by Justin D'Ath
‘No, I can remember it,’ Wolfgang said. ‘Babacan. Isn’t that the name of the guy who does the furniture ads?’
‘That’s her father.’ Mrs Lonsdale shook her head. ‘Poor girl. As if being blind isn’t bad enough.’
8
Sixteen Ironbark Place was the largest house in the street. Two storeys, triple garage, a fish pond out the front with waterlilies and a fountain. Strung between the satellite dish and the chimney, an almost life-sized Santa Claus rode his sleigh behind a procession of plastic reindeer. Wolfgang leaned his bicycle carefully against one of the fake-antique gaslights that lined the driveway. He patted his sweat-damp hair into place, then made his way up the six white concrete steps to the front door.
The Furniture King himself answered the door-chime. He was smaller than he appeared on television, and not as friendly.
‘Yes?’ he said, his familiar face framed by a wreath of plastic holly tied with white cotton to the security door.
‘I brought Audrey’th hat,’ Wolfgang lisped – it often happened when he was nervous. ‘Th-the left it at the pool on Thaturday.’
Mr Babacan stared at his lip. ‘You know Audrey?’
It was a mistake to have come. He should have listened to Mrs Lonsdale and left the hat in the lost property box.
‘I thee her at the pool. I ... I ... I work there.’
‘And your name is?’
‘Wolfgang Mulqueen.’
Mr Babacan’s expression became thoughtful. ‘Dahh-dahh-dahh duuuum!’ he sang, raising his eyebrows. ‘Dahh-dahh-dahh DUUUUM!’
Wolfgang reddened. What on earth?
‘Mozart – Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!’
‘Oh. Yeah. Sure,’ Wolfgang stammered. It wasn’t Mozart who wrote the famous Symphony No. 5, it was Beethoven. ‘I was never much good with classical music.’
Mr Babacan laughed sportingly. His whole demeanour had changed – from suspicious father to jovial Furniture King. ‘Give me Shania Twain any day,’ he said, winking as he unlatched the security door. ‘Come in, come in.’
Wolfgang smelled roast vegetables in the cool air that tumbled out of the house. ‘I’m actually expected at home, Mr Babacan.’
‘Call me Keith,’ said the Furniture King. ‘Come in for one minute. I’m sure Audrey will want to thank you in person.’
The dining room was at the rear of the house. It had a wide bay window that looked out over a forested valley. Audrey, wearing a blue halter-top, her red hair in plaits, sat with her back to the view while her mother, the same prim blonde woman Wolfgang had seen at church, ladled soup into three bowls.
‘Audrey, you have a visitor,’ announced Keith.
His daughter turned towards his voice, her brows knitted. ‘A visitor?’
‘Your friend Mozart from the pool.’
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Wolfgang. From the ticket office,’ said Wolfgang.
Keith, still smiling at his Mozart joke, led their visitor to the table. ‘This is my wife, Bernadette. Wolfgang has very kindly returned Audrey’s hat from the pool.’
‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ said Bernadette. She made a small gesture with the ladle. ‘Have you eaten?’
‘My mother’s expecting me home for dinner.’
‘At least have a drink before you go,’ said Keith, pulling out a chair and practically pushing Wolfgang down into it.
‘Thanks. A glass of water would be good, Mr Babacan.’
‘How about a beer?’
‘Well ...’ Wolfgang said. It was the first time he’d been offered alcohol by an adult.
‘VB or a Crownie?’
‘Um. A Crownie, thanks.’
When Keith left the room to fetch his Crownie – What was a Crownie? – Wolfgang passed Audrey her hat.
‘I’m afraid it got a bit bent up in my backpack,’ he apologised.
‘What did?’
‘Here, let me take that,’ said Bernadette, whisking the hat out of Wolfgang’s hand. He felt foolish. For a moment he had forgotten Audrey was blind.
‘I haven’t seen you and Campbell at the pool for a few days,’ he said.
‘We’ve had visitors – my sister and her fiancé came up from Geelong.’
Wolfgang was relieved. He had been worried her absence might have had something to do with what had happened on Saturday afternoon.
‘I found another butterfly,’ he said.
‘Another Polyura sempronius?’
That was impressive. ‘No, a different one. I haven’t been able to identify it.’
