by Gee, Maurice
‘Les and me want to get engaged,’ Eileen said. ‘But I know everyone’s going to say we’re too young.’
‘Father Borich is not going to like it,’ Teresa said. ‘Nor’s your mum,’ she added to me. She did not say that she did not like it either, although it was plain. I hoped she was not going to start lumping me in with Les.
We stared at the water. Now I wished that I wasn’t there.
‘He’s not very nice to you,’ Teresa said.
‘He is nice,’ Eileen cried. ‘You don’t know how nice he can be.’
‘He just likes having fun, that’s all,’ I heard myself say.
‘I love him,’ Eileen sobbed.
Neither of us answered that.
‘And he loves me.’
‘Who’s idea is it to get engaged?’ Teresa said.
‘Both of us. It’s both of us,’ Eileen cried.
I looked away. I knew she was lying.
‘Come on, Eily, let’s go home,’ Teresa said.
We went up the hill to Orchard Street, Eileen still sobbing, like hiccupping, now and then. Teresa was holding her sister’s hand, not mine. I might just as well have walked home on my own.
‘See that star,’ I said, ‘the bottom pointer? That’s the nearest star to Earth.’
‘You already told me once,’ Teresa said.
‘Sorry.’
‘Did you think I was dumb?’
‘No.’
‘I’m top of the class. So dry up,’ she said.
I couldn’t find anything in answer to that. It hadn’t struck me that she might be as clever as me—as clever as I thought myself to be.
‘I’m nearly eighteen,’ Eileen sobbed. ‘And he’s nearly nineteen. Why can’t we do what we want?’
‘Sure, Eily,’ Teresa said. She bumped me with her hip. ‘You can walk on the other side of the road.’
‘I live over there anyhow,’ I answered, dignified, and would have left them if Bike Pike hadn’t spoken out of nowhere: ‘Eileen.’ He was standing by a tree inside his gate. The street lamp lit half his face and made a long shadow that broke in the centre and climbed the garage wall. He opened the gate and came out.
‘What are you snooping round for?’ Teresa said.
He ignored her. ‘I thought I’d walk home with you, Eileen.’
‘Go away, Bike,’ Eileen said. ‘I don’t want you.’
‘It’s dark down there. There’s no street lights.’
‘Teresa’s walking with me. Go away.’
‘I’m the one who really cares about you, Eileen.’
‘Clear out, Bike. Bugger off,’ Teresa said.
She and Eileen went into the dark, hand in hand. The calves of their legs gleamed like fish, then sank away.
‘I don’t like her sister,’ Bike said.
‘She doesn’t like you.’
‘Eileen would have let me walk with her if you two hadn’t been hanging round,’ Bike said.
‘Have you been waiting for her?’
‘Since it got dark. Just in case.’
‘She’s not your girlfriend. Stop being dumb.’
‘One day she will be. Pretty soon.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, and started to cross the street.
‘Dinky.’
‘What?’
‘Has she been crying?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Did Les do that?’
‘Ah, dry up.’
‘I don’t think I like her going out with him any more,’—words that sounded fluty, sing-song, in the night. The iron catch on his gate made a tinkle as he went inside.
But I took no notice of Bike and his problems any more. I had my own. I’d taken Teresa to the pictures, bought a chocbom, double chocbom, for her, held her hand—although it made my wrist ache, the way it had to bend—and then she’d started treating me like the enemy.
I thought it wasn’t fair. I thought I might ask for my money back. But after a while I sneered at my meanness.
What really troubled me was that Teresa was unhappy.
Chapter 9
Good instincts
Towards the end of May, on a night that started in the afternoon, Mr Worley let Jimpy out to do what was known as ‘his business’ in the garden. I don’t know what went on in Jimpy’s mind. Perhaps he simply remembered that there had been another place where people had fed him once. He found his old hole in the hedge—I know because a twig snapped off and stuck in his collar—went through the corner of the draughthorse paddock, and set off along the road to pay us a call.
