Gilgamesh

by Joan London

  Jim, Jim, what are you lying there for? It’s only an old crow, pull yourself together. You’ve got to get ready for school.

  The long holidays were over and he could not face the classroom and yard again. Black hairs sprouted in his armpits and groin, there was even a line of silky black fur along his top lip. No! he croaked. He heard the wings beating in ever faster motion, so that the whole world veered, darkened, speeded up. Leave me alone! His voice had the harsh edge of the crow. He saw that his mother and aunt were startled and afraid.

  He was surprised by his voice and the strength of his resolve. He stalked back into the house. Edith came after him, but he slammed the bedroom door. He heard their voices, rising and falling, attack and defence. But they couldn’t make him go anywhere. He was as strong as they were now. Why hadn’t this occurred to him before?

  They didn’t know what to do with him. Edith had to go to work. He roamed the bush and the beach, or lay in the bedroom with the door closed. This is what he had done in the holidays but there was no contentment for him in anything any more. After his rage a wretchedness took him over, which tightened his chest, weakened his legs, tainted the brightness of the summer. The faster his thoughts went round, the slower the day passed, from the ache of dawn to sunsets lurid with menace.

  He heard Frances talking. ‘He can’t just run away from things. He isn’t a child now. People won’t put up with him.’

  People. He saw a crowd gathered on the steps of a great civic building. He heard them murmuring, calling for his punishment.

  ‘Jim.’ Edith was leaning over him. ‘Tell me. What’s the matter?’ But how could he tell her, when he knew this devastation joined up with hers, came from the same place. Loss had rained down on them like a sandstorm. In the orphanage dormitory his mother had lain all day on her bed. That was the day his childhood had ended.

  Five weeks passed. His birthday came and went. A book, Robinson Crusoe, from Edith. A lopsided cake from Frances with thirteen childish candles. He couldn’t thank her, couldn’t bring himself to take a bite. Well I’m going to try it, said Frances, cutting herself a large slice. It nauseated him just to see her jaws move.

  Day after day alone with her he felt her watching, thinking about everything he did. He felt trapped in her thoughts. Every morning she came into his room and told him to pull himself together. Once she tried to make him get up off the bed. She tugged and pulled at him, her face red. Do you know your grandfather cleared this block with his bare hands? Do you know what he would think of you, a great big boy, lying around like this? He kicked at her, she ducked, he split her lip. Blood poured down her chin as she stared at him, and her irises went large and dark for a moment as if at last she’d grasped a monstrous truth. She could not chew or smile or speak properly for more than a week. Edith wouldn’t talk to him either. He was ashamed, but more, terrified by the pictures that came to him, those pale chiselled cheekbones squashed together, that obdurate skull with its thin plait crushed like an eggshell.

  One day Sir came to look for him. Jim saw through the bedroom window the battered little Morris bump its way into the clearing and there Sir was, unfolding from his seat, spruced up in a tweed coat, tie and felt hat, disguised as a farmer going to the city. The voice too was in disguise, calling out from the verandah, reasonable and hearty, a wolfs voice sweetened for grownups. ‘Miss Clark? I’m Howard Dowd, the boy’s teacher.’ It was Saturday, Edith was at work and here was Sir coming into the bedroom. Jim froze, lying there on his bed.

  ‘There you are, Clark. Still very sick?’

  Jim stared at him.

  ‘Stand up when you speak to me, boy.’

  Jim could not move.

  ‘I’ve been hearing stories about you, Clark. About a boy who won’t come to school. Do you know that’s against the law, Clark? Do you know your mother could be in a lot of trouble because of you? You don’t look very sick to me.’

  Frances stood behind him, wiping her hands nervously on her overalls.

  He shut the door and they sat down at the kitchen table. Jim heard the kettle whistle, and the growl of Sir’s voice. Frances’s voice was high, going on and on. Run, run, Jim whispered to himself, but he was too afraid to move. Frances and Sir talked for a long time. The shadows in the clearing grew longer, the bird calls lonelier, like a serenade for something ended. Jim thought of the empty schoolyard, and of all the other children playing freely and happily in the world.

