by Robert Gott
Rose had no appetite for allowing the conversation to slide into an attack on her husband.
‘Be that as it may, Aunty, I’d like to get to know Dorothy better. I’m sure she’s a lovely person.’
Rose wasn’t at all sure of this. She was curious about the kind of woman who was willing to overlook what Rose believed were Matthew’s ostentatious flaws.
Aggie, whose face assumed a little moue when Rose dunked a piece of shortbread in her tea, said that if Rose was serious she could invite the couple out to the farm for dinner.
‘Yes, I’ll do that. Perhaps you’d come, too.’
‘Oh no, dear. Someone has to be here to keep an eye on Selwyn at night.’
This wasn’t true. Often, Aggie locked Selwyn in the shed and spent an evening at someone’s house.
‘If you’re serious about meeting Dorothy, you could start this afternoon. She and Matthew were planning to have a swim at East Beach. They’ll be there now, I suspect.’
There was no doubting that this was a dismissal, and Rose was happy to take advantage of it. She finished her tea, surreptitiously put a shortbread in her pocket — it was her butter, after all — and effected her departure.
In the Caledonian Hotel, John Abbot was deep in conversation with another farmer. Rose knew these conversations were important to John, infrequent though they were. They were an opportunity to vent frustrations and share information. What she didn’t know was that at the moment she walked into the bar — a place she wouldn’t normally have entered — John Abbot was telling his friend that Johanna Scotney was a ripe little peach and that she might be up for a bit of how’s your father. His friend, a much older man, laughed, but cautioned John that Johanna’s father would wreak havoc if he ever found out.
‘Nah,’ John said. ‘She’s playing hard-to-get all right, but she’s playing. She wouldn’t still be there if she wasn’t up for it, would she? She certainly wouldn’t be saying anything to her father.’
His friend shrugged.
‘I’d be careful if I were you, John. Word gets around.’
Rose heard none of this as she approached the bar where they were sitting.
‘Rosy,’ John said. He always called her Rosy after a few drinks. ‘Had enough of the old dragon?’
Rose didn’t bother leaping to her aunt’s defence. John knew perfectly well that Rose agreed with him.
‘I’m going down to East Beach. You stay here.’
‘No, I’ll come. I could do with a swim.’
‘I’m hoping to meet up with Matthew and his fiancée.’
‘Oh.’ John’s interest evaporated. ‘I’ll stay here then.’
JOHANNA AND TIMOTHY weren’t alone in the gardens. Despite the grounds’ disordered state, they were still a popular place to take the dog or to walk off a big lunch. The smaller paths had disappeared in the wilderness of undergrowth, so most people stuck to the main ones, where regular foot traffic ensured a clear way. Timothy knew a disused track, just discernable if you were familiar with it. It ran behind a huge Norfolk pine and down towards the Moyne River. At a certain point, it flattened out to provide a place that couldn’t be seen from either the park or the land on the other side.
He and Johanna sat down, or rather Johanna did, and Timothy lay back with his hands behind his head. His shirt rose up to expose his belly; but, despite the intimacy of that kiss, Johanna was too shy to place her hand on his skin. She did as he did, and lay back.
‘We’ll be all right, you know,’ Timothy said.
‘Maybe it’ll all be over by the time you’re 18.’
‘I hope not.’
Johanna sat up.
‘You don’t have to prove how brave you are, Tim. Not to me, and not to anyone else either. There are plenty of blokes who haven’t joined up, and no one thinks anything of it.’
Johanna didn’t quite believe this. She understood why her father hadn’t joined up. Shark fishing was a reserved occupation. Several other fishermen had signed on for the army. Tom Scotney thought those blokes were nongs, not heroes. They’d left their families in dire straits, and they’d expect to just waltz back into the industry when the war ended. Shark fishing was a protected industry for a bloody good reason, so those blokes were abandoning their duty, not heading off to do their duty. Johanna had heard her father crowing recently about the fact that the silly buggers were being sent home because there weren’t enough fishermen left behind to fill the catch quotas. He’d been right all along. Someone like Matthew Todd, though? He should be in the army, Johanna thought. Timothy, on the other hand, was too young, and he ought to think about his mother. She already had one son overseas, and she probably worried herself silly that he’d end up like her husband.