‘Did you –’ Audrey wrinkled her nose, ‘collect it?’
He smiled. ‘It was already collected. I found it on the radiator of Dad’s car. Just a wing, actually.’
‘Gruesome!’
‘It’s quite beautiful, actually. Completely black.’
‘My favourite colour.’
Was she joking? Her face seemed serious. ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Wolfgang said carefully, ‘but I think it might be a new species.’
‘Wow.’
‘Can you know that just from a wing?’ asked Bernadette.
‘You should be able to, Mrs Babacan. There’s nothing like it in any of my books.’
‘Wolfgang’s a butterfly expert,’ Audrey told her mother.
‘So I gather,’ said Bernadette. She caught his eye. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like some soup, Wolfgang?’
‘No thanks, Mrs Babacan. I’d better leave room for Mum’s dinner.’
Keith came back with a 700ml bottle of Crown Lager – a Crownie, of course! – and a tall chilled glass. ‘We can’t have you going home dehydrated.’
Wolfgang looked at the bottle in dismay. He wasn’t really a drinker and had expected a stubbie. ‘Aren’t you going to have some, Mr Babacan?’
‘I’ve already had my quota,’ said Keith, patting his rounded stomach as he took a seat at the head of the table. ‘Don’t be shy, son, get stuck in.’
Wolfgang had never poured a beer and filled the glass three quarters full of foam. A floe of bubbles slid down the outside of the glass. He caught most of it with his fingers and surreptitiously wiped them on his shorts.
‘I’ll get you a serviette,’ Bernadette said.
‘So what do you do when you’re not at the pool, Wolfgang?’ asked Keith.
‘I ... um. Just the usual things, Mr Babacan.’
‘Keith,’ his host reminded him. ‘You’re a student, I take it? New Lourdes Pool isn’t your life’s work?’
‘It’s just a summer job.’
‘What are you studying?’
Wolfgang moved his glass in circles on its ceramic coaster. He was built like a football player and he’d been shaving since he was fourteen; people often said he looked older than his age. ‘Veterinary science,’ he heard himself say.
‘I’ve heard that’s a difficult course to get into,’ said Keith.
‘I was lucky, I guess,’ Wolfgang said, already regretting his lie. Why had he done it? To impress Audrey?
Keith leaned towards him. ‘Here’s what I believe, Wolfgang. We make our own luck in this life.’
‘What about bad luck?’ asked Audrey.
Her father scowled but said nothing.
Bernadette brought Wolfgang a serviette and sat down with her family. To Wolfgang’s surprise, the three of them said grace. He bowed his head and stared at the crisscross weave of the white linen tablecloth in front of him. A university student wouldn’t say grace – and anyway it seemed wrong to pray over a beer. He waited until Audrey and her parents had started their soup, then picked up his glass and sipped some of the foam.
‘Would you like a fresh glass?’ Bernadette asked.
‘Let him be,’ said her husband. He gave Wolfgang the exaggerated wink made famous in his Furniture King ads, then mimed drinking straight from the bottle. ‘Don’t bother with the glass, son.’
Son. Wolfgang self-consciously lifted the bottle and had a small sip. Then, because no one seemed to be taking any n
otice of him, he took a long pull. He wanted to finish it as quickly as possible. Finish it and leave. The Babacans ate their soup. Spoons clinked against china, lips made soft sucking noises. He didn’t dare look in Audrey’s direction. She couldn’t see, but he knew she could see through him. Veterinary science. What had he been thinking?
Across from him, Bernadette took a small dinner roll from the basket in the middle of the table. ‘Would you like some bread, Wolfgang?’ she asked, tilting the basket towards him.
‘Thanks, Mrs Babacan,’ he said politely. It would help soak up the beer, which already, after just two or three swallows, was going to his head.
‘How well do they pay you at the pool?’ Keith asked a minute or two later.
‘Eight dollars fifty an hour.’
‘I pay my delivery boys more than that.’
‘Dad!’ said Audrey.
‘It’s pretty easy work.’ Wolfgang took another swallow of beer, then set the bottle down very carefully on its coaster. It was less than half full – roughly three eighths. Or five-eighths empty, he thought, pleased with his agility of mind. Despite the bread – he had eaten three rolls in quick succession – he was feeling disconcertingly light-headed. But not so light-headed that he couldn’t perform mental arithmetic. ‘And I get tips from the pilgrims,’ he added.
