by Gee, Maurice
‘Sshh,’ I said. ‘You’re talking too loud.’
She breathed through her nose. ‘You could have brought some cotton wool.’
‘I can get some.’
‘No. Give me the sticking plaster. I’ll be all right.’
I gave it to her.
‘You’ve got to keep it secret, Dinky. Me coming here.’
‘I will.’
‘Dad would kill me. But I can’t help it.’ Like Teresa on the bridge, she started to cry. ‘I love him so much. Sometimes it’s like being sick.’
‘I haven’t got a hanky,’ I said.
‘I’ve got one.’ She wiped her eyes, then put the sticking plaster on her foot.
‘I used to be in love with you, Eileen,’ I said.
‘I know.’
‘Now I like Teresa.’
‘Don’t you get the same as me and Les.’
‘I won’t. We won’t. Can you walk home?’
‘I can make it.’
‘Why do you go this way instead of through the farm?’
‘I get scared when Les isn’t waiting. Goodnight, Dinky. I like you too. You’re nice.’
‘I can walk down the road with you.’
‘No, I’m all right.’ She had her shoes on and she tried a step or two.
‘Why doesn’t Les take you?’
Eileen came back and took the torch. She wiped her chin. The tears had run that far. ‘It’s four o’clock, Dinky. He’s too tired. He’s gone to sleep.’
That sounded like him.
‘Eileen,’ I said, ‘Ian Pike is in love with you too.’
‘Yes, I know. Poor old Bike. He’s so pathetic.’
She touched my face. ‘Goodnight, Dinky. Thank you for being so kind.’
Eileen went away down the lawn, walking on the edge of her foot. I saw her torch grow dim along the footpath to Collymores’. I climbed back into my bed. All I could think was, poor Eileen.
Les slept in next morning. I was up early and saw the Collymore family, packed into the Humber, drive past our house to church. Eileen was there. Teresa was there. I said to Mum, ‘Catholics have to drink some blood, don’t they?’
‘Who told you that? Teresa?’
‘No, I just know.’
‘It’s wine, not blood. And they eat some bread.’
‘But you can’t unless you’ve confessed your sins.’
‘She has been talking to you.’
‘No, she hasn’t.’
I wondered how Eileen was getting on at church. As well as that, I wondered if Teresa would have to say that she and I had held hands walking home from the pictures.
I felt relieved that I wasn’t religious.
Chapter 7
Draughts
Dad wasn’t so happy with his illegal printing as the waterfront troubles went on. He was enthusiastic doing leaflets that told what the police and the government were up to—describing a fight in Wellington where 10 of the wharfies ended up in hospital. The papers couldn’t say what their injuries were—and didn’t want to, Dad said, because they were on the bosses’ side. Dad’s leaflet made it clear that most of the wounds were cuts on the head from police batons. He liked printing that sort of thing, to set the balance right. He even hummed a little song, turning the Gestetner. But he didn’t like the ‘flat beer lists’ and the ‘rolls of dishonour’. Now and then he came across names of men he knew and that brought them up close, it made them real, he said. ‘You can’t just yell scabs at them as though they’ve got no faces. You’ve got to say Jim Smith and Joe Brown, and maybe they’re weaklings but they’re just trying to keep their families fed.’
‘Not all of them,’ Mum said. She was sterner than Dad, tougher than Dad. I got a bit upset by these conversations. I liked things to be black and white. So I went out in the paddock and looked at the stars with Mr Redknapp; or I walked along to Mr Worley’s house and played draughts. He chuckled, he rubbed his hands as he walked ahead of me along the hall. He knew that he was going to win.
Mr Worley was getting older quickly, and so was Jimpy. Their stomachs rumbled in duet. Jimpy’s snout was grey and his eyes nearly blind. Although he saw me only as a shadow he knew my voice when I said, ‘Jimpy, boy,’ and he thumped his tail. He raised his head but didn’t get out of his basket.
I’d read a book on draughts to try and beat Mr Worley but he always found a trick I didn’t know. He said I wasn’t ready for chess yet. ‘Draughts is kindergarten,’ he said. ‘Chess is the university.’ He was disappointed that I was still reading Zane Grey. I was old enough for Dickens, he said. He always seemed to be reading some fat old novel when I called.
