William crept on. The western half of the House was a mirror image of the east wing. William was counting. Eight rooms at each end: taking away the bathrooms, that left fourteen bedrooms. But surely they couldn’t have needed that many. What sort of people had they been anyway? He’d heard their names, but that told him nothing, and the bare rooms revealed nothing about them either. He paused and listened. The floor creaked subtly beneath his feet, and from time to time he heard faint rustlings in the ceiling. The great hall stretched away from him, a cavern of shadows. Were there memories here? Voices? Faces? No … There was no such thing as ghosts. He ventured on, into the west wing proper. And finally, here was something different. The doors to the last two rooms on either side were both closed. And one of them was padlocked.
This was it then. Whatever crime William had committed by coming up here, it would be doubly serious if he opened these doors. But he was beyond hesitation now. He tried the unlocked door, the last on the right-hand side. It swung open without a sound. White light enfolded him. He blinked, amazed. Curtains were the first thing he saw, white curtains that drifted in front of clear, sunlit windows. And high white walls that reflected the light back, so that William felt for an instant as if he was swimming in a bowl of illumination. It might have been a different House entirely. A bed stood out from one wall, iron framed and sheeted in white. There was a stately wardrobe, and a dresser of the same design. Old-fashioned leather armchairs surrounded a low table in front of the fireplace and there were silver candlesticks on the mantelpiece. And beyond the verandah doors were two winged cane chairs, facing out to the hills, like a vision of some bygone age.
So this was where his uncle slept! William had always imagined his uncle’s bedroom would be the darkest and coldest of all the chambers in the House, but this … this was all sunlight and air. And yet there was no doubt about it — he could see the old man’s slippers by the bed, and his tattered bathrobe and pyjamas cast across the sheets. It was as if William had looked into his uncle’s stern heart and found there something delicate and beautiful. No wonder the old man had forbidden him from the second storey. This was a true secret. Admittedly, closer inspection revealed that the room had not entirely escaped the effects of time. The floor was warped like everywhere else, and the white plaster of the walls was flecked with cracks and old stains. But still — it felt strangely like a woman lived here, not a man. The cane chairs on the verandah, for instance, the gauzy white curtains.
Then William remembered the other room, the one with the padlock. He went back into the hall, and peered at the last door. This room would be directly above the office. He looked at the keys, aware of a reluctance to go further. The hall was hollow and bleak after the warmth of sunlight, or perhaps it was a premonition that he would discover nothing so wonderful as the white bedroom behind this door. But he tested the keys in the lock, and the second turned easily. There was no excuse, so he swung the door back. A smell assailed him. Not the musk of age and damp, but an oily, metallic scent, with a sharper tang beneath it. William was reminded fleetingly of his father’s shed, back on their farm, but it wasn’t quite that either. He advanced into a darkness that was weirdly crimson. Heavy blinds hung across the windows, but he could see that the walls were painted a blood red. Against one wall stood a tall cabinet, faced with glass, and tucked into a corner was a large wooden trunk. Against another wall ran a long workbench, littered with tools. But what really caught William’s eye was the angular shape that loomed against the window at the back of the room.
It was a telescope — a brass tube on an iron stand, a device possessed, somehow, of a watching, predatory intelligence. It was not the modern sort of telescope that people used to study the stars. It was an older instrument that spoke of sailing ships and the sea. Is that what his uncle did up here, alone, night after night? William could almost picture the old man hunched to the eyepiece, sweeping the dark ocean of the plains, a captain in search of land, or of a sail upon the horizon. But to what end? What would he really be looking for? It was another glimpse into his uncle’s soul. A disturbing one, this time, such an instrument lurking in that red space.