Keith furrowed his brow. ‘Who or what are the pilgrims?’
‘The people who come to be cured.’
‘That’s another rip off, if you ask me.’
‘Nobody asked you, Dad,’ Audrey said.
Keith ignored her. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Wolfgang, has anyone ever been cured?’
‘Marceline Flavel.’
Keith dropped his spoon dramatically against the side of his empty soup bowl. ‘I rest my case.’
Puzzled, Wolfgang caught the eye of Bernadette, who smiled apologetically. ‘Keith is the world’s greatest sceptic, Wolfgang. He doesn’t believe Marceline Flavel was cured.’
‘She was in the newspaper,’ Wolfgang said. ‘I saw her on TV. She was walking.’
‘But who was she?’ asked Keith. ‘Where did she come from?’
‘France.’
‘Exactly. And how convenient. Nobody had ever heard of her until she blew into town in her wheelchair, and then she very conveniently disappeared back to France – to old Lourdes, perhaps? – as soon as all the fuss was over.’
‘Crutches.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Marceline Flavel had crutches, not a wheelchair.’ Wolfgang raised the bottle to his lips but discovered it empty. ‘They’re in a display cabinet down at the pool,’ he said, setting the bottle down. ‘People take photos of them.’
Keith reached for the empty bottle. ‘I only wish,’ he said, ‘that Shirley Lonsdale worked for me. Would you like another beer, son?’
‘No, thanks. I’d better go home. Mum will have tea ready.’
Audrey surprised him by rising from her seat. ‘I’ll show you to the door.’
It felt strange being walked to the door by a blind person. She led him back through the house as if she could see exactly where they were going. She didn’t even touch the walls. Wolfgang wondered, as he followed her bare heels down the hallway, where Campbell was.
‘Sorry about Dad,’ Audrey said, opening the front door.
‘You say sorry a lot.’
It took her a moment to catch on, but then she laughed. She turned to face him. ‘You know, Wolfgang, I thought you were younger.’
‘It’s the way I talk,’ he said, emboldened by the beer. ‘I was born with a cleft palate and, you know, a harelip. Even though I’ve been operated on, it still affects my speech sometimes.’
She tilted her head to one side. ‘I’ve never met someone with a harelip. May I touch it?’
‘Well, I guess so. It’s been fixed though.’
Audrey reached up and ran her fingers gently over his top lip. ‘There’s a bump,’ she said, concentrating.
He waited for her to lower her hand. ‘I could have had another operation – you know, plastic surgery? – but I chickened out.’
‘Would that have fixed the way you talk?’
‘Probably.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But after my second time in hospital I didn’t want to go back there. I was only three.’
‘Poor Wolfgang,’ Audrey said.
‘Hey, I’m all right,’ he said cheerily, an echo of the Furniture King in his tone. Which should have warned him not to say anything further. But the words just came tumbling out: ‘At least I’m not blind.’
9
Sylvia Mulqueen had turned sixty in early December, and one of her birthday presents to herself, she’d announced to Wolfgang and his father that evening three weeks ago, was a release from the annual obligation of cooking them a roast dinner at Christmas. They had cold ham and salad instead. For dessert there was tinned fruit and ice-cream in place of the usual boiled Christmas pudding with custard. Wolfgang enjoyed the break from tradition. It meant far fewer dishes to wash and dry afterwards, and he didn’t have to spend the remainder of the afternoon lying round feeling bloated and sleepy. He went for a ride instead.
His parents had bought him a new mountain bike for Christmas. It had front and rear suspension and disc brakes – the same model (probably the same bike) he had seen in the window of Gleeson’s Cycles a month earlier and mentioned, perhaps more than once, to his mother. As soon as the dishes were finished, Wolfgang strapped on his collecting bag and helmet, and pedalled out into the back lane.
