. She’s a bit of money from her uncle that passed and she wants to live around here, near her relations. The boys can share a bed in our room and you can stay out in the laundry. You can look after her and the boys.’
For a while nobody says anything. Connie stirs her tea and the clink of her spoon sounds that loud.
‘It’d be better if we weren’t at school. Wouldn’t it, Ma?’ says Kip.
‘Well you are at school and that’s that. Brother Cusack had a word at the funeral. The scholarships keep going till you finish if you keep your marks up, and the brothers’ll find whatever books you need, and uniforms, and anything else. After that, who knows? Three boys that finished last year went on to the university. You’re too young to leave school besides.’
‘You can get an exemption certificate from the government. Trudy Lee is thirteen and she got one and now she’s at the match factory.’
Ma’s throat is red. I wonder if she’s scratched it by accident but her nails are that short I don’t know how she’d do it. She gives Kip a look that means one more word and I’ll knock you into the middle of next week but instead she says, ‘Respectable people keep their children on at school. Your father, he gave up everything for us. That’s that.’
The three of us look at each other. We know the story word for word, mostly because when Connie was little she’d be at Ma all the time. Tell it again, Ma, tell it again. Like it was the greatest romance ever, better even than a film. Dad’s people were of a different persuasion and didn’t approve and wouldn’t even come to St Ignatius for the wedding, and that’s how come we don’t know our grandparents and aunties and uncles from that side. All Father Donovan asked, Ma says, was that we were brought up Catholic and went to Catholic school and Dad gave his word. Even though Dad never came to St Ignatius with us, every Sunday he made us go. Until you’re old enough to decide on your own, he’d say.
‘Happy now, you pair of worry warts?’
We nod, but happy doesn’t come in to it. My scone is still lying there, slit up the middle. Kip keeps looking at it like he’s never seen a scone before. Connie is giving up art school when all she cares about is drawing pictures. Ma is going into domestic service, cleaning someone else’s house. But, for me and Kip, life will be just the same as before: St Kevin’s, our friends, the brothers. What’s going to happen to Ma when she gets old, when Connie goes off to get married? Who’s going to look after her now Dad’s gone? That’s what I’d like to know.
Today will be the hardest. The funeral wasn’t so bad. Dad looked like he was just sleeping and it was good to see everyone so sad for him, shaking me and Kip by the hand, telling us what a great bloke Dad was. At funerals everyone has a job to do and things happen all by themselves. As if we were all in a play and everyone knew their lines.
Back to school, that’s what I’ve been dreading. Boys and brothers and everyone looking at me from the corners of their eyes. One thing I’ve learned: when your father dies, people are much kinder to you. For a while, anyway.
This will be Cranston’s most difficult assignment yet, indisputable proof of his genius. He’s practised for this, like a cricketer playing his first test. Thank you for your sympathy, Brother. I’m feeling much better, thank you.
Cranston goes to his room to get his bag. The target isn’t there, but it’s much too early for him to have left already. Where the blazes is he?
‘Ma, have you seen Kip?’
‘He left ten minutes ago. I told you not to dawdle.’
Bugger. The target has thrown off the tail. I bolt out the front door, along Rowena Parade, down Lennox Street. Usually we catch the tram along Swan to the MacRobertson Bridge but it’s that early, odds are Kip’s decided to walk. I cut through Gipps Street then Elm Grove walking fast but there’s no sign of him. Then, as I come around the corner into Mary Street, I see them: the evil Mastermind Shiwan Khan and his two goons, leaning on a fence, smoking.
‘Francis,’ nods Jim Pike.
‘Have you seen Kip? I’ve lost him.’
Pike looks up at the sun and squints and purses his lips, but can’t hold in his giggle. The other two start to laugh as well.
‘Bad couple of weeks you’re having, Francis. If you’ve lost your brother as well,’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ says Cray, and all three of them laugh all the harder.
‘Francis, Francis, come here, matey,’ says Pike. He’s a good head taller than me and rangy: big, but not as big as Cray or Mac. They’re both like a cross between a brick dunny and a gorilla and Mac takes after the gorilla in the body-hair department. Pike vices one arm around my shoulders. ‘Me and the lads are just having a joke with you. We’re sorry to hear about your dad. Aren’t we, boys.’
‘Yeah,’ says Cray.
‘Real sorry,’ says Mac. He comes over and pulls back his fist like he’s going to punch me into the middle of next week, but instead when it lands he takes all the force out of it and he just taps my arm.
‘Ta.’ I think about the sultana cake in my bag, try to calculate its anti-bashing value. It was meant for school but I’ll spend it now if I have to.
‘In fact, we been thinking. Might be you could hang about with us for a bit.’ Pike lets go of me and leans back against the wall.
I swallow. I look at him.
‘We’ve been keeping an eye on you Frankie,’ says Mac. ‘We could use a lad of your talents.’
Really? ‘What talents would those be?’
‘You’re smart and hardworking,’ says Pike, which is true. ‘Sometimes, the boys and me, we make a bit of pocket money doing odd jobs for old ladies out in Hawthorn. Gardening and such. Our good deeds to help the less fortunate.’
This makes Mac smile from ear to ear. ‘We call it our charitable works.’ Cray starts laughing so hard he doubles over and puts his hands on his knees.
‘We think you’d be the ideal boy to join our gang,’ says Pike.
‘What about,’ I start. ‘Thought you blokes prefer to stick with your own kind.’
‘Your religion,’ says Mac. ‘In this instance we’re prepared to overlook it.’
‘All right, then.’
‘Start today after school,’ says Mac. ‘And don’t say nothing to nobody. One word and it’s all off. Once you’re friends with us—well, let’s just say. It’s best to be friends with us.’
‘Friends with us is the best way to be,’ says Pike, and he’s right about that. ‘So shut your cakehole.’
‘Not a word.’
After they leave, I lean for a while against the heat of the wall and think about my luck. The toughest gang in Richmond! And they want me, Francis Westaway! All right, I’m not as big as them. I’m not as muscly. But I’m wiry, and more to the point, I’m sharp. Give it time, I could be the brains of the whole operation. Officer in charge of all charitable works. They’ve noticed my potential, the big life I’ve got in front of me. No more handing over sandwiches, getting tripped, watching where I sit and where I walk. Could be I’ve been hung from my feet to the hilarity of all and sundry to have my pockets emptied for the last time. Dackings? Forget it. From now on, I’ll be the one doing the dacking. From this minute it’ll be me deciding who does what and who goes where. Francis, is it all right if I sit here? Francis would you like a biscuit? No, no, go on. It’s the last one in the packet, but you have it.
When I get to school I hunt for Kip from one end to the other, in all his usual spots. Then I remember: the library. Sure enough when I peek through the window I can see him. He’s sitting on the floor in the corner, but he’s not reading. He’s hugging his knees and his head is down. Looking at him there, I forget why I was chasing him.
‘If we told the boys we had scones for breakfast, they’d not believe us,’ I say, when I sit beside him.
He looks up. It takes him a long time to move his head, like it’s extra heavy. ‘Did you see that scone? Split up the middle like that?’
I nod.
‘That’s what they did to his suit coat. His good suit coat. Cut up the back.’
‘They never. How do you know a thing like that?’
‘It wasn’t sitting right. I could see, when I was standing in front of the coffin. The collar didn’t line up properly. Didn’t join. I expect they did it to his shirt as well.’