One night at the start of our game, Mr Redknapp came in, without knocking.
‘Ah, Lionel,’ Mr Worley said, ‘I’m just giving the lad a lesson in tactics.’
‘Don’t stop because of me,’ Mr Redknapp said. He patted Jimpy and sat down. ‘Start him on chess. Draughts is just slambang.’
‘All in good time,’ Mr Worley said.
Mr Redknapp looked from him to Jimpy and made a half-smile. I suppose he was thinking that Mr Worley, like the dog, might not have much time. We played half a dozen moves, then Mr Worley let me think.
‘You’re out for a break, are you Lionel?’
‘A breath of fresh air. To stretch my legs,’ Mr Redknapp said.
‘How is she?’
‘Past the worst. She’ll be all right.’ With his breathing, which made two different sounds, one in his chest, one in his nose, I thought he was hardly all right himself.
‘But I mustn’t stay long,’ he said. ‘Don’t try that move Austin or he’ll slaughter you.’
‘Let the boy learn by his mistakes,’ Mr Worley said.
‘Like us, eh Dad?’
It surprised me to hear him use that name. Mr Worley laughed and said, ‘You’re a bit down in the dumps tonight. Would you like a drink?’
‘No, I’ll go in a minute. Are you still getting leaflets in your letter-box, Austin?’
‘Not much,’ I said. And because I felt comfortable with him I grinned and asked, ‘Are you?’
‘None at all. I think I’ve scared them off.’
‘Our red friends,’ Mr Worley said. ‘A pack of villains.’
‘You mustn’t say that to Austin. He supports them.’
‘Do you, Austin?’ Mr Worley was surprised.
‘Mum and Dad do. So I guess I do,’ I said.
‘You’re communists?’
‘No. We’re not. We’re Labour Party.’ I did not like this conversation. I was out of my depth. But I knew I must stand up for Mum and Dad.
‘Then you should be like Mr Nash, neither for nor against,’ Mr Worley said. (Mr Nash was the Labour Party leader.)
‘Dad says he’s only a fool.’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘But Mr Goosman’s worse. He said in the paper, Hitler talked right.’
‘Two fools. But I’m sorry your father’s taking sides. Both lots are a pack of scoundrels, Holland and Barnes.’
‘Enough politics,’ Mr Redknapp said.
‘Dad’s not a scoundrel.’
‘No, of course.’
‘He went to the war. That’s why he hates the government.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Worley said. ‘I knew he was over there.’
‘But he doesn’t want to fight anyone, not with guns. He says guns are for lunatics. And uniforms too. And all that saluting and stuff.’
‘He sounds like a sensible man,’ Mr Redknapp said.
‘He just wants to fight with common sense,’ I said.
They laughed, knowing I was a parrot. But they smiled as if they were pleased with me.
‘He’s a lucky man having a son who sticks up for him,’ Mr Redknapp said. ‘Now I’ve got to go. I’ll see you again soon, Dad.’
‘Give my love to Winifred.’
‘I will. Austin, will you see me to the door?’
I followed down the hall, wondering what he had to say. He stepped on to the porch. ‘That�
��s your brother in the army hut?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Will you ask him not to play his radio so loud. It upsets my wife.’
‘All right. Mum’s trying to stop him.’
‘And Austin,’ he lowered his voice, ‘tell your father he needs to fix his blackout curtain better. I can see bits of light shining through.’
I nodded. I managed to say yes.
‘If I can see it so can Mr Pike.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Come out in the paddock again one night. Venus is up. You’d better hurry, though, the moon’s coming too.’
I thanked him again and he went away. I swallowed my fright and went back down the hall; and started being happy as the game of draughts went on. Mr Redknapp knew, and hadn’t given us away. I felt a bit less happy when I thought that he probably knew about Eileen as well.
When the game was over (Mr Worley won) and I had chosen my next Zane Grey, I said, ‘I’m sorry Mrs Redknapp isn’t well.’