Since finding the black wing, he’d had five days to think about the road to Maryborough and the most likely butterfly habitats between the two towns. There were at least five stretches of unfarmed bush and scrubland that he could remember. The most likely of these was Sheepwash Creek, about twelve kilometres from New Lourdes. Stretches of the narrow waterway were heavily overgrown. Wolfgang knew this from experience – he’d gone collecting there with his father two or three years earlier. If the black butterfly was indeed a new species, it must have come from an extremely localised colony to have remained undetected for so long. The key to finding it was to discover its host plants – the specialised diet of its caterpillars – and the overgrown banks of Sheepwash Creek seemed a good place to start looking.
It wasn’t a particularly hot day for that time of year; a brisk south-westerly wind kept the temperature down to a comfortable twenty-six or twenty-seven degrees. But Wolfgang cursed the wind. Not only did it make the ride slow and tiring – it was blowing directly into his face – but it would inhibit his chances of finding anything. Butterflies are shy of the wind, more likely to be sheltering on a day such as this than going about their normal butterfly business. Too bad. Today was Wolfgang’s first opportunity to go looking for the black butterfly and he didn’t have another day off until next Tuesday or Wednesday.
He hid the bicycle in a mallee thicket and spent two sweaty, unproductive hours pushing through the scratchy understorey along the banks of the creek. He had been right about the wind – there were no butterflies about. There were plenty of flies though; they kept up a constant assault on his eyes and nostrils and mouth. By five o’clock he’d had enough. He was hot, scratched and extremely thirsty, having carelessly left his water bottle clipped to his bicycle. Packing away his collapsible butterfly net, Wolfgang began making his way back towards the road.
Rather than follow the overgrown creek bank, where progress was slow and often difficult, he made the return journey through the open farmland that bordered the creek. It was an easy walk over the brown stubbly grass and, despite having to cross three fences and a concrete irrigation channel, it took him less than thirty minutes to get back to his bicycle. The water bottle had been in the sun for most of the afternoon but its contents still tasted delicious. A small green and yellow bird, a honeyeater of some kind, alighted on an acacia branch less than three metres away.
‘Merry Christmas,’ Wolfgang toasted it.
As he
clipped on his helmet, Wolfgang wondered how his friends were spending Christmas day. Mark Cowan was camping with his family down at Ocean Grove. Steve Taylor would be playing backyard cricket with his father, his uncle and his four cousins who came across each year from Shepparton. And me? Wolfgang thought. I’m out in the bush talking to honeyeaters. Still, it was better than sitting in front of the television all afternoon with his geriatric parents watching Miracle on 34th Street. Better than being blind.
‘How could I have said that?’ he groaned, scaring away the honeyeater.
Audrey had pretended not to hear. But he had seen the involuntary tightening of the muscles around her mouth. And the way her sightless blue eyes – the same aqua blue as the pool on a sunny day – had narrowed slightly, as though angered or hurt. Probably both.
‘Thanks for coming round,’ she’d said, closing the door on him almost before he was all the way out.
The butterfly flew across the road only metres in front of him. Wolfgang braked so hard he nearly went over the handlebars. His new bicycle had good brakes. He swerved across the road’s gravel shoulder and went bumping down through a weed-choked gutter in pursuit. He pulled up at the fence. The butterfly had gone straight through the wires and into the paddock beyond. Already it was fifteen metres away, zigzagging low across the yellowed grass. It was one of the smaller browns, impossible to say which. Wolfgang laid his bike on the ground and swung himself across the creaking fence. There were several horses in the paddock and a farmhouse through some trees, but these were details Wolfgang barely registered as he ran after the butterfly. He shrugged off his backpack as he ran, pulled out his net and let the backpack fall to the ground. Still running, he unwrapped the nylon mesh from its circular wire frame and let out the telescopic aluminium shaft. Ahead of him, the butterfly slowed and circled a tall scotch thistle. Wolfgang slowed, too. Holding the net two-handed, he made a detour around the butterfly and approached it from downwind. It shot straight up as he came close, but Wolfgang had anticipated the move and swung the net in a quick arc.
‘Got you!’ he said, triumphant.
Breathing heavily from the chase, Wolfgang retraced his steps to his discarded backpack and crouched to examine his prize. It was a female shouldered brown, a rare visitor this far north of the Divide. Perhaps the wind had brought it to him, a Christmas gift. Thank you, baby Jesus! The afternoon hadn’t been wasted, after all.