The street lamps made fuzz-balls in the drizzle on Orchard Street. Frank Collymore, driving home too fast in his Humber, ran over Jimpy outside our gate. Dad had just come in from work and was changing his trousers; Mum was at the stove thickening the stew; and I was doing homework in my bedroom. I heard Frank go muttering past my window: ‘Walk straight, Frank. Concentrate, Frank.’ He knocked at the door.
‘Lilian. I’m sorry, Lil. I’ve run over your little dog.’
I ran out in time to see him hand Jimpy over like a present.
‘He’s dead as a doornail,’ Frank said.
‘Poor boy. Poor boy,’ Mum said.
‘No, I’m all right,’ Frank said.
Dad had reached the kitchen too, buttoning his trousers. ‘You’re drunk, Frank. Go home,’ he said.
‘Just had a little drink. Only one. Just two. Then I met the invisible dog.’
‘Go home. And don’t run over your daughters on the way.’
‘Poor little fellow,’ Mum said.
We laid Jimpy on the kitchen sofa. He did not look injured. A trickle of blood ran from his nose. I’d seen much worse at football. But he was dead.
‘Damn that Frank. Shickered. Totally,’ Dad said.
‘Don’t let him drive his car. You drive him home.’
‘Right,’ Dad said, and ran out.
‘Get me a blanket, Austin. One of the old ones.’
She wrapped Jimpy like a woman with a baby, then covered his face. ‘It was a quick death,’ she said.
‘Who’s going to tell Mr Worley?’
Mum sighed. ‘I will. Watch the stew, Austin. I won’t be long.’
She started to pick up Jimpy, and I saw that it was wrong—Mum carrying a dead dog as though it was a child.
‘I’ll do it,’ I said, and took the bundle from her. It was warm, and much heavier than I had expected. It gurgled as I settled it in my arms.
‘Are you sure you want to?’
‘He used to be mine.’ I didn’t want to cry in front of her so I turned away. ‘Mr Worley is my friend.’
‘Will you tell him how sorry we are?’
‘Yes.’
‘And say it was Frank Collymore, not us.’
‘I will.’
‘Be careful, son.’ She spoke as if I was setting off on a long journey.
I met Dad coming up the path. He patted my head. Frank Collymore had refused to let him drive. The Humber was going slowly down towards the end of Orchard Street. I set off the other way, through the drizzle. My face and hair grew wet but Jimpy kept me warm. I had to shift him now and then because of his weight.
‘Jimpy. Where are you, boy? Come home, Jimpy.’ It was Mr Worley, calling from his porch. Then he saw me coming like a ghost through the misty drizzle outside his gate.
‘Is that you, Austin?’
‘Yes, Mr Worley. I’m bringing Jimpy.’
He watched me open the gate, awkward with my bundle. When I was halfway to the porch, he knew.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. He got run over.’
I climbed the two steps to the porch. He stepped back through the door into the hallway.
‘Bring him inside.’
I went in.
‘Down here. In here. Put the poor old boy in his basket.’
I laid Jimpy down and uncovered his face. His teeth were bared. I wondered if I should pull his lip down.
Mr Wor
ley looked at him over my shoulder. He did not ask how the accident had happened. He sat down.
‘You’d better go home now, Austin.’
‘I can stay a bit.’
‘No. Good boy. Go home.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Worley. It was Mr Collymore.’
He did not hear, but swallowed two or three times, making his throat work with a creaking sound. Then he folded his hands and sighed and drooped. I saw how Jimpy’s death was an end for him.
I let myself out into the night. The drizzle had turned to rain and I ran with my head down towards home. But as I approached I realised there was another thing I had to do. I did not like the way Mr Worley had drooped his head. He might sit all night in his chair, with Jimpy dead in his basket on the hearth. So instead of running up our path I walked up the Redknapps’ and through their yard on to their back porch. Light shone from the kitchen window. Fourteen years I had lived next door but had never stood there in all that time. I walked through terraces of cactus and hanging baskets of fern, wanting only one thing—that it should be Mr Redknapp who opened the door. My knock was like a stutter, not properly made.
Feet came padding—a female sound. The door opened and Mrs Redknapp stood in the light, huge and fat-limbed, like a rag doll with a painted face.
‘Who are you? I’ve seen you before.’