Unnerved, William turned his attention to the long table against the wall. There was a vice attached to the edge, and a toolbox sitting beneath a lamp, but it wasn’t an ordinary workbench. In a frame above it hung three rifles. Their steel barrels gleamed, polished with oil. And upon the bench itself sat boxes of ammunition, and a spray of bullets, shining dully. William recognised, at last, the elusive smell that had bothered him all along. It was gunpowder. It was no surprise that his uncle would have a collection of rifles. He had talked of shooting dogs, and everyone knew that, in droughts, farmers sometimes had to shoot their cattle. But William didn’t like the rifles. They deepened the sensation that he should not be in this room.
He moved on to the glass-fronted cabinet. It contained five shelves, but each shelf held only a single object. There was an old pair of spectacle frames, without any lenses. There was a tarnished metal compass with a broken needle. There was what looked like a fob watch, all blackened, the face missing and the inside caked with dirt. There was a red leather-bound notebook, faded and stiff, its cover scuffed and scratched. And last, and most unsettling of all, was a single boot, tattered, torn and rotted. What were these things? All of them appeared worthless — why were they kept in a fine cabinet? A brief image came to William of his uncle bowed before the objects, as if the room was a hidden chapel. It made no sense, and yet he felt that this was where the real John McIvor was to be found, not in the room of light across the hall. His unease grew stronger, and he turned away.
There was only the chest now, waiting in its corner. It was an unadorned wooden trunk. William told himself that there was no need for it to be opened. He could leave this last mystery unexamined, and escape the red walls and the watching eye of the telescope. But he knelt before it all the same, pried back the clasp and lifted the lid. He smelled mothballs, and saw that the chest contained nothing but a folded suit and a military-style hat. Fascinated beyond fear, William lifted the hat out gently. It was very old, threadbare and shrunken, something like an army officer’s cap. He studied the gold braid around the crown, then tested the cap upon his head. It was heavy, and too large, but not uncomfortable. He reached into the chest and carefully pulled out the jacket of what he now realised was a uniform. It was so faded it was hard to tell what colour it had originally been, but there was a stripe on the lower sleeve, and a cloth patch sewn high upon the arm. Whose uniform was it? His uncle’s? Had the old man fought in a war?
Then William noticed that something bulged in the front pocket, and he withdrew a velvet-lined box. Medals, he thought, it would contain war medals. But when he lifted the lid he saw only a badge, a golden shield, embossed with a crest that had letters arranged around the rim. He took off the cap and examined the front. Yes, there was a darker patch there. He pinned the badge to it. That was better: the hat looked official and important, and when he placed it on his head again, the extra weight felt right as well. He was a commander of … well, of something. Strangely satisfied, William dug around in the chest again. His hand touched cold metal beneath the uniform trousers. He lifted out the object, surprised at its heaviness, and was amazed to discover he was holding a pistol. It looked ancient. It wasn’t a six-shooter, like the guns he had seen in old Westerns; it was black and angular and appeared almost home-made. But it was a pistol, sure enough.
William cradled it wonderingly. And with the hat on his head, and the gun in his hand, he felt a power working in him. He was still somewhere where he didn’t belong, the red walls still frowned down about him, but he had donned a uniform now, and held a weapon in his hand. He stood up. He felt taller. Older. He turned to the cabinet, and saw himself reflected in the glass. The badge gleamed on his brow, and the gun hung potently from his hand.
He was only a boy, but he could see the shadow of a man. He lifted the gun slowly, took aim along the barrel.
Another shape loomed in the reflection, white-faced and silent. William turned to find Mrs Griffith above him, her eyes blazing. And before he could speak or move, her hand slapped painfully down on his own, and the gun fell, clattering, to the floor.
Chapter Twenty
WILLIAM HAD COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN ABOUT THE HOUSEKEEPER and her stealth. How had she known? Had she heard his movements? Had she found the unlocked door on the stairs, and crept up to investigate? Or, somehow, had she just been aware of him? It didn’t matter, he was discovered. His hand was stinging, and now Mrs Griffith shoved him roughly backwards, away from the gun. It lay on the floor like a dangerous snake.