‘Ah, thank you, Austin. She’s never very well, to tell the truth.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’
He looked at me a moment—a kind of measuring look. ‘Well,’ he said, with the expression of sadness I’d seen before, ‘she’s depressed. It’s a breakdown. It comes and goes. She’s all right most of the time. You can help by not spying on them,’ he added, looking severe.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t any more. I was just a kid.’
‘And now you’re grown up, are you? What age are you? Thirteen?’
‘Fourteen now. It wasn’t me that did it though, was it?’
‘No. Oh no. Sit down, Austin.’
I sat in Mrs Worley’s chair again. Jimpy raised his head and gave me a look and a wag of his tail.
‘Sss,’ Mr Worley breathed, sounding for a moment like his son-in-law. ‘My daughter Winifred lost her baby, you see.’
‘Lost?’
‘I don’t mean in the bush or anything like that. I mean she had a baby but it was stillborn. It was a girl.’
This was more than I wanted to know, even though I could not work out fully what it meant.
‘How long ago?’
‘Almost 30 years. Winifred has never been happy since that time. And sometimes she gets—very depressed.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s made worse because she could never have any more babies. She thinks her life is wasted,’ he said. ‘I’m telling you this because you live next door. And you seem like a sensible boy. But you must never tell anyone else. It’s Winifred’s business. And Mr Redknapp’s.’
‘I won’t,’ I said.
‘It’s a sad life to lead. But she’s got a good hus-band.’
‘He’s got something wrong with him too.’
‘Yes, he has. He caught a little whiff of gas and it did some damage down there that never clears up.’
‘In the war?’
‘The first war. Mr Redknapp lied about his age. He was sixteen. He fought in France. So did I. He was in my company. I was a major.’ He spoke with pride, but with sadness too. ‘It’s a long time ago.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Oh, yes. I knew them all. After the war he came to visit me. And he met my daughter and married her. She loved him even though he wasn’t very well.’
‘Then she—got sick.’
‘That’s their story, Austin. It’s different from Zane Grey.’
Zane Grey was easier to understand. I took my book home and read it straight through, reading until after 11 o’clock, when Mum banged on my door. The dusty rider on the sweat-stained horse, and the posse galloping the wrong way up the gulch—I was there. I was the fugitive, the hero, getting away. But after I’d turned my light out it was the Redknapps I thought of. I tried to see 30 years of living like that, with burned lungs and a baby that had died. Sometimes I seemed to get close to it, the way I sometimes got close to understanding theorems and algebra at school; or understanding, through Mr Redknapp’s telescope, how far it was to Jupiter.
Chapter 8
Smith and Wesson
Les’ bank was on the Great North Road, in the centre of the new Loomis that had grown up since the war. For security reasons a member of staff had to sleep on the premises at weekends. Usually it was the third junior, Roy Macgregor, who was older by a few months than Les and Bike Pike, but now and then Les and Bike had to take a turn. Les didn’t mind, even though Eileen couldn’t stay with him. He liked to think that he was guarding thousands of pounds.
On the Saturday after I had helped Eileen, we all went to the local pictures, Teresa and me, Les and Eileen. (I don’t mean we sat together, they wouldn’t sit with kids.) Les had to sleep at the bank afterwards. Eileen was going to walk home with Teresa and me. He didn’t want to let her go.
‘Come along to the bank, eh? I’ll make a cup of tea.’
‘I can’t,’ Eileen said, asking him—Please, Les—with her eyes.
‘I mean all of you. Teresa too. Ossie too. I’m allowed to have visitors.’
It was only a short walk. We went through a gate at the side of the building and down a path to the little flat at the back. He showed us around—bathroom, kitchen, bedroom, that was all.
‘Nice,’ Eileen said. Although it was small, you could see she would love to be living in a place like this with Les.
We sat in the kitchen and he put the kettle on. While it was boiling, he went into the bedroom and we heard him opening a drawer. He came back grinning into the kitchen, with a cigarette in his mouth and Roy Macgregor’s hat pushed back on his head.
‘Stick ’em up, suckers,’ he ordered in a gangster voice. He had a revolver pointing at us. I felt myself shrinking, I gulped my breath and could not get another, even though I knew it was a game. The hole in the end of the barrel looked so big I thought a bullet from it would tear me in half.
