by Gavin Bishop
I read along with Boy’s grandmother. Boy sat beside me, as still as a stone. But Frankie, on his chair, was stretching and yawning. He was finding it difficult to sit still.
The story continued. It became even more exciting.
Next morning, the two girls were allowed to go down to the river to wash. This was their chance to escape. They found a fishing punt, and Helen managed to get away. But Ruth was caught and taken back to the queen’s caravan. The old crone was very angry.
‘The queen took some walnut stain and sponged Ruth’s face and neck, her arms, hands and legs. She threw some earth on Ruth’s feet. She gave her a torn and dirty frock to put on. “Now,” hissed the old woman, “if they come to search for you we will say you are ours — an orphan gypsy, wicked through and through.”’
‘Seven chapters!’ said Boy’s grandmother. ‘I’m exhausted!’
So was I. My glass eye had been working overtime to keep up with the words as they danced all over the page.
‘Did you enjoy that, Frankie?’ asked the old lady.
‘Not much,’ replied Frankie.
‘Why not?’ asked Boy.
‘It’s a girl’s book,’ he said.
‘It was my mum’s,’ said Boy.
‘Yeah,’ said Frankie. ‘Your mum’s a girl — or was.’
Boy became quiet.
‘Better go. Mum O’Donnell will be wondering where I am.’ Frankie jumped up, glad to be able to escape at long last. ‘See ya!’
Boy said nothing.
The next day, the 3.20 from Invercargill roared past the house before he got home from school. When Boy came into the kitchen, his grandmother and I were waiting.
‘Would you like a bit more Ruth Fielding?’ asked his grandmother.
‘Nah. Thanks. I think I’ll go over and play with the Kariannis kids.’
14
LISLE STOCKINGS
THIS YEAR, IT WAS DECIDED, there had been enough going on in Kingston. There had been parties for the coronation, do’s at the pub to celebrate Everest, and Archie McCain had a big three-course dinner for his fiftieth. Every man and his dog had been invited. To have a big bonfire with a guy as well as all the fireworks would be too much.
‘Guy Fawkes night,’ said the boys’ dad, ‘would be just as good with a few crackers down at the railway station.’
Mrs Hume was having afternoon tea with the boys’ mother. I was on the floor behind the couch where BB had left me.
‘I think it is a good idea to forget about a bonfire this year,’ said Mrs Hume. ‘I’ve asked the Four Square in Lumsden to send up a few fireworks on the freight truck. That’ll be enough.’
‘I’ve done the same,’ said the boys’ mum. ‘The kids get too excited. It won’t hurt to have a quiet Guy Fawkes this year.’
But the Kingston kids were just as excited as every other year. In a scary sort of way, they liked being dwarfed by the mountain of fire down on the beach. And they liked the cheeky guy when he tried to escape. But most of all they liked the fireworks. The Catherine Wheels, the Tom Thumbs, and the colourful ones, Mt Vesuvius, the Flower Pots and Golden Rain. A Guy Fawkes night without a bonfire and a guy just this once would be okay, they supposed.
Bangers and mash with cabbage from the garden, followed by junket and bottled plums, was gobbled up by the two boys so quickly it almost made my glass eye water to watch them.
‘We’re ready!’ shouted the little boy as he dropped his spoon into his empty plate.
Their grandmother said nothing, but she looked at him in a way that said, ‘You’ll be ready when I say so.’
The little boy saw the look. He slid off his chair and joined his big brother in clearing the table.
‘Can we go now?’ asked the older boy when they’d finished the dishes.
His mother looked at the clock above the range. ‘It won’t be dark for ages yet,’ she said. ‘Besides, have you done your homework?’
‘Mr McLeod didn’t give us any because of Guy Fawkes.’
‘Well, all right. We won’t be able to stay late anyway, because your little brother will need to go to bed. Put your coat on. There’ll be a cold wind.’
‘Can I take Teddy One-eye?’ asked BB.
At the mention of that name, his grandmother looked up. ‘He’d be better at home,’ she said.
BB bawled. ‘But he likes fireworks!’
