by Kim Kelly
Then three things happen in the last two weeks of July: Daniel is released from The Thing.
The Kaiser, it seems, will dare, and Europe braces for war. Father takes to his bed, and he won’t be getting up again.
TWO
JULY 1914 – SEPTEMBER 1915
DANIEL
Francine is unimpressed when I ride up to her house on Sunday morning to tell her. But I’m not moving on this; besides, I’m fat from loafing and my left leg looks like a sick twig — it took me a week to get it going at all. France’s not marrying that; two months back in will fix me up.
She’s standing with one hand gripping the side of the mantel, tiny in her huge sitting room, glaring at me after the surprise. ‘So is this a once a miner always a miner sort of thing? Like once a Catholic always a Catholic? If so, that’s ludicrous. Look at Joe Cook — he doesn’t seem to need a spell in the pit these days. He’s the Prime Minister.’
What? ‘That liberal, Free Trader, capitalist arse?’ I say. ‘Cream rises to the top and has a vested interest in staying there, is all he’s about. Took him five minutes to see what side he’d butter his bread on and forget there ever was another side. They kicked him out of the Labor Party for it before I was born. He’s got nothing to do with me. And I’ve got a commitment to finish the quarter.’
‘No you don’t,’ she says, and that’s true enough. ‘And don’t be crude.’ Sometimes, even looking at her, I forget that she’s a woman — and that she’s only eighteen, for Christ’s sake: who made her? — and let the language slip out.
‘Well, I want to finish the quarter, then,’ I tell her. ‘I don’t want all this to change who I am, how I live, just like that.’
‘You sound like some bleater from Australian Worker’ she says, for all our previous agreement on the issues, for all that she’s read every red rag in my house. ‘No.’ She’s changed her mind. ‘You sound like a gaga Wobbly from Direct Action — except you’re not planning industrial sabotage: you’re planning to sabotage yourself. Is that who you are?’
‘I’m a miner so far, is all.’
This is not going too well.
Then she says: ‘I don’t want to be married to a miner — and I don’t want to be your employer!’
‘Then don’t marry me.’ Out before I could stop it, and it stops her. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ I say.
She stares: ‘You’re an arse.’ And keeps staring, wanting me to roll, and stares some more, until it’s just dippy, her own crudity hanging there like she’s holding a sign.
‘Don’t laugh, will you,’ I say, stoking it, and she nearly cracks. But doesn’t. Instead she says: ‘Well, if you get hurt again, don’t expect any sympathy from me.’
Didn’t think I got lashings of it this time around, and that only proves her more, but I don’t say that. ‘It’s not forever,’ I tell her. And it won’t be, just till I sort out what it is I am going to do. Write rubbish for the socialist papers? I can barely string two sentences together. What about carving? I’m a bit beyond that by now, though I’ve made France a beauty that I’ll give to her after we say ‘I do’. I love her so much I’d punch a hole through this wall to prove it, but she’s not going to keep me, not while I’m sorting myself out, not ever. Anyway, if she’s all for the worker, then she can know what it is to marry one for a bit, that it’s more than just doing your own housework, it’s … It’ll do us both some good. I reckon Dad would be happy with that.
FRANCINE
I’m still furious, but there’s no point in arguing about it. I suppose this is what is called a man’s prerogative: to be irrationally stubborn when it’s too hard to come up with a more sensible alternative. As if I am qualified to judge. So much for the crusade … Well, he can finish his quarter and then we can marry and when we’re married, he’ll have to give it away: it’d be too ridiculous after that, and possibly immoral since he’d be depriving someone else of job.
He comes around the other side of the sofa now — for heaven’s sake he’s still limping — and I know he’s going to kiss me. And I know that I will vaporise happily at it too; it’s glorious to do it standing up properly like this, on the tips of my toes, and he smells wonderful now — The Thing was beginning to stink a bit, but today he smells of Sunlight soap and clothes bleach and Daniel smell laced with wood and linseed oil. And I can sympathise, sort of: what is he going to do with himself? Can’t he just love me and forget about the rest? We’ve broken almost every other rule … What’s wrong with whittling useless pieces of art? There are worse things a man can do with his time.