‘I’m Austin Dye, Mrs Redknapp. From next door.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Who is it, Winnie?’ came Mr Redknapp’s voice.
‘The Dye boy. Not the noisy one.’
Mr Redknapp looked around her shoulder. He shifted her to one side, coaxing little steps from her slippered feet.
‘What is it, Austin?’
I was frightened of what I had to say. The kitchen light shone through Mrs Redknapp’s hair, making it spark as though with electricity.
‘I just took Jimpy down to Mr Worley. Mr Collymore ran over him.’
‘Is he dead?’
‘Yes. Instantaneous. Mum says he didn’t suffer. But I think Mr Worley’s very upset.’
‘I’ll go down,’ Mr Redknapp said.
‘He’s just sitting in his chair.’
‘You should have brought him here,’ Mrs Redknapp cried. ‘We could have buried him in the garden.’
For a moment I thought she was talking about Mr Worley. My face must have looked idiotic.
‘You had no right to give that animal to him in the first place. No one asked you to.’
‘Winnie, calm down,’ Mr Redknapp said.
‘These boys. They’re devils,’ she cried. Her face seemed to change shape, bulging like dough. ‘Lionel, we’ve got to get away from here. Tomorrow. Tonight. I can’t stand it any more.’
Mr Redknapp put his arms around her—not easy because she was so large.
‘Go home, Austin.’ He tried to smile at me—but he had so much to do. I shuffled sideways over the porch. Maidenhair ferns brushed my cheek. On the path I ran, ran for home, and came into the kitchen; where Mum was complaining that Frank Collymore had dared to call her Lil.
‘Frank would say cobber to the king,’ Dad said. ‘How did you get on, Austin?’
‘I gave him Jimpy. I don’t suppose he’ll bury him tonight.’
‘You should help with that,’ Mum said. ‘How did he take it?’
‘He didn’t even touch him. He just sat down. But he’s pretty upset. I went in and told Mr Redknapp.’
‘There,’ Mum said, ‘I told you I heard her yelling.’
‘She’s sick,’ I said. ‘In her head. Mr Worley told me. But Mr Redknapp’s going down to help him with Jimpy.’
‘Well, that’s finished then. Mr Redknapp’s fairly sensible,’ Mum said. ‘I don’t want you brooding about it, Austin. Change into something dry.’
A knock sounded on the door, stuttering, like mine. She opened it. Teresa was there, wearing her oilskin and gumboots. Beyond her the rain came down in sheets.
‘Teresa,’ Mum said. ‘Take off that coat and come inside. Your gumboots too.’
Teresa obeyed. She stood in our kitchen in her school uniform. ‘Did my dad run over Jimpy?’ she said.
‘Yes, he did. And Jimpy’s dead,’ Mum said.
‘I’m sorry, that’s what I came to say.’
‘He wasn’t my dog any more.’ I wanted to comfort her. She stood in our kitchen as though accused, with her face cold and nervous and wet with rain.
‘I’m not sure it was Frank’s fault,’ Dad said. ‘Jimpy always took the shortest route. He never bothered looking left and right.’
‘He was pretty old,’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s done,’ Mum said. ‘But Frank might drive a bit slower next time.’
‘I came to apologise. Dad says he’s sorry too.’
‘Don’t fret about it,’ Mum said.
‘I’d better go now.’
‘Austin,’ Mum said, ‘put on your raincoat and walk with Teresa.’ She was a stickler for good behaviour.
‘I don’t need anyone.’ Teresa opened the door. She struggled to get her coat and gumboots on. ‘Goodnight,’ she said. But I was ready, in my oilskin too, and I walked with her in the rain along to her gate.
‘It’s all right about Jimpy. He died straight away.’
‘Dad was drunk,’ she said.
That was all. The rain on our oilskin hats made it impossible to hear.
‘Thanks, Dink,’ she yelled at her gate, and was gone up the path towards the lighted windows—where Frank Collymore was sleeping it off, I supposed. With my head down, I ran home.
‘It doesn’t hurt to be a gentleman,’ Mum said.
‘No,’ I said.
‘She’s got good instincts, that girl. She’s too good for her father, I’ll say that.’