‘Does your mum want you to go?’
Timothy sat up.
‘No.’
‘I don’t want you to go.’
Afterwards, she couldn’t recall what prompted her to say what she said next. Perhaps it was the sudden call of a coot, or the splash of a black swan landing in the river.
‘I want you to stay here to protect me.’
Timothy was silent for a moment.
‘To protect you from what?’
‘Men. Other men.’ She began to cry, and Timothy was covered in confusion.
‘Jo, what’s the matter? Did I upset you?’
‘Oh no. I’m sorry, I don’t want to … I have to tell someone.’
Her sobs became so deep that she was unable to speak. She leaned into Timothy to reassure him that this had nothing to do with him. He let her cry because he didn’t know what else to do.
‘I thought I was coping with it, but it’s too much, Tim. It’s too much, and now I don’t know what to do.’
She told Timothy that Matthew Todd had touched her in intimate places. She also told him that John Abbot had made lewd suggestions to her, although he’d never touched her. Timothy didn’t understand at first what Johanna was talking about. Matthew Todd was a respected man, and John Abbot was married. Surely Johanna had just misunderstood something that had been said to her, and maybe Matthew Todd had touched her accidentally. Johanna stared at Timothy, and her distress and embarrassment turned to anger.
‘Do you think I’m making this up?’
Her voice was shrill with disbelief. The last thing she’d expected of Timothy was doubt. ‘Do you think this is my fault?’
Timothy had never been so close to real fury before, and he fell back away from it.
‘He pushed my hand against his penis!’
Timothy was now mortified. Johanna saying that word was shocking — so shocking that he couldn’t grasp the full meaning of the sentence. They both stood up. Johanna was crying again. Timothy put his hand on her arm, but she slapped it away. She was incapable of speech. She walked quickly up the path’s incline, and when she reached the main path she began running. She passed several people who were surprised to see Johanna Scotney in an hysterical state. They saw, too, Timothy Harrison, standing some distance away, his hands by his side, a stunned look on his face. Well, it was perfectly obvious what had happened, wasn’t it? If word of this got back to Tom Scotney, Timothy Harrison could expect a thrashing.
‘How far do you think he went?’ Mrs Lucan said to her husband.
‘Far enough to make her hysterical, so I’d say he went plenty far enough.’
‘You can’t trust the quiet ones.’
‘I always thought there was something odd about the Harrisons. They’ve never had to struggle for a penny. It makes people feel entitled. Serves him bloody right if Tom Scotney does find out. I’ve a mind to make sure he does.’
Timothy barely noticed the Lucans, even though they were in his line of sight. He watched the retreating figure of Johanna. He’d done everything the wrong way, and he had no idea how to put
it right.
ROSE ABBOT WAS some distance from the bridge when she saw Johanna run across it. She was obviously crying, but Rose was too far away to catch up with her and find out what was wrong. Johanna ran down Regent Street, and by the time Rose got there, she was nowhere to be seen. A male figure reached the bridge just as she did. He, too, looked upset, and Rose surmised that this must be Timothy Harrison.
‘Timothy? You’re Timothy Harrison?’
He was momentarily startled.
‘Yes.’
‘I just saw Johanna run past. What’s happened?’
‘I don’t know who you are.’
‘My name is Rose Abbot. Johanna works on our farm.’
Timothy looked stricken.
‘She told me about your husband.’ The words fell out of his mouth in a rush, and he pushed past Rose before she’d taken them in. She thought she was going to be ill. No, there’d been some misunderstanding. Timothy Harrison was just a boy. He’d got the wrong end of the stick. She’d sort this out later. She suppressed a sense of dread, and continued walking towards East Beach.