Anyway, it’s a good thing he came round, because Father wanted me to get The Lad over here today; he wants to see us both upstairs. And now it stabs that I’ve spent this time arguing and vaporising with Daniel. There is no more point to squabbling than there is to not spending every last second with the Leprechaun.
Father’s propped up in bed: jaundiced and looking a hundred, while his indomitable cheerfulness winks through my shock at seeing his frailty anew every time I come back into the room. Methuselah says: ‘Daniel, you must have heard me calling.’ Then fakes a death cough, like there is something wrong with his lungs. ‘Pour us a drink will you, son,’ he adds, gesturing at the stand by the windows.
Daniel is supremely respectful with Father, but there is a look that comes across his face which betrays his utter bewilderment. He’s wearing it now as he does as he’s bid, and I swear his hand is a little unsteady as he gives Father the glass.
‘Thank you, that’s lovely. Now sit down, the pair of you.’ He indicates either side of the bed. And we do.
He glances at me and says: ‘For the moment you’re decoration, so be quiet.’ Then he trains his eyes on Daniel, who looks like a boy of twelve with his yes-sir ramrod-straight back. ‘As I said to you, son, if you upset my daughter I’ll come back to murder you, and don’t think I don’t have the power — I’m more religious and better connected than I let on. Now, having reminded you of that, I’ll remind you that I am a betting man. I have a very sure tip for you: Britain will declare war on Germany by the end of the week, give or take a day, and we will all tag along for the ride. Jingo-jangle all the way. And with the call to arms will come heavy profit for heavy industry, which is always an outstanding but less publicised result of war — ah, if only I’d held off investing in aeronautics till now; but there’s no sense in regret. I will offer only one piece of advice: try not to do anything rash, nor anything you don’t want to do. But having said that, war does strange things to people. So, having a bet each way, I give you this.’
He hands Daniel a thick, large envelope from the bedside table; I see a pile of smaller envelopes behind the lamp. I lean across to look at this big one as it trembles ever so slightly in Daniel’s fingers: on the face Father’s written INSURANCE in determined but scratchy letters.
‘Don’t open it now,’ Father says, though Daniel’s too transfixed to do anything of the sort anyway. ‘Open it outside, in the drive. Now off you go, the pair of you. Leave me alone, I’m feeling poorly.’
I say: ‘Father, what’s —’
‘I thought I told you to be quiet.’ Wink, reaching for his pipe. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to die this afternoon. Polly will fuss about me while you’re out. And Mrs Moran is coming in a little while. I’ll be well entertained.’ Daniel bends his head and smirks under his hair at that in shared experience.
Father says to me,’ Better give me a kiss, just in case.’ I do, then Daniel stands, gigantic over Father, and shakes his hand, saying, ‘Whatever it is, I’m sure I don’t deserve it.’
‘Make sure you will then.’ Daniel wants to say something more, but Father won’t let him. ‘Now go!’
One last death cough for us and an impatient wave, then we head for the stairs — and bolt down and out to the drive.
It’s a title transfer, from one Colin McLaughlin, whoever he is, to Daniel Ackerman. There’s a little note pinned to the top which says: Sign in the obvious places, if
you like it. All property is theft — blah, blah, blah — but there are some things you can’t help thieving, and not an innocent among us. FPC. There’s a map below, showing the way to Josie’s Place, and I’m already crying: Josephine was my mother’s name.
Daniel pushes the hair away from my face and holds his hand there against my cheek, and I can’t move for a minute. Then I say: ‘Quick as you can — you drive.’
Poor Hayseed, in a canter all the way, through rough short cuts down to town and across Main, and away out of town, then along the length of Dell. Daniel knows exactly where he’s going, right past his house. He slows as we hit the ruts leading into the gully, but so soon there she is: Calypso in the window, and then she’s gone, behind us as we wend and wend to the left, and down, and then up again to a sharp plateau, and Josie’s Place. The sign on the fence is new, and small, one lavender-blue hyacinth and one golden wattle sprig behind the name. The house is a marvellous abandoned wreck of peeling boards and smeary windows which look directly at the escarpment, at Calypso, except you can’t see her face from here, but the V of the true shape of the precipice, like a massive prow.