  They came into his room together. Frances was carrying his schoolbag, into which she started to stuff some of his clothes. ‘You have to go to Perth, Jim. You have to do some tests. It’s not for very long. Mr Dowd is driving you there himself. It’s all for the best.’ Her face, still a little puffy and bruised from his kick, was red. Sir was fitting some folded up papers into the inside pocket of his good tweed jacket. He spoke softly. In the classroom everyone shrank when Sir spoke softly. Soon someone would be crying. ‘Find your shoes, Clark. Get in the car.’

  There was a word for boys like him. Intractable. Sir said that was what Jim was and everything Frances told him in the kitchen had confirmed his opinion. Sir told Frances about Westlea, clean, large grounds, government-run, which straightened out intractables like Jim. He told her that it often didn’t take very long, some discipline, a regime, nobody standing for any nonsense, sometimes after just a few weeks, half a term, a parent wouldn’t know it was the same child. He advised her that action had to be taken. The boy was running amuck. It was obvious they needed help. A man’s hand. Since he was going to Perth on private business that very day, he could take Jim now, and save a lot of trouble later, and the cost of two fares. Frances could sign the papers, she was the boy’s legal guardian wasn’t she, in his mother’s absence? He gathered that Mother was often absent?

  I thought it was for the best, Frances was to say to Edith. I thought you would get into trouble. She was biting her swollen lip when she handed Jim his bag. For a moment even Frances looked dear to him, his last link to the known world. He felt sorry for her. He understood how Sir made you do what he wanted you to do. Also that nothing and nobody could withstand the force of Sir’s dislike of him. Except Edith. Yes, Edith could, he thought proudly as the car started up.

  Sir and he said nothing for a long time in the car. Jim stared at the teacher’s hands on the wheel, gingery fur on freckles, and his shoes on the pedals, the familiar punched-hole fountain pattern on the toes. Sir had polished the shoes for Perth. He knew every detail about Sir, having studied him in the classroom for three years, his papery earlobes, the comb-marks in his greasy hair, the glinting stubble like beer on his sharp jaw. In the sunlight streaming over the dashboard he gleamed pink and gold. Jim imagined him doing private manly things in his house, shaving, trimming his nosehairs, hunting for socks. He didn’t have a wife or kids to soften him. Jim caught a whiff of his haircream, a small, hopeful smell. He knew Sir came from a terrible place, hard and cold, a man on his own.

  ‘You have a dark colouring, Clark,’ Sir said, his only effort at conversation. ‘Your father was Albanian or something, wasn’t he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No what?’

  ‘No sir.’

  Sir let the subject drop.

  They were driving past the dense scrub along the Busselton shoreline. Jim glimpsed the driveway to the nursing home. Howard Dowd said over and over in your head became HowDow and eventually Dowdowdow. He said it faster and faster to stop himself thinking of Edith going home and finding he wasn’t there.

  What if I am dying? he thought, watching the light fade over the road.

  He was asleep when they arrived at Westlea. The journey took longer than usual because just before Mandurah the Morris had a puncture. Sir instructed Jim to hold a torch while he changed the tyre.

  ‘I suppose you think the gods have answered your prayers, Clark. Let me assure you, I knew the tread was worn before I left.’

  Jim had no such thoughts. He had abandoned all hope for his fate. He couldn’
t seem to direct the beam in the right places for Sir, who spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What have you done with the few brains you were born with, Clark? Haven’t you any commonsense?’

  The road was empty. The bush on either side was silent, a black mass. Sir relieved himself against a tree with an angry crackling sound. ‘I take it, Clark, you’d avail yourself of the occasion if there was a need.’

  There was a light in a doorway at the end of a broad verandah. A vast bright hallway, smelling of meals. The glare shocked him after the dark of the car.

  A large woman loomed over him. Sir cupped the back of Jim’s head. ‘Answer when you’re spoken to, son. Tell the Director your name.’ His voice was pretend playful.

  ‘Jim.’

  ‘You can see what we’re up against here,’ said Sir. He let go of Jim’s head with a little push.

