Nine Days

by Toni Jordan

  The bell goes: I can hear it echoing against the walls and ceilings and stairs. We’re supposed to be in class quick smart. History. Yet we’re both sitting here on the floorboards, backs against the rows of books, calm as you like. Gentlemen of leisure, Ma would say. Kip ignores the bell. Or maybe he doesn’t hear it.

  ‘What do you suppose they cut it with?’

  ‘Scissors, maybe. Or a knife. He’d be that mad,’ said Kip. ‘That was his best coat. It’s a wonder Ma let them.’

  ‘No other way to get his arms in, I expect.’

  Kip shakes his head. ‘No excuse for it. You’d do it the way Connie used to dress her dolls. Just takes patience, that’s all. I can’t bear the thought of it. Him lying there forever with his best clothes slit open at the back.’

  It seems to me that Dad’s beyond caring about clothes, but I don’t say that to Kip. He’s making his hands into fists and if he knew who’d cut Dad’s clothes they’d be getting what for.

  ‘We’d best get moving. Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.’

  ‘I’m not going. I thought I could but I can’t.’

  Kip’s hair is in his eyes. It takes so little effort to keep your fringe trimmed. Ma’s happy to do it, he just has to ask. But Kip’s just like Dad that way; he always used to come home with ink under his fingernails. Outside in the hall, I can hear boys and brothers hurrying to class, doors shutting. Everywhere else, women are going to the shops and men are off to work and derros are sitting in the park and none of them give a rat’s about Dad.

  ‘The first day’s the hardest,’ I say. ‘All downhill from here.’

  ‘I didn’t even say goodbye to him, that morning. I was reading a stupid book.’

  Dad and me and Connie, we all laugh at the way Kip reads a book. You could talk right at him. You could sprinkle water on his head and drop a saucepan lid next to him and he’d not look up. Read through an earthquake, Dad used to say.

  ‘He knew that’s how you are,’ I say. ‘It’s how you’ve always been.’

  ‘Did you not bloody well hear me? I didn’t say goodbye to Dad. On account of a book.’

  ‘You’ve got to get to class. It’s not up to you. Ma says you’re staying.’

  He stands. He doesn’t pick up his bag: just leaves it lying on the floor.

  ‘What can she do? She can’t kill me.’

  ‘She bloody can.’ I can tell from the set of his jaw he’s not joking. ‘What will you do?’

  He shrugs. ‘If the factories won’t take me I’ll go door to door. I’ll do anything.’ He looks down at me, blinking fast, squeezing his eyes tight then opening them wide. ‘Rise and Fall of the bloody Roman Empire. Us sitting there like good little boys at our good little desks. Yes brother, no brother, when he’s dead and he’s never coming home and I never even said a proper goodbye.’

  I want to tell him he’s not being practical, that he needs to think of his future, of Ma’s and Connie’s. I want to tell him Dad would understand. Instead I say, ‘Piker.’

  He kicks his bag on the floor and makes straight for the door and doesn’t say goodbye and I know he’s heading for Brother Cusack’s room. His bag is lying there where he left it. I don’t know what to do with it. All I can think is how silly I’ll look to the gang if I turn up with two schoolbags. In the end, I leave it there on the floor.

  After the last bell, I walk down the stairs as fast as I can. Kip never appeared for history, or for maths after that. None of the brothers spoke to me about him. I expect they’ll give it a few days, give him a chance to change his mind. They don’t know him like I do. It makes me extra glad I have somewhere to go this afternoon because with Kip and Ma, home will be a good place not to be. Some of the other boys try to stop me but I tell them I’ve got to see man about a dog and I rush past. I can’t let them slow me down. I can’t be late at the very beginning. I don’t know how long the gang will wait.

  But when I get back to the wall in Mary Street, they’re not there. Maybe I got the place or the time wrong, or they’re not going to come at all and it’s their idea of a big jape. And then I see them turn the corner, walking casual as you like, with bags over their shoulders.

  I lean on the wall straightaway. I nod.

  ‘Hope we haven’t kept you waiting, Frankie,’ says Jim.

  ‘Just got here. Thought the brothers might of kept me back.’

  ‘What for?’ says Mac.

  I look to the heavens. ‘Where do I start? All the trouble I get into.’