‘Les,’ Eileen squeaked. She was sheltering her breasts.
‘It’s not loaded,’ Teresa said, although she was pale.
‘Want to bet?’ Les, stupid Les, pointed the revolver at the ceiling and pulled the trigger. There was a click. He laughed.
‘You’re all peeing yourselves.’
‘I knew it wasn’t,’ Teresa said.
‘Here’s the bullets,’ Les said, taking them from his pocket. He held them out on his palm: heavy deadly things that somehow made me want to suck them like lollies.
‘It’s against the rules to load it unless there’s burglars,’ Les said. ‘But I can.’ He broke open the revolver and fitted a bullet in.
‘Stop it,’ Teresa said.
‘Yeah, cut it out, Les,’ I said.
‘Relax,’ he said. ‘I’ve done my military training. I know about guns.’
‘We’ll tell the manager,’ Teresa said.
‘Yeah, you would. Hey Eileen, you’ve got a dumbcluck sister.’
Eileen looked as if she was going to cry. The kettle boiled. She stood up. ‘Where’s the cups?’
Les took the bullet out of the gun. ‘No one has to be scared. I’m expert with this thing. We go down the creek and have a practice, twice a year. Pin a bit of paper on a tree and blaze away.’ He aimed the revolver at the door. ‘Pow!’ he said.
‘Not by yourself. They wouldn’t let kids,’ Teresa said.
‘Who do you think you’re calling kids? They leave us here don’t they, guarding the place? If anyone comes in we’re allowed to shoot.’
‘You’d miss.’
‘Don’t argue, please,’ Eileen said. ‘Dinky, do you take milk in your tea?’
‘And I go out on agencies with a gun. Not this one. A 22. An automatic. Chrome-plated. Sometimes I have thousands of pounds with me.’
It was true. Les drove the bank car out to agencies in the country, with a bag of money on the seat and a silver gun to guard it with. I’ve no doubt he would have used it if he’d had to—or thought he had to.
He put the revolver on the table and sat down.
I couldn’t help myself, I picked it up.
‘That’s a 32. A Smith and Wesson,’ Les said. ‘She’d make a big hole in you. Not as big as the manager’s though. His one’s a 38.’
‘Do you really practise at the creek?’ Teresa said.
‘Yeah. It’s regulations. The head teller takes us. He’s got his own revolver but he’s not as good a shot as me.’
I wanted to stand up and pretend I was Buck Duane, but I couldn’t with Teresa watching. I had to content myself with aiming the revolver at the window and the door.
‘Put it down,’ Les said. ‘No one’s supposed to touch it.’
‘Why’d you bring it out then?’ Teresa said.
Eileen carried cups of tea to the table. Les stirred in his sugar, frowning. Teresa was getting under his skin.
‘Does Bike Pike practise?’ she said.
‘He’s a better shot than you’d be,’ he said.
By the time we’d drunk our tea he had cheered up. Les was never down for long. He grinned at us.
‘I can hit the paper. Old Bike only hits the tree.’
Then he turned on the radio and found some music. He and Eileen danced in the kitchen and Eileen looked soft and moony before long. She let her head sink on his shoulder. It would have been an affecting scene if Les hadn’t winked at me. I wondered if he was starting to get tired of Eileen.
‘You kids can go home now,’ he said.
Eileen stirred, and pushed herself away so she could see him.
‘No, Les.’
‘Hey, they know. I bet they know.’
‘I’m not staying here.’
‘I guess I’ll have to wait then, eh? She’s a tough life here in Loomis, the garden city of the west.’
‘Clown,’ she said. She stepped away and put on her jacket. Les grabbed her again.
‘Wait at the gate a minute, eh?’ he said to me.
Teresa and I went out to the street.
‘I don’t like your brother,’ she said flatly.
Eileen kept us waiting only a moment. She came out flushed. I guessed they’d been kissing. We walked home to Orchard Street through the old part of town and stopped on the bridge to look at the water. I was sorry Eileen was with us. She and Les had put Teresa in one of her sour moods.
‘Come on. We’re wasting time,’ Teresa said.