  The Director herself, her rear an immense flat shelf, her calves like clubs, led Jim up the wide staircase. All the other children were asleep, she said, panting a little, leading him past a corridor of open doors. He would have to sleep in the sickroom so as not to disturb them. She folded down the sheets of a high bed. He still hadn’t looked at her face. ‘It’s like this at Westlea, Jim,’ he heard her say, ‘if you’re fair to us, we’re fair to you.’ She saw he was too modest to undress in front of her. She snapped the light off as she left.

  He climbed into the bed fully dressed. He was somewhere near a railway line. Trains rattled passed with a whooshing noise like breath. Further down the line they whistled into a station. Their lights chased across the pale curtains in the sickroom. He lay awake for a long time.

  Something about it was familar, as if he’d died and found himself back in the past. Arrival at night, a strange bed, the collective sigh of rows of sleepers. The feeling that you were being punished for something. The steady glimpse, as you lay in bed, of the dark heart of the world. Except that in the past there had always been Edith, her body never far from his. Home was Edith, wherever they went. He was filled with childish longing for her. He couldn’t remember spending a night apart from her before. And it was he, through his rages, who had sent her away! He groaned and ground his fists into his eyes.

  Visions came to him. He was lying in another room, high-ceilinged like this one, thick with darkness, the only light a strip beneath the door. A shadow blocks the strip. A clock chimes across the city. The shadow disappears. Footsteps echo on the pavement beneath the window, pass away into the night.

  He’s in a park with golden shivery trees, a coppery tone to the light. There’s a feeling of suspense, as if a storm is going to break. Standing a ball’s throw away among rustling bushes is a man, watching him. A man’s face, surrounded by leaves. Their eyes meet.

  A haze of familiarity carried him through the day. He knew the routines. Breakfast, the morning energy of children, raw, seething, dangerous. A queue for porridge, a queue for washing dishes. A queue for inspection of nails and hair. Sunday School in the hall, All Things Bright And Beautiful, cutout Bible figures moved around on a felt board. Free Time Outside. Westlea had been a grand old mansion with a sweeping driveway and great dark Moreton Bay fig trees. Some of the boys were playing cricket. Girls paced the shade with their arms around each other. All around the grounds was a high wire fence. The world outside was out of bounds. He knew his first task was to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He settled his back against a widegirthed tree trunk, and closed his eyes. It was only a matter of time before assault.

  He opened his eyes. Up the driveway, out of the sleepy white light of Sunday, a figure came walking, a small dark-haired woman in a beret, white blouse and white lace-up shoes. So familiar she was like a mirage sent to tease him. He wondered for a moment if all his longing had conjured her up. She was walking in the special way she had, very determined, so that her hair bobbed on her shoulders, and her feet seemed to rap on the ground. He stood up, the sun in his eyes.

  ‘Come on, we’re going,’ Edith said, not even stopping to hug him, simply taking his hand. For the first time she noticed that he was taller than she was. As if misery had made him grow.

  ‘We’re not allowed to leave.’

  Edith was leading him back down the driveway. ‘And I say, leave while the going’s good.’

  ‘What about my bag?’

  ‘Cut your losses.’ She spoke like a spy on a mission. A bell was ringing as they reached the gate. He turned and saw that the boys had thrown down their bats and were running to queue at the front steps. Lunch.

  ‘Don’t look back,’ hissed Edith. She reached up and unlatched the gate. They walked out onto the street. She shut the gate. There was a letterbox marked WESTLEA next to the driveway. Edith took an envelope out of her bag and posted it. ‘That should keep them quiet for a while,’ she said. ‘I told them I’m going to write to the Premier. Now hurry, we’ve got a train to catch.’ They tried to walk at a decorous pace until they passed the Westlea fence. Then they broke into an elbows-up walk and then a trot along the railway line. And then they ran.

  It wasn’t until the train was rocking comfortably past Pinjarra, and Edith had smoked a cigarette or two in the corridor and treated Jim to a plate of corned beef and pickle sandwiches in the dining car, and herself to a pot of tea, that she told him what had happened. As soon as Frances told her where he’d gone, her one thought had been that she must get him back at once. She knew her only chance was speed and surprise. Officialdom was slow and lumbering, too sure of itself.