And as if this is not enough to do me in, beside the house lies an orchard. I can see what they are now: apple trees. Of course that’s what they look like, now I see them in a bunch, fruit scattered all over the ground beneath them. I snagged my sleeve on the one by the side of Daniel’s house and couldn’t see it for looking. And I’ve dropped to my knees inside the gate and I can’t feel anything except Daniel’s arm around my back and I weep and I laugh like the ground’s surging up through me.
‘You like it then,’ Daniel says when I calm.
I can’t speak. And I don’t need to.
Daniel folds me into his chest, and I know that this is what Paradise is. It’s just here. Right here in front of your nose. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect Saint Francis himself.
True to his punt, Methuselah is not dead when we get back at dusk. Daniel stays down in the parlour while I go up to see if Father’s awake; Mrs Ackerman has gone up to Newcastle for the week and won’t be back till Wednesday, so Daniel’s decided to stay for dinner anyway, rather than go to his workers’ club for a feed; and as I climb the stairs I’m almost tempted to decide that he should stay the entire night so that I can whisper all my wishes into him and. Stop there, Francy.
Father’s alive enough for me to kiss him all over his face, then lie down next to him and cuddle him. ‘Thought you’d like it,’ he chuckles softly, then his eyes spring open at me, twinkling even in this dim light. ‘You two had better move swiftly, though, my girl, because I’ve sold this house to pay for it.’
No more surprises, hmm. And I know he’s planned this so I don’t have time to mourn him — I’ve come to suspect that his every word and deed over the past few months has been calculated down to the second: It’s far more indulgent than that, chortle, chortle.
He says for the hundredth time: ‘Is the lad gentle with you?’
I say: ‘Yes and no.’
He says, ‘Good,’ and asks me: ‘What is his gentlest?’
‘When he touches me.’ I can feel Daniel’s hand on my shoulder now, reaching up through the floorboards.
‘What’s his worst?’
‘I don’t know.’ I don’t know what Father is asking any more when he says this. I’ve said Daniel’s kiss is the best and his surly scowl is the worst, and described both in rapturous detail for his pleasure; that the rasp in his laugh is the best and … I don’t know what is worst. The calluses on his hands? ‘What should I know — tell me.’
Father closes his eyes and whispers: ‘Nothing’s more important than his gentleness — keep an eye on your own too.’
‘My gentleness?’
But he doesn’t answer.
He sighs into sleep, but it’s not sleep. I can’t say how long I watch him for, before I pull myself up to call Polly through the dark. She sends McNally out to get Doctor Nichols, but Father’s already stopped breathing. I know. I know. I’ve pushed him and even slapped him and he’s gone. And there’s a sound that comes out of me that cracks the world in two.
As Daniel might say: like you wouldn’t believe. And he is here now, pulling me away, just as my Leprechaun intended.
DANIEL
She cries so hard and loud it hurts to hear it. And there’s nothing I can do but hold her against it. I know what she means, but that doesn’t help. A few of my own tears fall into her hair, for all of it, as we stand here on the landing.
Polly puts on the light in Francine’s room and comes over to us. She presses a little bottle into my hand and says: ‘Make her have a good swig.’
I don’t want to go into the light; I want to stand here in the dark with her. I want to hear her yell out everything I can’t. Polly’s pushing me towards the room and I get my sense back somehow. ‘Come on, France.’
It’s too bright in here; I leave her and put the lamp on and spin about looking for the bloody cord to turn the bulb off. She’s quieter now, but I make her drink some of whatever quack’s stuff this is. Probably just opium and brandy. It’ll do.
I don’t want her to cry any more. I don’t ever want to hear that sound again.
I stay in the spare room, while France goes in with Polly to wash her father’s body, and in the morning the undertaker will come. It’ll be full Mick honours for him on Tuesday. I never thanked him; never knew what to say to him. What could I say? Thanks for your daughter. Oh, and the house on that old orchard and the half-share in the mine, and the rest to keep us going, and the compensation fund and the lav. This isn’t the way things go: it’s beyond my principles, and my understanding of the way things are. I don’t think even Dad could come up with a good line for this. It’s clear by anyone’s principles that if all of us behaved as Francis Patrick Connolly did, then there’d be no rubbish. But maybe it was just death coming that made him do it. I’m not going to knock it back, but maybe it’s not real either; just an old man’s fancy. Blind luck. I remember the first time I saw this room, when Francine tried to wash my face and I thought I was dreaming again, and I hated her. I don’t like what that says about me, and I don’t sleep at all, tossing it all around and getting nowhere with it.