‘Did you load it?’
William shook his head. The housekeeper was an impossible confusion of grey hair and cardigans, but there was strength in her, strength and surprising speed.
‘Was it already loaded? Did you look?’
He shook his head again, bewildered. He had found the gun at the bottom of a chest, covered by old clothes. Why would it be loaded?
‘Idiot boy.’
She bent to the gun — not crouching, but splaying her legs and leaning down with an angry grunt. Holding it gingerly out before her, she lowered it onto the bench. Then she turned to William and slapped him across the face, sending the army hat flying. He stared up at her, stunned.
‘There’ll be more than that,’ she hissed,‘when your uncle finds out. How did you get in?’
He attempted a lie.‘The doors were open.’
‘Rubbish. You had keys. Show me.’
Shamefaced, William pulled the keyring out of his pocket.
The housekeeper plucked it from his hand. ‘Where did you get these keys?’
‘The office.’
‘Stole them! From your uncle’s desk!’ She secreted the keys away under her clothes, then peered about. ‘What else have you stolen? What else do you have in your pockets?’
‘There’s nothing.’
‘We’ll see. We’ll see when your uncle gets home. We’ll wait right here so that you can’t go and hide anything. I’ll lock you in this room. How would you like that?’
‘I don’t have anything,’ William cried, turning out his pockets.
‘Hmm.’ The old woman studied his empty hands.‘You’ve been in that chest, though. What was that hat doing on your head?’
‘I was only trying it on.’
‘Your uncle won’t be pleased. His father left him that chest.’
‘I’ll put it back…’
‘No you won’t. You’ll leave everything just as it is.’
The housekeeper had hobbled over to the cabinet now, and was examining the objects within, hoping for further evidence of wrongdoing. She was a witch, William decided. And she’d been waiting all along for him to make a mistake, just as she had promised she would.
‘Count your blessings, boy,’ she said, prodding the cabinet. ‘If you’d fiddled with anything in here, I don’t know what he would’ve done. Do you know what these things are?’
He shook his head sullenly.
‘Not so smart, are you? They belong to a dead man, that’s what.’
William felt his skin crawl.
‘Oh yes,’ she said, shuffling back towards him. ‘They were taken from his grave. He’s buried here, right under our feet. This House was built over him.’
He shrank away from her, and the relish that lit her face.
‘Remember that, when you want to go sneaking where you shouldn’t. There’s a dead man in this room. This House is his tombstone.’ She fluttered her hands at him. ‘Get out. Go back to your room, and wait there until you’re called.’
William fled, all the way through the empty halls and down to his own flat. But then there was his mother to be faced, and there was no hiding his distress — he was forced to tell her what had happened. She was furious, yelling at him shrilly. What on earth did he think he was doing? His uncle had set strict rules, William’s job was to obey them, not to steal keys and open locked doors. Didn’t he understand what was at stake? Didn’t he understand what his uncle might do? Did she have to explain everything to him again? William shook his head hopelessly. He would never do anything like that again, he promised. But in his heart he knew that it was too late anyway. His uncle was already disgusted with him. This would surely be the last straw. When his mother was done, he retreated to his room and curled up on his bed, waiting for the inevitable summons.
It was a long time coming.
Eventually William heard the muffled sounds of the utility arriving, and of his uncle’s steps within the hallways. There followed a tense half-hour of silence, during which he knew the housekeeper would be making her report. And finally his mother appeared at his bedroom door: his uncle wanted to see him, in the front yard. William rose and went, a boy walking to his execution. Outside, the late afternoon was turning cool. His uncle was sitting on the lip of the empty fountain, gazing out over the plains, something cradled in his lap. It was the army hat, William saw. The evidence. He reached the old man’s side and stood there for a time, silent and penitent.
‘The winter crops are up,’ his uncle said at last.