  She knew she’d missed the night train from Bunbury. The next train left early on Sunday morning. But on Sundays there was no early bus from Nunderup to Bunbury. So she walked up to the Sea House bar at closing time to see if she could find a lift.

  ‘Frances was hysterical. I’d never seen her like that. But nothing could stop me, it was as if I heard you calling me.’

  Old Reg Tehoe insisted on buying her a drink. She told him she had to get to Perth, that Jim was there and needed her. He drained his glass. Out came the old Rover, growling and rumbling from the garage, its leather seats all cracked now, but running sweetly as a bird, Reg said. He drove her to Bunbury: only fear of Madge prevented him from driving her straight on to Perth. Old Reg smelt of whisky and the Rover wandered all over the dark roads, but it was so late there were no other cars. He didn’t like leaving her alone at the dark railway station, but he nodded when she said she had to go. He never once asked her why Jim was in Perth, or why he needed her.

  She spent the night on a bench on the platform. When it was light the stationmaster came and she asked if she could buy a sheet of paper and an envelope—he gave it to her, with the West Australian Government Railways crest on the top—and she wrote her letter To Whom It May Concern At Westlea School. Then she caught the train to Perth.

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking, Jim,’ she said. Although she hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours, Edith seemed fresh and animated, like a younger self. She said she thought he could enrol in the Correspondence School, they lived far out enough for that, and do his lessons by the post. ‘Then you are not a truant and nobody can lay a finger on us.’ But if they tried, if they came after them, then the two of them would run away, go to live somewhere else, maybe Kalgoorlie, where her father had come from. Her father had always said Kalgoorlie was a law unto itself.

  ‘Never let yourself fall into a stranger’s hands,’ Edith said. She looked out the dining car window at rolling yellow paddocks, long brown hills. Why had she thought they were safe here, that this was something that could never happen in Australia? She had forgotten. Australia was a place where they tried to take away your children.

  ‘What did my father look like?’

  Her eyes turned to him. He had eaten every last crumb of the sandwiches and now sat calmly with his arms folded. ‘Like you,’ she said.

  All at once, like a gift, she remembered the exact look of Aram’s face. His eyes looked out of Jim’s eyes, withdrawn, sad, intense. Then he was gone and it was a
boy’s features she was looking at, with newly bushy eyebrows and a childish smear of pickle on the down of his upper lip. ‘Go like this’, she said, brushing her own lip.

  He was not deterred. ‘Why are there no photographs of him?’

  ‘There was so little time.’ She felt a warmth mount her neck and cheeks. She smiled. ‘He was very good-looking, Jim.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘He would have been at the front line. He was a prisoner, and the Russians sent the prisoners in first, as punishment. They didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Why was he in prison?’

  And then, all the way past the scrubby coastlands, she told him everything she knew about Aram, from his birth to his death. What she didn’t know she filled in with what she had imagined, all those years ago. ‘What you have to understand, Jim,’ she said, ‘is that everything he did came from being that child marching through the desert.’

  Why had she thought Jim wouldn’t miss what he’d never known?

  ‘He was a fighter, a man of action,’ she said. ‘A brave man.’

  Was he? She was inventing a father for him.

  They were passing through the forest near Bunbury when Jim asked her: ‘Where did it happen between you and my father?’ He felt curiously clear and empty after his ordeal. There seemed to be nothing left to fear.

  ‘Where did what happen?’

  ‘Where was I—’

  ‘Conceived? In the Honeymoon Gardens. After a dance, on the last night he was here.’ Edith spoke briskly, but her cheeks were pink.

  ‘Did Leopold know?’

  ‘Leopold always knew everything.’

  ‘Why Aram? Why not Leopold?’

  ‘In a funny way it was always as if the two of them were one person. Later in Syria it was as if Leopold was your father.’

  ‘Do you think Leopold is dead?’

  ‘Why on earth do you ask that?’

  ‘He doesn’t come back to me like my father does.’

  She didn’t tell him other thoughts she’d had, sitting up that night in the Bunbury station. Whenever she closed her eyes she saw Jim crouched by her bed day after day in the dormitory in Aleppo. Once she’d reached out to him and taken the thick black hair springing up from his forehead and pulled him towards her and looked into his little stubborn face, seen his loyalty and forbearance.