  ‘I knew you’d fit right in Frankie,’ says Jim. ‘Let’s go.’

  We walk down to Swan Street and I go to get on the tram but I see the boys hanging back. They wait until it’s going again and they run after it and jump on the ledge at the back. Just like that. On the back, hanging on. They’re looking at each other and grinning. Pike takes one arm off the rail and waves at me. Come on, he mouths. And I’ve got one second to make up my mind and all I can think about is Dad but then I think about Kip walking out of school and I’m not walking away from anything so I run after them and I jump on too.

  I don’t think about it, from then on. Because if I did fall off, my head would crack like an egg and because it’s busy with people and even cars everywhere, not late at night like when Dad did it, I’d probably be run over and end up a big red splodge on the road and they’d slice my coat from the collar down so I hang on sweaty and shaking and keep not thinking about it. All the people on the street stop and stare at us and one man takes off his hat and waves it and yells Hoy! You boys! Cray waves back at him with one arm and I keep gripping on with two and not thinking.

  ‘No sense wasting good money on a ticket,’ says Jim.

  ‘Optional,’ says Cray.

  ‘Simple economics,’ says Mac. ‘You all right there, Frankie?’

  I can feel every grain of sand on the track. My hands are greasy and slipping. Near the turn into Power Street the tram slows to walking speed and we jump off and my legs are that wobbly I can hardly stand. We walk for a bit but then another tram comes along. This time the connie’s looking at us something fierce so we get on and buy our tickets and I’ve never been so happy in my life.

  So we’re standing in the middle of the tram as it squeaks and rattles. When we get to Hawthorn you can tell the difference right away. Hawthorn is grass and swaying trees and hills and houses that don’t even touch each other but have grass the whole way around like a moat. Even the air has a different smell. We hop off near the Burwood Road corner and walk around the side of a milk bar behind a big tree, and then we stop. Before I know what’s going on, I see Mac undoing his buttons. The three of them are taking off their shirts, right down to their white singlets, right there. And I look at Mac, at the hair under his arms sticking out a good three inches! Even a few tufts on his chest. I hope to high heaven I don’t have to take my shirt off. I look like I’ve been dipped in toffee. From their school bags, they each pull out a plain shirt and cap.

  When I ask why they’re changing, Cray starts to laugh.

  ‘I’m surprised you need to ask that question, Frankie,’ says Jim. ‘Our poor mothers slave day and night doing the washing. When we’re out working hard in old ladies’ yards our shirts get awful filthy. We don’t want to dirty our school clothes like that.’

  ‘Thoughtless,’ says Cray.

  That’s good thinking on the boys’ behalf. I’ve only got the one suit for school myself. ‘Oh. Where’s mine?’

  Cray has a mighty giggle at that.

  ‘You don’t need one,’ says Jim. ‘We’re all bigger than you, see? Stronger. It’s best that me and Cray and Mac do the yard work. We’re saving you for a part of the job that needs a bit more thought. A special bit. You being so good at school and that.’

  Well, there you are. I knew they’d picked me for good reason. Brains not brawn, that’s what counts. They’re saving me for a special bit.

  ‘And cause you’re so weedy,’ says Mac.

  After we walk for a while, we come to
a big house with a lot of yard, all covered with bushes and grass and trees run amuck. No wonder the lady who lives here needs help with her garden. I start to open the gate but Mac grabs me and pulls me back to the footpath and over in front of the house next door.

  ‘Listen carefully. This is what’s going to happen. The old dear inside, she’s expecting us.’

  ‘Righto.’ I start to move again but Cray puts his hand on my chest.

  ‘But not all of us. Just Mac and Cray and me. You stay here till she lets us in. Then we make sure the door isn’t locked behind us, right? She’ll take us through the house and into the backyard and show us what to cut back and what weeds to pull. That’s when you get to it.’

  ‘Get to it?’

  ‘Start with the kitchen,’ says Pike. ‘And only bother with the small stuff.’

  ‘Big stuff’s no good, in case we got to leg it,’ says Mac. ‘No matter if you want it or not. Even if it’s, I dunno, a wireless. If it doesn’t fit in your pocket, leave it.’

  ‘Pocket size,’ says Cray.

  ‘Money, jewellery,’ says Pike. ‘These old ducks, they don’t like banks. Look in her drawers, under her smalls. That’s where they keep purses.’