William looked warily. Out across the plains the chequerboard pattern of farms was flushed a dusty green in places — the new wheat. In a few months the wheat would be golden and ripe, which would mean that his father would have been dead for a year.
‘Those farmers have taken a gamble, with things the way they are. If it doesn’t rain soon, none of their crops will make it.’ The old man was scanning the empty sky. ‘If you ask me though, it’s not going to rain. Not this spring. Not this summer. We’re in for terrible times.’ He lowered his gaze, cleared his throat. ‘Mrs Griffith tells me you’ve been exploring.’
Now it would come.
‘There were reasons I told you not to go up there,’ his uncle said, frowning. ‘Those floors aren’t secure in places. I know my way around, but you, you could have fallen through or brought a wall down on yourself. It isn’t safe.’
‘I’m sorry.’
The old man stared levelly at him.‘I’m not too impressed with this stealing of keys, either. I don’t lock doors for the fun of it. Especially where guns are concerned. Guns aren’t toys. That’s why I keep those rifles well out of the way, and behind a padlock.’ He paused, started to say something, but then gave a rueful half-smile.
‘That pistol though, I’d forgotten all about that.’
William waited in surprise.
But his uncle was stern once more. ‘You shouldn’t have touched it. That thing is over a century old. It wasn’t loaded, but you didn’t know that. Mrs Griffith was right to be angry. You had no business there at all.’ Then the smile hovered again. ‘But Mrs Griffith doesn’t think anyone has any business in this House, except her. Not even me.’ He clapped William lightly on the shoulder. ‘No harm done this time. But don’t go up there again, not unless I’m with you.’
William hardly dared believe it.‘You’re not mad?’
‘You helped me with the newsletter, so let’s call it square.’ The old man glanced at him awry. ‘I suppose you’re wondering about the things you saw in that cabinet.’
‘Mrs Griffith said they belong to a dead man.’
‘Did she? Well, it’s true enough.’
‘She said he was buried under the House.’
His uncle laughed. ‘She’s trying to scare you.’
‘It’s not true?’
‘Oh, it might be.’ He twisted around and studied the fountain, its broken stump rising bluntly amidst the weeds. ‘Actually, his statue used to be the centrepiece here. He was an explorer. His name was Alfred Kirchmeyer.’
William looked blank.
‘No,’ his uncle agreed, ‘He’s not one of the famous ones. But if anyone can be said to have discovered Kuran Station, it was him. He was certainly the first white man to set foot here.’
‘I thought…’
‘Yes, yes, Cunningham found the
Darling Downs, but I told you, he never came this far north. That was left to Kirchmeyer, and the three men with him, ten years later. Not that you’ll find them in any history books. Alfred was no great bushman, he was just a smalltime Sydney surveyor. God knows why he wanted to go exploring. Maybe he dreamt of finding the infamous inland sea. But he and his party were so slow about getting up here that they barely beat the first settlers.’
The old man gazed pointedly out at the southern horizon, where the sinking sun had cast great shadows across the fields.
‘It was pathetic. The blacks stole half their food and drove off all their horses, so the four of them were blundering about out there on foot. Then Kirchmeyer headed off on his own one morning — no one knows why — and was never seen again. The others looked for him for a while, but then gave up and headed back to Sydney. Kirchmeyer’s maps and his journal had vanished with him, so there wasn’t even anything to report. Settlers had reached the southern Downs by then anyway, and the whole expedition was forgotten in the land rush. And that might have been that. But a year or so later, a squatter named Heatherington sent an agent up here, to stake a claim. The agent crisscrossed the plains until one day he came to a hill. He climbed it, looked all around and thought, yes, this is the place.’
William caught a look in his uncle’s eye.
‘Here?’ he asked.
‘Exactly. But that isn’t all. That night, while the agent was setting up camp, he came across a skeleton lying in the grass. He knew it was a white man from the clothes. And in the pockets of the clothes were other things. Glasses, a compass, a watch, a journal…’
The White Earth Page 15