His mother let out a long sigh. ‘You’ve already lost him once. And I’m not looking after him.’
The little boy put his coat on and tucked me under his arm.
‘Just a minute,’ said the boys’ grandmother. ‘I can’t be seen out wearing these old stockings.’
The old lady went into her room. She came back wearing her new lisle stockings, the ones she kept for best.
The grandmother, the mother, the two boys and I set off along the gravel at the side of the railway line towards the station. The boys’ dad was already there. He had collected their bag of fireworks off the freight truck that afternoon. When he saw us coming, he lit a Tom Thumb on his roll-your-own and threw it across the tracks. The boys shrieked with delight. But their grandmother stopped. She stood, swaying slightly, holding her walking stick in front of her with both hands.
‘I think I might go back home,’ she said.
‘You’ll be okay. Come and sit in here out of the wind,’ said the boys’ mother. She helped the old lady into the open-fronted railway-station waiting room. ‘You’ll see everything from here.’
The boys were jumping up and down with excitement.
‘Can I light something, can I?’ asked the little boy, swinging me backwards and forwards between his legs.
‘Have you got some matches?’ said his father.
‘No.’
‘I think that’s your answer then,’ said his dad.
The Humes arrived, walking down the road in a line like cows off to the milking shed. Then the Bells scrambled across the tracks from the house by the lake. Other families trickled along. Everyone had bags of fireworks. They put them into a heap inside the stationmaster’s office.
‘Grab some of these crackers, kids,’ said Mr Bell. ‘We’ll keep the coloured ones till it gets dark.’ He handed out strings of Tom Thumbs and Double Happies. Walter Hume, who was almost twelve, was put in charge of the matches.
Single explosions followed by a series of bangs like a machine-gun echoed around the railway station as the kids threw crackers at one another. The boys’ grandmother peered through a pall of smoke as it drifted past the waiting room. Her eyes were wide, her mouth pursed to a slit.
Even though the sun had almost set behind the Hector mountains, the southern evening sky was still bright. The tops of the poplars at the edge of the lake, clipped by the last rays, were gleaming gold. Further down, in the shadows, the spring-green leaves fluttered like tiny flags in the cold breeze.
Some of the smallest children were yawning.
‘Someone here is asleep on his feet,’ said the boys’ mother. She picked up her littlest boy and sat him on her hip. I hung from his hand, my feet almost touching the platform.
BB’s mum carried him into the waiting room and sat next to the grandmother. As the little boy fell asleep on her knee, his grip relaxed and I fell to the floor. I landed so that my glass eye looked out across the platform and my button eye peered up into the sky. Erratic explosions kept coming from behind us as the kids chased each other down the road towards the pub.
In the meantime, the boys’ father had sorted through the bags of fireworks and found three Catherine Wheels. With a hammer and nails from the toolbox in the stationmaster’s office, he nailed them to the wall near the waiting room.
‘Hey kids! Catherine Wheel time!’
The kids came panting back along the road. Some of them took off their coats and threw them into the waiting room.
Boy’s father took the cigarette from his lips and held it to the twist of paper under the first of the three Catherine Wheels on the wall.
I
t fizzed and sparked, and then the fire took hold. A torrent of stars shot out and forced the wheel to start spinning. Even in the dusky light it was spectacular. The Catherine Wheel whizzed round and round, faster and faster. Billions of tiny sparks flew into the air and onto the platform. The firework lit the young and old watching faces with equal intensity. Frown lines, weary eyes, weathered cheeks were wiped away. Parents looked as young as their children. And then the spinning wheel of sparks slowed, the light faded and the little whizzer dribbled to a stop. Parents looked like parents again.
There was a burst of applause and cries of ‘Wow!’ and ‘Gee whizz!’
It was getting darker. It would soon be dark enough to light the Skyrockets, the Flower Pots and the Roman Candles. But — there were two more Catherine Wheels. The first one had been a big hit. Parents pushed their kids in front of them to get a better look.