Francine would look good in a sugar bag, especially, but black and grief make her look fragile when she comes into the kitchen just on dawn while I’m looking for a cup to get a drink. She says: ‘Well.’ She’s holding a bunch of envelopes, drops them on the bench. They’re marked Polly Rogers, Herbert McNally, Goods and Chattels, Orcharding, Fr Hurley — Wedding, One Last Word and Read This First.
‘Can you do it?’ she asks me, staring at them. ‘I don’t think I could make my eyes focus even if I wanted to.’
Neither can I but I do. Read This First says that France’ll need to leave this house by the sixth of August, since it’s been sold — that’s eleven days away. There are ‘healthy’ cheques for Polly and McNally, since he’s assumed she won’t want to take the old folk with her. I can guess what he’s put in for them and it won’t be very stingy. There’s also a cheque for the Catholic priest, Hurley, that’s already been promised to him on the occasion of your wedding on the fifth, because it’s a Wednesday and the middle of the week gives the best view of things. Bloody hell — that’s only ten days away. Keep reading: the contents of the house and all other effects are to be removed to Josie’s Place, itemised list provided, and he’s arranged for a Mr George Mellish to do it all. Basic instructions for apple cultivation are also provided.
That’s the practicalities dealt with and France nods at the bench as if it’s all in order, everything as expected.
‘Do you want me to keep going? We could leave this for a bit,’ I say.
She shakes her head. ‘Read One Last Word, please.’
So I do: GOOD LUCK! Remember to laugh at every opportunity. All other enquiries direct to Stanley and Bragg, Macquarie Street, Sydney.
She looks at me, finally, and says: ‘You can s
ay no now, and that’ll be the end of it. You can keep the apples. I’ll get it sorted out.’
‘What?’ I’m reeling as it is, and she’s having second thoughts? But I know she must be having a hundred thoughts a second right now, and she’s just airing one of the worst ones: that all this is too much.
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she says. ‘I’m going to go to bed for the rest of today.’
Fair enough.
And I’ll go and talk to Evan, tell him the lot: that I’ll take a few more days before I come back to work, that Frank Connolly’s dead, and that I’m in need of a best man.
FRANCINE
I’d forgotten Mr Drummond existed: now here he is in the parlour, looking from me to Daniel and back to me in some understandable forehead-creviced confusion. He’s come to take me to the service for Father, because no doubt he assumes that there is no one else to take me. I only remember now that Doctor Nichols said he’d go and break the news to him for me. I want him to go away; Daniel’s taking me. Father’s last words to me on Mr Drummond were: ‘He’s not really as dark as he seems — but he’s the worst sort of Catholic: an English pious one, for whom hypocrisy is an inborn way of life. He might frown and bluster, but just ignore him: he doesn’t know any better. Stand firm and he’ll give in to you as far as he can bring himself.’ Father chuckled and added: ‘He won’t know what to do with you, my girl.’
I put him out of his present wonder quickly: ‘Thank you for offering, Mr Drummond, but Mr Ackerman is taking me. We are recently engaged, you see. But we shall all stand together, yes?’
Rumbling silence. I feel a little sorry for his flummoxing now. But dignity and propriety, skewed as they are for me these days, are paramount. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘But may I have a brief word with you alone first, Francine?’
He looks to Daniel again now, who’s all poured into his dark grey suit and seeming more the broader for it; he’s holding Mr Drummond’s gaze and for one very uncomfortable moment I wonder what he’s going to do. He’s virtually twice the size of The Boss and a third his age. Much as Father might think it a hoot for a punch-up to occur at this juncture, it might cause in me a very swift nervous collapse. But of course Daniel wouldn’t do any such thing; he’s not a thug. He only says, ‘Certainly,’ a breath away from impolite, and leaves the room, not closing the door behind him.