Rose wasn’t a keen beach swimmer. It was John who enjoyed it. Rose didn’t really understand the attraction, particularly on windy days, when the sand stung. There was no wind today, and there was a sufficient scattering of clouds to provide some relief from the sun. There weren’t many people on the beach, and she quickly found Dorothy Shipman. She was sitting on her own. Matthew must have gone in for a swim.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Dorothy shielded her eyes, uncertain at first who the silhouetted figure looking over her was.
‘Oh, Rose, it’s you.’
She leapt up, wrapping a large towel around her already modestly clad body.
‘May I join you?’
‘Oh yes. How lovely.’
They both sat down.
She was pretty, Rose thought, even in bright sunlight. She could see why Dorothy had caught Matthew’s eye, but how had she held it?
‘We’ve never really had a decent conversation, have we?’ Rose said.
‘It seems a shame, doesn’t it?’
‘I hope Matthew has been giving you eggs and vegetables from our farm.’
‘Oh yes. Thank you. I have asked him to tell you how grateful we are. I hope he’s told you.’
‘He’s forgetful.’
‘Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry. I’m embarrassed.’
Rose could tell that Dorothy was genuinely annoyed by Matthew’s failure to observe the rules of etiquette.
‘I’ll have a word with him when he comes out of the water, if he ever does. He’s been out there for ages.’
‘No, no. Don’t spoil your day. I know he can react badly to being dressed down, and he really wouldn’t like being corrected in front of his sister.’
‘Well, that’s too bad for him. He needs to be trained.’
Rose raised her eyebrows at this prim declaration.
‘I’ve found that if a man’s not fully trained by the time he’s 15, he goes beyond the reach of any regime designed to improve him.’ Rose laughed as she said this, having given up trying to add civilising touches to John Abbot’s limited repertoire of social graces. Dorothy looked surprised.
‘Matthew doesn’t mind being told when he’s done some small thing wrong.’
Rose didn’t believe this for a minute. If Matthew was on his best behaviour now, it was because it suited his purpose. Dorothy was in for a nasty surprise. It wasn’t Rose’s place to warn her that her fiancé was capable of deceiving her without feeling guilt. My God, the way he ogled Johanna Scotney. Hard upon this thought, Timothy Harrison’s words crept back. Ridiculous.
‘Have you set a date for the wedding?’
‘Not an exact date, but I’d like it to be in May. Summer weddings are uncomfortable, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose. I got married in February. It was hideously hot, now that you mention it. St Patrick’s was sweltering.’
‘Exactly.’ Dorothy nodded sagely.
‘I can’t see Matthew. Can you?’ Rose said.
Dorothy shielded her eyes again and looked at the sea.
‘Is that him? No, it isn’t.’ There was a small hint of panic in her voice. ‘I can’t see him.’
‘He’s a strong swimmer.’
They both scanned the water.
‘He’s not there,’ Dorothy said, her voice rising. ‘He’s not there! Oh! Is there a rip? Has he been caught in a rip?’
She stood up quickly, not caring now that her towel dropped to the ground. She ran to the water’s edge and began calling, ‘Matthew! Matthew!’ Several small wading birds took flight.
Rose joined her.
‘Oh!’ Dorothy whimpered. ‘Oh!’ Her hands fluttered. To still them, she pushed her fingers into her hair.
‘There!’ Rose said. ‘There he is, out behind that swell. He’s perfectly okay.’
Dorothy burst into tears. As they walked back up the beach, Rose noticed the large, purple birthmark on the inside of her thigh. Matthew must have seen it, and Rose knew that he wouldn’t like it. He found physical imperfections disgusting.
Matthew began swimming towards the shore. He stood up when he reached the shallows, paused when he saw that Rose was sitting next to Dorothy, and jogged across the sand to them, showering his sister with kicked-up grains. Dorothy was still crying.
‘We thought you’d drowned,’ she said. ‘You were in so long, and then we couldn’t see you.’