  ‘Jewellery. What do we want with jewellery?’

  ‘It’s not for us, you idiot,’ says Pike. ‘It’s for flogging. My brother Ronnie shifts it down the pub.’

  ‘In the kitchen, check the tea caddy,’ says Mac. ‘Sometimes there’re pound notes in there to pay delivery boys.’

  ‘Most important of all: eyes and ears open,’ says Pike. ‘We’ll keep her in the backyard as long as we can but you can never tell when they get it in their head to get you a glass of water or something. If you hear a sound, go straight out the front door.’

  ‘We’ll meet back at the milk bar,’ says Mac. ‘Everything gets split four ways.’

  ‘And Francis.’ Pike looks at me closely. ‘Don’t disappoint us. You wouldn’t like us when we’re disappointed.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Cray.

  From his advantage point behind the front fence, Cranston watches the big old door of the castle open with a ginormous screech. Just as he planned, his agents—three hirsute former convicts whose miserable lives The Shadow has saved and who owe him plenty and have sworn eternal fealty for the rest of their existence—say the secret password and gain admittance to the villains’ hideout. Now is his chance to search for the stolen microfilm. He leaves his bag with the others, tucked just inside the gate. When he reaches the door, it is ajar. He opens it without a word and slips into the foyer.

  Inside it is dark and musty, as though the super-villains for whom this is their lair don’t own a broom. When his eyes adjust to the light, he sees a number of rooms coming off a central corridor, which is lined with suits of armour and rugs that Cranston knows originate in a small village outside Constantinople. But this is no time to dawdle and reflect on his adventures in the Ottoman Empire. Cranston’s ticker is hammering so loud he’s scared it’ll give the game away, but he’s got to step on it. The villains might return at any moment. He starts in the kitchen, a tiny dirty room designed for servants or perhaps the villains’ mothers. He checks the tea caddy as per the tip off but as he suspected from the rundown and shabby appearance of the castle, it holds only tea and a few pennies. In case they are useful as clues, he scoops the pennies into his pocket. He looks in all the other containers too: F for flour and S for sugar. They are all but empty. The fruit bowl is empty. The bread bin is empty. There’s not enough food in here for a mouse watching her figure. What is wrong with this old biddy? There’s shops just at the end of the street and if it’s too far to walk, the grocer’s boy’ll bring it.

  Cranston figures that this room is a waste of time and all the while he searches he keeps an ear out for noise. If he’s found, it’s extreme curtains for our handsome hero.

  Next, he checks the front room. Here he must be careful: he can tell by one look at the mantel that everything is covered in a fine layer of fingerprint dust and if he touches anything he’s had it. In a brilliant bit of ingenuity he slips his sleeves down over his fingers while he checks behind photo frames and a big clock but there’s nothing small enough to fit in his pocket. There are distant noises of his agents’ voices. They are excellent distractors. He has taught them well.

  Finally he makes his way to the villains’ old-lady housekeeper’s room. At first he just stands at the door. It’s like being at his nan’s: a big high bed with a hollow in the middle and flat lace cushions instead of pillows. There are slippers on the floor and a white nightie on a chair. The whole room smells of old lady. Cranston looks along the dresser and rifles through some drawers. Everything is faded and thin. There is no microfilm here. He feels sick. He thinks for a moment he’s going to hurl.

  Then, all at once, he hears a noise. It’s talking. Loud. Yelling, getting closer. There’s another noise—it’s the back door opening. He’s nearly shat himself. They’re coming in the back door. He can hear them, clomping boys’ feet and the old lady too. Bugger bugger bugger. Perhaps they’re just stopping in the kitchen for a drink. That’s it. No. They’re coming closer, right along the hall, up to the front.

  I nip behind the bedroom door and pull it back towards me and straightaway a dressing-gown flutters in my face and it smells of dried sick and tea. They’re in the hall, outside the bedroom door. I can hardly breathe. I’m trapped.

  ‘But we’ve only just started,’ says Pike. ‘We don’t want to quit yet.’

  ‘Anyway,’ says Mac, ‘it’s for free.’

  ‘He pulled out a rhododendron,’ the old lady says.

  ‘We’ll be more careful.’

  ‘Honest.’