Boy’s father reached forward once more with his cigarette. If one Catherine Wheel caused that much excitement, imagine what two would do. He poked his cigarette under the next wheel and waited a few seconds before moving to the one beside it. The first one spluttered and spat, then burst into life — a blur of blinding light. Then it flew off the nail and spun up into the air. It rivalled the sun with its brilliance. But it was in the air for only a moment before it fell onto the platform. On the ground, it took off like a comet, spinning among the feet of the onlookers and into the waiting room. Instantly, the room was as bright as midday. The wheel raced across the floor and hit the far wall. On impact, it changed direction and made its way towards where I was lying on the floor. Still spinning madly and shooting millions of sparks, it hit my back, leapt into the air, jumped over my head and fell down in front of my face.
But it didn’t stop there. It sped towards the legs of the boys’ grandmother. She struggled to her feet. But she was not quick enough. The Catherine Wheel began to circle her legs as she tried to get out of its way. She lashed at it with her walking stick. But still it followed her. She hobbled out onto the platform while the fiery little wheel nipped at her legs like a yappy fox terrier. Then, quite quickly, the wheel spent itself, and collapsed in a tiny, exhausted heap at her feet. She looked down at her best pair of lisle stockings. They were full of holes.
The third wheel was now spinning wildly on the wall. Faces turned from the old lady and once more were washed by the fountain of youth. While they watched, this wheel, too, fell from the wall. It rolled, still spitting sparks, across the platform, through the door of the stationmaster’s office, towards the bags of fireworks that had been stored in there for safe-keeping.
The Catherine Wheel quickly burnt its way into the first bag. Mr Bell rushed into his office. He stamped on the bag, but he was too late. The burning firework was igniting all the other fireworks. He picked the bags up and threw them outside, over the heads of the families gathered on the platform. In mid-air, the bags exploded. Skyrockets zoomed above the little crowd. Some flew up and out over the lake; others went straight up into the air above the railway station. Roman Candles, Screaming Banshees, Flower Pots, Golden Showers and a supersized Mt Vesuvius sprayed the crowd with a torrent of sparks and tiny lumps of fire. Boom Boxes, Power Bombs and Mighty Thunders added bass notes to the mighty performance.
People were quick to get out of the way of the golden, red and green rain. Some dived off the platform onto the railway tracks with their hands over their heads. Mrs Hume grabbed two of her kids and ran across the road and hid in some willows. Mrs Bell opened her coat and engulfed a small child standing next to her. Others ran towards the pub where the lights had been switched on early. Mr Bell, welded to the spot, watched the display through his office door. And Boy’s dad stood scratching his head, wondering why the nails hadn’t held the Catherine Wheels more securely. His face was covered with black smoke smuts. The crown of his hat was on fire.
Then it was all over. Some Tom Thumbs exploded, adding a string of full-stops. The boys’ mother came out of the waiting room, carrying her sleeping child. Boy ran to join her.
‘Wow! Wasn’t that great!’ he said. ‘That was much better than a bonfire.’
I was on the floor. My back was smouldering where the Catherine Wheel had hit me, but I didn’t care. I hadn’t had such an exciting adventure since I was kidnapped in the stolen car.
Boy picked me up, and then his dad, who had managed to put his hat out by dipping it in the fire bucket, picked us both up and hugged us.
‘That was certainly one out of the box,’ said Mr Bell. ‘There’s a hell of a mess, but I’ll come over in the morning and clean it up.’
The parents gathered their kids and slowly made their way across the carpet of coloured paper and dead fireworks. The clatter of spent skyrockets landing on the station roof was replaced by the sound of soft rain.
‘Where’s Mamma?’ asked the boys’ mother.
Boy pointed up the railway line towards their house. The old lady was feeling her way with her walking stick along the tracks. There was just enough light to see her legs. From where we were standing, it looked as if she was wearing brown stockings with white polka dots.
Next day, the boy burst through the back door as the 3.20 raced passed the house. His grandmother was sitting on a chair by the window in the kitchen.
‘What are you doing, Mamma?’ asked the boy.
‘I’m mending my stockings. The ones the Catherine Wheels burnt holes in last night,’ she said. ‘I won’t be able to wear them on the bus to go home. They’ll have to be my second-best ones now.’