‘Well, that’s just absurd,’ Matthew said. Rose noticed that he’d trimmed the hair on his chest and shaved it completely from under his arms. She found this vaguely distasteful and effeminate. She was certain that the birthmark would bother him. Why on earth was he marrying this girl? Was she pregnant? Unlikely. Dorothy Shipman didn’t strike her as the sort to surrender her virginity before marriage.
‘What are you doing here, Rosy?’
‘Aunt Aggie said you’d be here swimming, and I thought it was a good opportunity to talk to Dorothy. We’d barely talked before this afternoon.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
‘I suppose you think we were talking about you,’ Dorothy said, sufficiently recovered to be coquettish. ‘You’re not the only topic of conversation in the world, Matthew.’
Matthew looked at Rose.
‘Well, you did come up, as it happens. I was telling Dorothy how wonderful you are, and how very lucky she is.’
From where Dorothy was sitting, she couldn’t see the sour look that crossed Matthew’s face. When he turned to Dorothy she was smiling broadly, so Rose probably hadn’t said anything unpleasant about him.
‘Dorothy was telling me that the wedding is in May.’
‘Yes, and then we both flew into a panic about you drowning.’
‘Both?’
‘Yes, both,’ Dorothy said, and Rose thought she detected a hint of disquiet.
STEVEN MCNAMARA FINISHED his shift at the Windsor at 5.00 pm. He’d be surprised if the bloke he’d met at breakfast actually showed up. McNamara hung around outside the hotel, smoking a cigarette. There was something about that bloke. He obviously had money. There was something crude about him, too, and he looked disconcertingly like a young Rudolph Hess, who Steven had seen in newsreels. He wasn’t soft-looking. He’d have a hard belly, and maybe he enjoyed being roughed up. If he wanted to do the roughing up, that was fine. Maybe he’d misread the whole situation. Steven checked his watch. Ten past five. He wasn’t going to show up.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ George Starling said. He’d been watching McNamara from inside the Windsor, making up his mind. When he saw him draw on his cigarette in an elaborately feminine way, he decided he needed to put a stop to him.
McNamara turned at the s
ound of Starling’s voice. Oh yes, he thought, you’ll do nicely.
Starling moved past McNamara and kept walking. Steven knew that he’d been invited to follow and did so. This fellow was discreet, and didn’t want their assignation noted by anyone associated with the hotel. Fair enough. He caught up with him a block or so along.
‘I don’t think I know your name,’ Steven said.
‘You don’t. It’s George, and that’ll do. What’s yours?’
‘Steven McNamara.’
‘The full title. That’s formal. I’m new around here. Is there somewhere I can buy you a drink?’
‘I know a place. You know the kind of place I’m talking about?’
‘I hope we’re talking about the same sort of joint — you know, a place where two blokes having a drink won’t be bothered.’
Steven nodded and smiled.
‘Follow me,’ he said, and his turn was almost a pirouette. Starling wanted to knock him down on the spot, and stomp so hard on his face that no fairy would ever give him a second glance, except to note how ugly he was. He held fire and followed. Finding a nest of these people would be useful. He could burn it down, and all of them in it. He was developing a taste for burning.
McNamara led Starling down Little Bourke Street, and into an alley that smelled of garbage and urine. He pushed a door that opened onto a narrow staircase that looked as if it might collapse if stepped on.
‘It’s up here. It’s not salubrious, but it’s private.’
At the top of the stairs, McNamara knocked at a door. It was opened a fraction, and then fully. He gestured in a way that indicated he was vouching for Starling, and they were admitted into a small room. Starling didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. He’d imagined some large, bordello-like space, decorated with rich velvet and oversized cushions. This room, with two hurricane lamps rather than an electric light, would look crowded if ten people were in it. There was one table and a few chairs, and there wasn’t even a bar — just a cabinet against one wall. Apart from the person who’d opened the door, and who now was arranging bottles in the cabinet, Starling and McNamara were the only people there. They sat at the table. The barman crossed to them, and even though the light was dim, Starling could see that he was wearing make-up.