  ‘You lot wouldn’t know a weed if it came up and shook you by the hand. You’re good for nothing.’

  ‘Give us another chance,’ says Pike.

  ‘You’re like elephants in a china shop. You should be paying me for elementary gardening instruction.’

  I can’t see a thing with my head behind the dressing-gown but I can feel something solid resting on my cheek. I pull aside the gown and hanging next to it on the a hook at the back of the door is a black handbag. I take it down. Quietly I open the rusty clasp. Inside there’s a hankie, a gold lipstick and matching compact and a fat leather purse. I empty the purse into my hand: a fistful of shillings. I stuff them in my pocket.

  ‘Oh. Oh. Did somebody turn out the lights?’ says Pike. ‘I feel dizzy. I think I’m having a fainting spell.’

  ‘Strewth,’ says Cray.

  ‘Mother? Mother, is that you?’ says Pike.

  ‘It’s the sun, I expect,’ says Mac. ‘Heatstroke.’

  ‘You were in the sun all of five minutes,’ the old lady says.

  ‘My friend is of a sensitive disposition,’ says Mac.

  ‘Are you some kind of foreigner?’ she says.

  ‘Can I have a drink?’

  ‘Water. You’re not getting my lemonade when you’ve done naught to earn it.’

  I can hear her tramping back up the hall, and then Pike whispers, ‘Francis. Where the bloody hell are you?’

  I come out from behind the dressing-gown. The old lady’s in the kitchen. I can hear the clink of glasses, water sloshing in a sink, but I’m not thinking about that. I freeze in the middle of the bedroom. I think about Ma. Her and the old lady aren’t that different. I haven’t looked in the most obvious place.

  In a flash I dart to the bed and shove my hand under the mattress. I feel around and around and then the back of my hand touches something soft and furry, like velvet. I pull it out—it’s a small red bag a couple of inches square, with a gold drawstring pulled tight. She’ll be back down the hall in one more second. I go to put the bag in my pocket but I stop. I try to think like The Shadow, so instead I bend down and pop it inside my left pushed-down sock. Then I run out the bedroom door and stand behind Cray in the hall. Just then she comes around the corner from the kitchen.

  She’s walking do
wn the hall, rolling a little from side to side, glass of water in her hand. She’s spilled some on the carpet, she doesn’t care. She stops in front of us. She’s bigger than I expected, a round nan-type, not a scrawny one. Her grey hair is plastered down at the front like Julius Caesar. She squints.

  ‘Which one of you wanted the water?’

  Pike takes it off her and drains it in one scull.

  ‘That’s better. Ta. Well. We’ll be off.’

  We turn and Cray opens the door.

  ‘Just wait one minute,’ she says. ‘Turn around.’

  We don’t know what to do. We turn. We stand there, the four of us in a row. I can feel the blood draining from my hands. There’s a strange metallic taste in my mouth. I will be branded a juvenile delinquent. Ma will know and Connie will know and Kip will know. Brother Cusack will know. I’ll be the one leaving school, that’s for sure. There goes my future. There goes my famous life as a radio star.

  The old lady looks us up and down and I see what this is. This is a test. This is about me sitting at the table this morning while Ma talked about her job and Connie talked about leaving school and I never said anything. Right here and now, I make a pledge to Jesus. If I get out of this alive, I will shoulder the responsibility for this family. I will work hard at school. I will be the most serious, most studious, most hardworking boy and I’ll do whatever Ma says and I’ll never do another naughty thing, not ever, not if I live to be a hundred. I’ll be the best boy who ever lived. I’ll finish school and go to university and I’ll study the law so help me Jesus Christ who is my Saviour. Ma is right: nothing is as important as being respectable. I can see the old woman’s head nodding. She’s counting us. It doesn’t matter how old she is, everyone knows the difference between three boys and four. We’ve had it.

  ‘Which is the stupid boy who pulled out my new rhododendron?’

  I look at Pike and Pike looks at Mac and Mac looks at Cray.

  ‘Me,’ says Cray.

  ‘Damages.’ She holds out her fat hand.

  ‘What?’ says Pike.

  ‘You’ll be paying for that. That was a cutting from my sister-in-law’s Marchioness of Lansdowne what won a ribbon at the show. Plants like that don’t grow on trees.’