‘Third-best,’ said the boy.
‘That’s right, I’ve already got a pair for second-best.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll send to Lumsden for a new pair before I go back to Invercargill.’
15
GOOD TIMING
IT HAD BEEN A LONG YEAR, but at last it was Christmas Eve. You could taste the excitement in the air as if it were candy floss.
The two brothers hung pillowcases on each side of the coal range. On the hearth they placed one of their mother’s good plates with a slice of Christmas cake on it. Nearby were a glass, a bottle of beer and an opener. Two weeks ago the family had decorated the kitchen with crêpe-paper streamers and home-made paper lanterns. Christmas cards covered the mantelpiece. The ones that couldn’t fit there were pinned to the curtains.
‘How will Santa get down the chimney if the coal range is in the way?’ asked BB. It was the first year that this had concerned him.
‘Don’t worry,’ said his big brother. ‘Santa has keys to all the houses in the world. He’ll just come through the back door.’
The boys’ mother had filled the tins with slices and biscuits and cupcakes. The fruit for the Christmas cake had soaked in ginger ale for days before being baked into a rich, dark slab that was so heavy it could barely be lifted out of the baking tin. The boys’ grandmother made jam from the strawberries in the garden. On Christmas Eve she podded peas and beans, and did what she always did if she was around — plucked the chook for Christmas dinner. She would have chopped its head off too if her arthritic fingers had been able to grip the axe.
Christmas Day started early. The summer sun filled the house with light at such an early hour that even if the boys had wanted to sleep in, they couldn’t. Of course they wouldn’t. They were far too excited to stay in bed until the adults woke. BB scooped me up from the floor, then he and Boy charged into the kitchen.
Their grandmother was already up, stoking the fire to make an early morning cuppa.
‘Mamma, did you eat the cake?’ asked Boy.
‘And Merry Christmas to you too,’ was her reply. She added, ‘No, I certainly did not.’
‘It was Santa Claus, stupid!’ said BB. ‘And he drank the beer too.’
The older boy looked at the plate covered in crumbs and noticed the empty beer bottle. He wasn’t convinced. He had been having doubts about Christmas things lately. But he decided not to say anything that might stop the flow of presents he expected and enjoyed every year.
The baby brother tossed me onto the couch, then lifted his bulging pillowcase down onto the floor. He tipped it upside down. A tall tin crane called Reacher, with a handle to wind up the bucket, landed on the mat. It was followed by a book about wild animals in Africa, a pair of navy-blue bathing togs with an anchor stitched onto the front, a peppermint-candy walking stick, and a pack of Happy Families cards. An orange rolled off under the couch, and a small bag of nuts in the shell fell neatly into the bucket of the crane. The little boy quickly picked up the candy stick, tore off the cellophane and poked the stick into his mouth.
The older boy carefully reached into his bag and drew out a big box. He placed it on the table. He undid two little clips and lifted the lid. Three rows of coloured pencils were lined up in sequence: Prussian blue, ultramarine, cobalt, turquoise, cerulean. And then came the greens — viridian, olive, forest green, emerald, chartreuse and mint — followed by the yellows, the browns, oranges, reds and violets. The boy smiled to himself, closed the lid of the pencil box and snibbed it shut. He climbed onto a chair by the range and moved two Christmas cards on the mantelpiece. I watched as Boy reached up and placed the box behind the black stone clock.
‘He won’t be able to get them there,’ I heard him say to himself.
He climbed back down and spread the rest of his Christmas presents over the table — Cole’s Funny Picture Book No.2, a Chatterbox annual, some black bathing togs with a white belt, a sunhat, a game of Donkey, a candy walking stick, an orange and some nuts. He broke a piece off the candy stick. He peeled the orange and shoved it into his mouth while he sucked the candy. He looked slowly over his gifts before making them into a neat stack and carrying them into his bedroom.
‘Come on, kids, get dressed,’ shouted their father as he came into the room, yawning and scratching his mop of unruly hair. ‘How about some breakfast, Mum?’ he asked the boys’ grandmother. ‘What do you fancy?’