‘He said he’d dong me if I didn’t get out of his car. But Frank’s all right,’ Dad said. He shut up when he saw the look Mum gave him.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry about Jimpy. He was a nice little pooch. Now change your clothes, Austin, and we’ll eat this stew. And wash your hands after the dog.’
I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. I had not been present at a death before, or seen grief like Mr Worley’s, and I wondered if some sign of the experience might show.
I wondered if my instincts were equal to Teresa’s.
Chapter 10
$id Holland
The Redknapps did not leave ‘tonight’ or even ‘tomorrow’. But I never saw Mr Worley again. He was sick at home for several days and Mrs Redknapp nursed him. Then he went to the hospital. The blinds were drawn in his locked-up house. I thought there might be nothing inside, not even walls, just empty space.
Frank Collymore stopped his truck one day and put a sympathy card in our letter-box. He did not seem to know that Jimpy had belonged to Mr Worley.
‘I’ll bet his daughters put him up to it,’ Mum said. ‘Take a pot of jam down to Teresa. But don’t go in. I don’t want you picking it up.’
Teresa had flu. Eileen took time off work to look after her. I wrote letters—and felt strange writing ‘Dear Teresa’. The word meant so much more than it had before. I didn’t get soppy, but told her about school and told her all the gossip—that Mrs Cooper had run away with the painter who had come to paint her roof, and Mrs Pike had boils in spite of vegetables, and Bike had told Les not to swear in front of ladies. I was hoping to make her laugh, or at least cheer her up. I suppose they were love letters in a way.
She replied that she would be better soon and maybe we could go to the pictures again. After I’d read her letters Mum made me burn them because of germs.
It was clear cold early-winter weather. One night I looked through the macrocarpa hedge at the back of our section and saw Mr Redknapp’s torch flickering in the paddock. I went back and put on my coat and scarf, told Mum and Dad where I would be, and went out to join him at the telescope. He wasn’t a serious astronomer, he was just a star-gazer, he said—although it was the planets he looked at mostly, and aft
er that double stars and globular clusters. Looking into them, he said, was like looking into a pirate’s chest full of precious stones. On that night, my last night with him, we roamed about the sky. It took time because he had to study charts and search with his finder-scope.
‘How is Mr Worley?’ I asked, as he knelt on the damp grass moving his torch across the constellations of our sky.
‘He’s fading, Austin. Fading away. I don’t think he wants to go on.’
‘I’m sorry about Jimpy—about him causing it.’
‘You don’t have to be. He made him happy. Something to love.’ He coughed and searched a bit more on the chart, thinking perhaps what I was thinking: that Mr Worley’s daughter was available and it should have been her that he loved. We stayed in the paddock till 10 o’clock. Then he asked me if I’d like to see Jupiter again. I think he suspected that this would be our last night of astronomy. He shone the torch on his wrist watch.
‘It’s fairly late. Run inside and tell your parents you’ll be another half hour.’
I went back through the macrocarpa hedge. The light went out in Les’ army hut and he came out, shining a torch.
‘Hey Ossie, is that you?’
‘Yes. Where are you going?’
I saw how he grinned in the torchlight, a flash of teeth. He was wearing a balaclava and a black jersey and black trousers. Only white sandshoes spoiled his camouflage. He shone the torch on a paintbrush and can of paint in his other hand.
‘Doing a few slogans. Blood red,’ he said.
‘Where?’
‘I thought I’d climb the water tower. Do one up there.’
‘You’ll get caught.’
‘Not me. He moves like a shadow in the night.’
Les had been out painting slogans several times. His favourite was $id Holland, which he’d painted on the railway station and the swimming baths. I wanted to go with him, and maybe climb the tower, but knew he wouldn’t wait for me to change. Besides, I wanted to see Jupiter again.
‘Don’t fall off,’ I said. I went into the house and told Mum and Dad where I would be. Les was gone by the time I came out.
Mr Redknapp had lined up Jupiter. I looked at the planet, looked at him—I don’t know whether ‘him’ or ‘her’ is right, sometimes it is one and sometimes the other, even though Jupiter was king of the gods—looked and was overwhelmed and breathless again.